**«••«**<* 


LIBRARY 


.IRVINE 


THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 

OF  CALIFORNIA 

IRVINE 

GIFT  OF 

MR.   H.   B.    McAfee 


MY    NOVEL;" 


OR, 


VARIETIES  IN   ENGLISH   LIFE. 


BY  PISISTRATUS   CAXTON. 


u  WTf\ 
SIR   EDWAR       BULWER  LYTTON,  BART. 


"  NKQUE  ENIM  NOTARE  SINGULOS  MENS  EST  MIHI, 
VERAM  IPSAM  VITAM  ET  MORES  HOMINUM  OSTENDERE." 

— Phcedrus. 


NEW    YORK: 

JOHN    W.    LOVELL    COMPANY, 

14  AND  16  VESEY  STREET. 

1883. 


MY    NOVEL. 


BOOK    FIRST. 


INITIAL   CHAPTER. 

SHOWING   HOW   MY   NOVEL   CAME   TO   BE  WRITTEN. 

SCENE,  The  Hall  in  Uncle  Roland's  Tower — TIME,  Night 
— SEASON,  Winter. 

Mr.  Caxton  is  seated  before  a  great  geographical  globe, 
which  he  is  turning  round  leisurely,  and  "for  his  own  re- 
creation," as,  according  to  Sir  Thomas  Browne,  a  philoso- 
pher should  turn  round  the  orb  of  which  that  globe  pro- 
fesses to  be  the  representation  and  effigies.  My  mother 
having  just  adorned  a  very  small  frock  with  a  very  smart 
braid,  is  holding  it  out  at  arm's-length,  the  more  to  admire 
the  effect.  Blanche,  though  leaning  both  hands  on  my 
mother's  shoulder,  is  not  regarding  the  frock,  but  glances 
toward  PISISTRATUS,  who,  seated  near  the  fire,  leaning  back 
in  the  chair,  and  his  head  bent  over  his  breast,  seems  in  a 
very  bad  humor.  Uncle  Roland,  who  has  become  a  great 
novel-reader,  is  deep  in  the  mysteries  of  some  fascinating 
third  volume.  Mr.  Squills  has  brought  The  Times  in  his 
pocket  for  his  own  special  profit  and  delectation,  and  is  now 
bending  his  brows  over  "the  state  of  the  money  market," 
in  great  doubt  whether  railway  shares  can  possibly  fall 
lower ;  for  Mr.  Squills,  happy  man  !  has  large  savings,  and 
does  not  know  what  to  do  with  his  money,  or,  to  use  his 
own  phrase,  "  how  to  buy  in  at  the  cheapest,  in  order  to  sell 
out  at  the  dearest." 

MR.  CAXTON  (musingly). — It  must  have  been   a  mon- 


4  MY  NOVEL;    OR, 

strous  long  journey.  It  would  be  somewhere  hereabouts, 
I  take  it,  that  they  would  split  off. 

My  MOTHER  (mechanically,  and  in  order  to  show  Austin 
that  she  paid  him  the  compliment  of  attending  to  his  re- 
marks).— Who  split  off,  my  dear  ? 

"  Bless  me,  Kitty,"  said  my  father,  in  great  admiration, 
"you  ask  just  the  question  which  it  is  most  difficult  to 
answer.  An  ingenious  speculator  on  races  contends  that 
the  Danes,  whose  descendants  make  the  chief  part  of  our 
northern  population  (and  indeed,  if  his  hypothesis  could  be 
correct,  we  must  suppose  all  the  ancient  worshippers  of 
Odin),  are  of  the  same  origin  as  the  Etrurians.  And  why, 
Kitty — I  just  ask  you,  why  ?" 

My  mother  shook  her  head  thoughtfully,  and  turned  the 
frock  to  the  other  side  of  the  light. 

"  Because,  forsooth,"  cried  my  father,  exploding — "  be- 
cause the  Etrurians  called  their  gods  '  the  yEsar,'  and  the 
Scandinavians  called  theirs  the  ^Esir,  or  Aser  !  And  where 
do  you  think  this  adventurous  scholar  puts  their  cradle  ?" 

"  Cradle  !"  said  my  mother,  dreamily — "it  must  be  in 
the  nursery." 

MR.  CAXTON. — Exactly — in  the  nursery  of  the  human 
race — just  here  [and  my  father  pointed  to  the  globe], 
bounded,  you  see,  by  the  river  Halys,  and  in  that  region 
which,  taking  its  name  from  Ees,  or  As  (a  word  designa- 
ting light  or  fire),  has  been  immemorially  called  Asia. 
Now,  Kitty,  from  Ees  or  As  our  ethnological  speculator 
would  derive  not  only  Asia,  the  land,  but  ^Esar,  or  Aser,  its 
primitive  inhabitants.  Hence  he  supposes  the  origin  of 
the  Etrurians  and  the  Scandinavians.  But  if  we  give  him 
so  much,  we  must  give  him  more,  and  deduce  from  the 
same  origin  the  Es  of  the  Celt  and  the  Ized  of  the  Persian, 
and — what  will  be  of  more  use  to  him,  I  dare  say,  poor  man, 
than  all  the  rest  put  together— the  yEs  of  the  Romans,  that 
is,  the  God  of  Copper-Money — a  very  powerful  household 
god  he  is  to  this  day  ! 

My  mother  looked  musingly  at  her  frock,  as  if  she  were 
taking  my  father's  proposition  into  serious  consideration. 

"So  perhaps,"  resumed  my  father,  "and  not  uncon- 
formably  with  sacred  records,  from  one  great  parent  horde 
came  all  those  various  tribes,  carrying  with  them  the  -name 
of  their  beloved  Asia  ;  and,  whether  they  wandered  north, 
south,  or  west,  exalting  their  own  emphatic  designation  of 
'Children  of  the  Land  of  Light'  into  the  title  of  gods. 


VARIETIES  Iff  ENGLISH  LIFE.  5 

And  to  think  "  (added  Mr.  Caxton  pathetically,  gazing  upon 
that  speck  in  the  globe  on  which  his  forefinger  rested),— 
"  to  think  how  little  they  changed  for  the  better  when  they 
got  to  the  Don,  or  entangled  their  rafts  amidst  the  icebergs 
of  the  Baltic — so  comfortably  off  as  they  were  here,  if  they 
could  but  have  stayed  quiet." 

"And  why  the  deuce  could  not  they?"  asked  Mr. 
Squills. 

"  Pressure  of  population,  and  not  enough  to  live  upon, 
I  suppose,"  said  my  father. 

PISISTRATUS  (sulkily). — More  probably  they  did  away 
with  the  Corn  Laws,  sir. 

" Papa!"  quoth  my  father;  "that  throws  a  new  light 
on  the  subject." 

PISISTRATUS  (full  of  his  grievances,  and  not  caring  three 
straws  about  the  origin  of  the  Scandinavians). — I  know  that 
if  we  are  to  lose  ,£500  every  year  on  a  farm  which  we  hold 
rent-free,  and  which  the  best  judges  allow  to  be  a  perfect 
model  for  the  whole  country,  we  had  better  make  haste  and 
turn  JEsir,  or  Aser,  or  whatever  you  call  them,  and  fix  a  set- 
tlement on  the  property  of  .other  nations — otherwise,  I  sus- 
pect, our  probable  settlement  will  be  on  the  parish. 

MR.  SQUILLS  (who,  it  must  be  remembered,  is  an  enthu- 
siastic Free-trader). — You  have  only  got  to  put  more  capital 
on  the  land. 

PISISTRATUS. — Well,  Mr.  Squills,  as  you  think  so  well  of 
that  investment,  putyeur  capital  on  it.  I  promise  that  you 
shall  have  every  shilling  of  profit. 

MR.  SQUILLS  (hastily  retreating  behind  The  Times). — I 
don't  think  the  Great  Western  can  fall  any  lower  ;  though 
it  is  hazardous — I  can  but  venture  a  few  hundreds 

PISISTRATUS. — On  our  land,  Squills  ?     Thank  you. 

MR.  SQUILLS. — No,  no — anything  but  that — on  the  Great 
Western. 

Pisistratus  relaxes  into  gloom.  Blanche  steals  up  coax- 
ingly,  and  gets  snubbed  for  her  pains. 

A  pause. 

MR.  CAXTON. — There  are  two  golden  rules  of  life  :  one 
relates  to  the  mind,  and  the  other  to  the  pockets.  The  first  is 
— If  our  thoughts  get  into  a  low,  nervous,  aguish  condition, 
we  should  make  them  change  the  air ;  the  second  is  com- 
prised in  the  proverb,  "  It  is  good  to  have  two  strings  to 
one's  bow."  Therefore,  Pisistratus,  I  tell  you  what  you  must 
do— Write  a  Book  ! 


6  MY  NOVEL;    OR, 

PISISTRATUS. — Write  a  Book  ! — Against  the  abolition  of 
the  Corn  Laws  ?  Faith,  sir,  the  mischief's  done.  It  takes  a 
much  better  pen  than  mine  to  write  down  an  Act  of  Parlia- 
ment. 

MR.  CAXTON. — I  only  said  "  Write  a  book."  All  the  rest 
is  the  addition  of  your  own  headlong  imagination. 

PISISTRATUS  (with  the  recollection  of  The  Great  Book  ris- 
ing before  him). — Indeed,  sir,  I  should  think  that  that  would 
just  finish  us  ! 

MR.  CAXTON  (not  seeming  to  heed  the  interruption). — A 
book  that  will  sell.  A  book  that  will  prop  up  the  fall  of 
prices  !  A  book  that  will  distract  your  mind  from  its  dismal 
apprehensions,  and  restore  your  affection  to  your  species, 
and  your  hopes  in  the  ultimate  triumph  of  sound  principles 
— by  the  sight  of  a  favorable  balance  at  the  end  of  the  yearly 
accounts.  It  is  astonishing  what  a  difference  that  little  cir- 
cumstance makes  in  our  views  of  things  in  general.  I  re- 
member when  the  bank  in  which  Squills  had  incautiously  left 
^1,000  broke,  one  remarkably  healthy  year,  that  he  became 
a  great  alarmist,  and  said  that  the  country  was  on  the  verge 
of  ruin  ;  whereas  you  see  now,  when,  thanks  to  a  long  suc- 
cession of  sickly  seasons,  he  has  a  surplus  capital  to  risk  in 
the  Great  Western,  he  is  firmly  persuaded  that  England  was 
never  in  so  prosperous  a  condition. 

MR.  SQUILLS  (rather  sullenly). — Pooh,  pooh. 

MR.  CAXTON. — Write  a  book,  my  son — write  a  book. 
Need  I  tell  you  that  Money  or  Moneta,  according  to  Hy- 
ginus,  was  the  mother  of  the  Muses  ?  Write  a  book. 

BLANCHE  and  my  MOTHER  (in  full  chorus). — O  yes,  Sisty 
— a  book — a  book  !  you  must  write  a  book. 

"  I  am  sure,"  quoth  my  Uncle  Roland,  slamming  down 
the  volume  he  had  just  concluded,  "he  could  write  a  devil- 
ish deal  better  book  than  this  ;  and  how  I  come  to  read  such 
trash,  night  after  night,  is  more  than  I  could  possibly  explain 
to  the  satisfaction  of  an  intelligent  jury,  if  I  were  put  into 
a  witness-box,  and  examined  in  the  mildest  manner  by  my 
own  counsel." 

MR.  CAXTON. — You  see  that  Roland  tells  us  exactly  what 
sort  of  a  book  it  shall  be. 

PISISTRATUS. — Trash,  sir  ? 

MR.  CAXTON. — No — that  is,  not  necessarily  trash — but  a 
book  of  that  class  which,  whether  trash  or  not,  people  can't 
help  reading.  Novels  have  become  a  necessity  of  the  age  ; 
you  must  write  a  novel. 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  7 

PISISTRATUS  (flattered,  but  dubious). — A  novel  !  But  every 
subject  on  which  novels  can  be  written  is  preoccupied. 
There  are  novels  of  low  life,  novels  of  high  life,  military 
novels,  naval  novels,  novels  philosophical,  novels  religious, 
novels  historical,  novels  descriptive  of  India,  the  Colonies, 
Ancient  Rome,  and  the  Egyptian  Pyramids.  From  what 
bird,  wild  eagle,  or  barn-door  fowl,  can  I 

"  Pluck  one  unwearied  plume  from  Fancy's  wing  ?  " 

MR.  CAXTON  (after  a  little  thought). — You  remember  the 
story  which  Trevanion  (I  beg  his  pardon,  Lord  Ulswater) 
told  us  the  other  night.  That  gives  you  something  of  the 
romance  of  real  life  for  your  plot — puts  you  chiefly  among 
scenes  with  which  you  are  familiar,  and  furnishes  you  with 
characters  which  have  been  very  sparingly  dealt  with  since 
the  time  of  Fielding.  You  can  give  us  the  Country  Squire, 
as  you  remember  him  in  your  youth  ;  it  is  a  specimen  of  a 
race  worth  preserving — the  old  idiosyncrasies  of  which  are 
rapidly  dying  off,  as  the  railways  bring  Norfolk  and  York- 
shire within  easy  reach  of  the  manners  of  London.  You  can 
give  us  the  old-fashioned  Parson,  as  in  all  essentials  he  may 
yet  be  found  ;  but  before,  you  had  to  drag  him  out  of  the 
great  Tractarian  bog  ;  and  for  the  rest,  I  really  think  that 
while,  as  I  am  told,  many  popular  writers  are  doing  their 
best,  especially  in  France,  and  perhaps  a  little  in  England, 
to  set  class  against  class,  and  pick  up  every  stone  in  the 
kennel  to  shy  at  a  gentleman  with  a  good  coat  on  his  back, 
something  useful  might  be  done  by  a  few  good-humored 
sketches  of  those  innocent  criminals  a  little  better  off  than 
their  neighbors,  whom,  however  we  dislike  them,  I  take  it 
for  granted  we  shall  have  to  endure,  in  one  shape  or  another, 
as  long  as  civilization  exists  ;  and  they  seem,  on  the  whole,  as 
good  in  their  present  shape  as  we  are  likely  to  get,  shake 
the  dice-box  of  society  how  we  will. 

PISISTRATUS. — Very  well  said,  sir ;  but  this  rural  country- 
gentleman  life  is  not  so  new  as  you  think.  There's  Wash- 
ington Irving 

MR.  CAXTON. — Charming  ;  but  rather  the  manners  of  the 
last  century  than  this.  You  may  as  well  cite  Addison  and 
Sir  Roger  de  Coverley. 

PISISTRATUS. —  Tremaine  and  De  Vere. 

MR.  CAXTON. — Nothing  can  be  more  graceful,  nor  more 
unlike  what  I  mean.  The  Pales  and  Terminus  I  wish  you 


8  MY  NOVEL;    OR, 

to  put  up  in  the  fields  are  familiar  images,  that  you  may  cut 
out  of  an  oak-tree — not  beautiful  marble  statues,  on  por- 
phyry pedestals,  twenty  feet  high. 

PISISTRATUS. — Miss  Austin  ;  Mrs.  Gore  in  her  masterpiece 
of  Mrs.  Armytagc  j  Mrs.  Marsh,  too;  and  then  (for  Scotch 
manners)  Miss  Ferrier  ! 

MR.  CAXTON  (growing  cross). — Oh,  if  you  cannot  treat  on 
bucolics,  but  what  you  must  hear  some  Virgil  or  other  cry 
"  Stop  thief,"  you  deserve  to  be  tossed  by  one  of  your  own 
"  short-horns."  [Still  more  contemptuously] — I  am  sure  I 
don't  know  why  we  spend  so  much  money  on  sending  our 
sons  to  school  to  learn  Latin,  when  that  Anachronism  of 
yours,  Mrs.  Caxton,  can't  even  construe  a  line  and  a  half  of 
Phaedrus.  Phaedrus,  Mrs.  Caxton — a  book  which  is  in 
Latin  what  Goody  Two-Shoes  is  in  the  vernacular  ! 

MRS.  CAXTON.  (alarmed  and  indignant). — Fie  !  Austin  ! 
I  am  sure  you  can  construe  Phaedrus,  dear. 

Pisistratus  prudently  preserves  silence. 

MR.  CAXTON — I'll  try  him — 

"  Suacuique  sit  animi  cogitatio 
Colorque  propius." 

What  does  that  mean  ? 

PISISTRATUS  (smiling). — That  every  man  has  some  color- 
ing matter  within  him,  to  give  his  own  tinge  to 

"  His  own  novel,"  interrupted  my  father.  "  Contentus 
peragis  !  " 

During  the  latter  part  of  this  dialogue,  Blanche  had 
sewn  together  three  quires  of  the  best  Bath  paper,  and 
she  now  placed  them  on  a  little  table  before  me,  with  her 
own  inkstand  and  steel  pen. 

My  mother  put  her  finger  to  her  lip,  and  said,  "  Hush  !  " 
my  father  returned  to  the  cradle  of  the  ^Esar  ;  Captain 
Roland  leant  his  cheek  on  his  hand,  and  gazed  abstractedly 
on  the  fire  ;  Mr.  Squills  fell  into  a  placid  doze  ;  and,  after 
three  sighs  that  would  have  melted  a  heart  of  stone,  I 
rushed  into — MY  NOVEL. 


VARIETIES  IN   ENGLISH  LIFE. 


CHAPTER   II. 

"  THERE  has  never  been  occasion  to  use  them  since  I've 
been  in  the  Parish,"  said  Parson  Dale. 

"What  does  that  prove?"  quoth  the  Squire,  sharply, 
and  looking  the  Parson  full  in  the  face. 

"  Prove  !  "  repeated  Mr.  Dale,  with  a  smile  of  benign, 
yet  too  conscious  superiority — "  What  does  experience 
prove  ? " 

"  That  your  forefathers  were  great  blockheads,  and  that 
their  descendant  is  not  a  whit  the  wiser." 

"  Squire,"  replied  the  Parson,  "  although  that  is  a 
melancholy  conclusion,  yet  if  you  mean  it  to  apply  uni- 
versally, and  not  to  the  family  of  the  Dales  in  particular, 
it  is  not  one  which  my  candor  as  a  reasoner,  and  my 
humility  as  a  mortal,  will  permit  me  to  challenge." 

"  I  defy  you,"  said  Mr.  Hazeldean,  triumphantly.  "  But 
to  stick  to  the  subject  (which  it  is  monstrous  hard  to  do 
when  one  talks  with  a  parson),  I  only  just  ask  you  to  look 
yonder,  and  tell  me  on  your  conscience — I  don't  even  say 
as  a  parson,  but  as  a  parishioner — whether  you  ever  saw  a 
more  disreputable  spectacle  ?" 

While  he  spoke,  the  Squire,  leaning  heavily  on  the 
Parson's  left  shoulder,  extended  his  cane  in  a  line  parallel 
with  the  right  eye  of  that  disputatious  ecclesiastic,  so 
that  he  might  guide  the  organ  of  sight  to  the  object  he 
had  thus  unflatteringly  described. 

"  I  confess,"  said  the  Parson,  "  that,  regarded  by  the 
eye  of  the  senses,  it  is  a  thing  that  in  its  best  day  had 
small  pretensions  to  beauty,  and  is  not  elevated  into  the 
picturesque  even  by  neglect  and  decay.  But,  my  friend, 
regarded  by  the  eye  of  the  inner  man — of  the  rural  phi- 
losopher and  parochial  legislator — I  say  it  is  by  neglect 
and  decay  that  it  is  rendered  a  very  pleasing  feature  in 
what  I  may  call  '  the  moral  topography  of  a  parish.'  " 

The  Squire  looked  at  the  Parson  as  if  he  could  have 
beaten  him  ;  and,  indeed,  regarding  the  object  in  dispute 
not  only  with  the  eye  of  the  outer  man,  but  the  eye  of 
law  and  order — the  eye  of  a  country  gentleman  and  a 
justice  of  the  peace,  the  spectacle  was  scandalously  dis- 


io  MY  NOVEL;    OR, 

reputable.  It  was  moss-grown  ;  it  was  worm-eaten  ;  it  was 
broken  right  in  the  middle  ;  through  its  four  socketless 
eyes,  neighbored  by  the  nettle,  peered  the  thistle  : — the 
thistle  !  a  forest  of  thistles  ! — and  to  complete  the  degrada- 
tion of  the  whole,  those  thistles  had  attracted  the  donkey 
of  an  itinerant  tinker  ;  and  the  irreverent  animal  was  in  the 
very  act  of  taking  its  luncheon  out  of  the  eyes  and  jaws  of 
— THE  PARISH  STOCKS. 

The  Squire  looked  as  if  he  could  have  beaten  the 
Parson  ;  but,  as  he  was  not  without  some  slight  command 
of  temper,  and  a  substitute  was  luckily  at  hand,  he  gulphed 
down  his  resentment,  and  made  a  rush — at  the  donkey  ! 

Now  the  donkey  was  hampered  by  a  rope  to  its  fore- 
feet, to  the  which  was  attached  a  billet  of  wood,  called 
technically  "a  clog,"  so  that  ot  had  no  fair  chance  of  es- 
cape from  the  assault  its  sacrilegious  luncheon  had  justly 
provoked.  But,  the  ass  turning  round  with  unusual  nim- 
bleness  at  the  first  stroke  of  the  cane,  the  Squire  caught  his 
foot  in  the  rope,  and  went  head  over  heels  among  the 
thistles.  The  donkey  gravely  bent  down,  and  thrice  smelt 
or  sniffed  its  prostrate  foe  ;  then,  having  convinced  itself 
that  it  had  nothing  farther  to  apprehend  for  the  present, 
and  very  willing  to  make  the  best  of  the  reprieve,  accord- 
ing to  the  poetical  admonition,  "Gather  your  rosebuds 
while  you  may,"  it  cropped  a  thistle  in  full  bloom  close  to 
the  ear  of  the  Squire  ; — so  close,  indeed,  that  the  Parson 
thought  the  ear  was  gone  ;  and  with  the  more  probability, 
inasmuch  as  the  Squire,  feeling  the  warm  breath  of  the 
creature,  bellowed  out  with  all  the  force  of  lungs  accus- 
tomed to  give  a  View-hallo  ! 

"  Bless  me,  is  it  gone  ?  "  said  the  Parson,  thrusting  his 
person  between  the  ass  and  the  Squire. 

"  Zounds  and  the  devil !  "  cried  the  Squire,  rubbing  him- 
self as  he  rose  to  his  feet. 

"Hush,"  said  the  Parson,  gently.  "What  a  horrible 
oath  !  " 

"  Horrible  oath  !  If  you  had  my  nankeens  on,"  said  the 
Squire,  still  rubbing  himself,  "and  had  fallen  into  a  thicket 
of  thistles,  with  a  donkey's  teeth  within  an  inch  of  your 
ear ! " 

"  It  is  not  gone,  then  ?  "  interrupted  the  Parson. 

"  No — that  is,  I  think  not,"  said  the  Squire,  dubiously  ; 
and  he  clapped  his  hand  to  the  organ  in  question.  "No! 
it  is  not  gone  !  " 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  U 

"  Thank  Heaven  !  "  said  the  good  clergyman,  kindly. 

"  Hum,"  growled  the  Squire,  who  was  now  once  more 
engaged  in  rubbing  himself.  "  Thank  heaven  indeed,  when 
I  am  as  full  of  thorns  as  a  porcupine  !  I  should  like  to 
know  what  use  thistles  are  in  the  world." 

"  For  donkeys  to  eat,  if  you  will  let  them,  Squire," 
answered  the  Parson. 

"Ugh,  you  beast!"  cried  Mr.  Hazeldean,  all  his  wrath 
re-awakened,  whether  by  reference  to  the  donkey  species, 
or  his  inability  to  reply  to  the  Parson,  or  perhaps  by  some 
sudden  prick  too  sharp  for  humanity — especially  humanity 
in  nankeens — to  endure  without  kicking ;  "  Ugh,  you 
beast ! "  he  exclaimed,  shaking  his  cane  at  the  donkey, 
which,  at  the  interposition  of  the  Parson,  had  respectfully 
recoiled  a  few  paces,  and  now  stood  switching  its  thin  tail, 
and  trying  vainly  to  lift  one  of  its  fore-legs — for  the  flies 
teased  it. 

"  Poor  thing  ! "  said  the  Parson,  pityingly.  "  See,  it 
has  a  raw  place  on  the  shoulder,  and  the  flies  have  found 
out  the  sore." 

"I  am  devilish  glad  to  hear  it,"  said  the  Squire,  vin- 
dictively. 

"  Fie,  fie  !  " 

"  It  is  very  well  to  say  '  Fie,  fie.'  It  was  not  you  who 
fell  among  the  thistles.  What's  the  man  about  now,  I 
wonder  ? " 

The  parson  had  walked  toward  a  chestnut-tree  that 
stood  on  the  village  green  ;  he  broke  off  a  bough — re- 
turned to  the  donkey — whisked  away  the  flies,  and  then 
tenderly  placed  the  broad  leaves  over  the  sore,  as  a  protec- 
tion from  the  swarms.  The  donkey  turned  round  its  head, 
and  looked  at  him  with  mild  wonder. 

"  I  would  bet  a  shilling,"  said  the  Parson,  softly,  "  that 
this  is  the  first  act  of  kindness  thou  hast  met  with  this  many 
a  day.  And  slight  enough  it  is,  Heaven  knows." 

With  that  the  Parson  put  his  hand  into  his  pocket,  and 
drew  out  an  apple.  It  was  a  fine,  large,  rose-cheeked 
apple — one  of  the  last  winter's  store,  from  the  celebrated 
tree  in  the  parsonage  garden  ;  and  he  was  taking  it  as  a 
present  to  a  little  boy  in  the  village,  who  had  notably  dis- 
tinguished himself  in  the  Sunday-school.  "  Nay,  in  com- 
mon justice,  Lenny  Fairfield  should  have  the  preference," 
muttered  the  Parson.  The  ass  pricked  up  one  of  its  ears, 
and  advanced  its  head  timidly.  "  But  Lenny  Fairfield 


12  MY  NO  TEL;    OR, 

would  be  as  much  pleased  with  twopence  ;  and  what  could 
twopence  do  to  thee  ? "  The  ass's  nose  now  touched  the 
apple.  ''Take  it,  in  the  name  of  Charity,"  quoth  the  Par- 
son ;  "Justice  is  accustomed  to  be  served  last;"  and  the 
ass  took  the  apple.  "  How  had  you  the  heart  ? "  said  the 
Parson,  pointing  to  the  Squire's  cane. 

The  ass  stopped  munching,  and  looked  askant  at  the 
Squire. 

"  Pooh  !  eat  on  ;  he'll  not  beat  thee  now." 

"No,"  said  the  Squire,  apologetically.  "But,  after  all, 
he  is  not  an  Ass  of  the  Parish  ;  he  is  a  vagrant,  and  he 
ought  to  be  pounded.  But  the  pound  is  in  as  bad  a 
state  as  the  stocks,  thanks  to  your  new-fashioned  doc- 
trines." 

"  New-fashioned  !"  cried  the  Parson,  almost  indignantly, 
for  he  had  a  great  disdain  of  new  fashions — "They  are  as 
old  as  Christianity  ;  nay,  as  old  as  Paradise,  which,  you 
will  observe,  is  derived  from  a  Greek  or  rather  a  Persian 
word,  and  means  something  more  than  'garden,'  correspond- 
ing," pursued  the  Parson,  rather  pedantically,  "  with  the 
Latin  vivarium,  viz.,  grove  or  park  full  of  innocent  dumb 
creatures.  Depend  on  it,  donkeys  were  allowed  to  eat 
thistles  there." 

"Very  possibly,"  said  the  Squire,  dryly.  "But  Hazel- 
dean,  though  a  very  pretty  village,  is  not  Paradise.  The 
stocks  shall  be  mended  to-morrow — ay,  and  the  pound  too, 
— and  the  next  donkey  found  trespassing  shall  go  into  it, 
as  sure  as  my  name's  Hazeldean." 

"  Then,"  said  the  Parson,  gravely,  "  I  can  only  hope 
that  the  next  parish  may  not  follow  your  example  ;  or  that 
you  and  I  may  never  be  caught  straying." 


CHAPTER   III. 

PARSON  DALE  and  Squire  Hazeldean  parted  company  ; 
the  latter  to  inspect  his  sheep,  the  former  to  visit  some  of 
his  parishioners,  including  Lenny  Fairfield,  whom  the  don- 
key had  defrauded  of  his  apple. 

Lenny  Fairfield  was  sure  to  be  in  the  way,  for  his 
mother  rented  a  few  acres  of  grass-land  from  the  Squire, 
and  it  was  now  hay-time.  And  Leonard,  commonly  called 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  13 

Lenny,  was  an  only  son,  and  his  mother  a  widow.  The 
cottage  stood  apart,  and  somewhat  remote,  in  one  of  the 
many  nooks  of  the  long,  green,  village  lane.  And  a 
thoroughly  English  cottage  it  was — three  centuries  old  at 
least  ;  with  walls  of  rubble  let  into  oak  frames,  and  duly 
whitewashed  every  summer,  a  thatched  roof,  small  panes  of 
glass,  an  old  doorway  raised  from  the  ground  by  two  steps. 
There  was  about  this  little  dwelling  all  the  hpmely  rustic 
elegance  which  peasant  life  admits  of ;  a  honeysuckle  was 
trained  over  the  door  ;  a  few  flower-pots  were  placed  on  the 
window-sills  ;  the  small  plot  of  ground  in  front  of  the  house 
was  kept  with  great  neatness,  and  even  taste  ;  some  large 
rough  stones  on  either  side  the  little  path  having  been 
formed  into  a  sort  of  rock-work,  with  creepers  that  were 
now  in  flower ;  and  the  potato-ground  was  screened  from 
the  eye  by  sweet-peas  and  lupine,  Simple  elegance,  all 
this,  it  is  true  ;  but  how  well  it  speaks  for  peasant  and  land- 
lord, when  you  see  that  the  peasant  is  fond  of  his  home,  and 
has  some  spare  time  and  heart  to  bestow  upon  mere  embel- 
lishment. Such  a  peasant  is  sure  to  be  a  bad  customer  to 
the  ale-house,  and  a  safe  neighbor  to  the  Squire's  preserves. 
Ail  honor  and  praise  to  him,  except  a  small  tax  upon  both, 
which  is  due  to  the  landlord  ! 

Such  sights  were  as  pleasant  to  the  Parson  as  the  most 
beautiful  landscapes  of  Italy  can  be  to  the  dilettante.  He 
paused  a  moment  at  the  wicket  to  look  around  him,  and 
distended  his  nostrils  voluptuously  to  inhale  the  smell  of 
the  sweet-peas,  mixed  with  that  of  the  new-mown  hay  in  the 
fields  behind,  which  a  slight  breeze  bore  to  him.  He  then 
moved  on,  carefully  scraped  his  shoes,  clean  and  well- 
polished  as  they  were — for  Mr.  Dale  was  rather  a  beau  in 
his  own  clerical  way, — on  the  scraper  without  the  door, 
and  lifted  the  latch. 

Your  virtuoso  looks  with  artistical  delight  on  the  figure 
of  some  nymph  painted  on  an  Etruscan  vase,  engaged  in 
pouring  out  the  juice  of  the  grape  from  her  classic  urn. 
And  the  Parson  felt  as  harmless  if  not  as  elegant  a  pleasure 
in  contemplating  Widow  Fairfield  brimming  high  a  glitter- 
ing can,  which  she  designed  for  the  refreshment  of  the 
thirsty  haymakers. 

Mrs.  Fairfield  was  a  middle-aged,  tidy  woman,  with  that 
alert  precision  of  movement  which  seems  to  come  from  an 
active,  orderly  mind  ;  and  as  she  now  turned  her  head 
briskly  at  the  sound  of  the  Parson's  footstep,  she  showed 


14  MY  NOVEL;    OR, 

a  countenance  prepossessing,  though  not  handsome — a 
countenance  from  which  a  pleasant,  hearty  smile,  breaking 
forth  at  that  moment,  effaced  some  lines  that  in  repose 
spoke  "  of  sorrows,  but  of  sorrows  past ; "  and  her  cheek, 
paler  than  is  common  to  the  complexions  even  of  the  fair 
sex,  when  born  and  bred  amidst  a  rural  population,  might 
have  favored  the  guess  that  the  earlier  part  of  her  life  had 
been  spent  in  the  languid  air  and  "within-doors  "  occupa- 
tions of  a  town. 

"Never  mind  me,"  said  the  Parson,  as  Mrs.  Fairfield 
dropped  her  quick  curtsey,  and  smoothed  her  apron  ;  "if 
you  are  going  into  the  hay-field,  I  will  go  with  you  ;  I  have 
something  to  say  to  Lenny — an  excellent  boy." 

WIDOW. — Well,  sir,  and  you  are  kind  to  say  it  ;  but  so 
he  is. 

PARSON. — He  reads  uncommonly  well,  he  writes  toler- 
ably ;  he  is  the  best  lad  in  the  whole  school  at  his  Cate- 
chism and  in  the  Bible  lessons  ;  and  I  assure  you,  when  I 
see  his  face  at  church,  looking  up  so  attentively,  I  fancy 
that  I  shall  read  my  sermon  all  the  better  for  such  a  lis- 
tener ! 

WIDOW  (wiping  her  eyes  with  the  corner  of  her  apron). 
— 'Deed,  sir,  when  my  poor  Mark  died,  I  never  thought  I 
could  have  lived  on  as  I  have  done.  But  that  boy  is  so 
kind  and  good,  that  when  I  look  at  him  sitting  there  in 
dear  Mark's  chair,  and  remember  how  Mark  loved  him, 
and  all  he  used  to  say  to  me  about  him,  1  feel  somehow  or 
other  as  if  my  goodman  smiled  on  me,  and  would  rather  I 
was  not  with  him  yet,  till  the  lad  had  grown  up,  and  did  not 
want  me  any  more. 

PARSON  (looking  away,  and  after  a  pause). — You  never 
hear  anything  of  the  old  folks  at  Lansmere  ? 

"  'Deed,  sir,  sin"  poor  Mark  died,  they  han't  noticed  me 
nor  the  boy  ;  but,"  added  the  Widow,  with  all  a  peasant's 
pride,  "  it  isn't  that  I  wrants  their  money ;  only  it's  hard  to 
feel  strange-like  to  one's  own  father  and  mother !  " 

PARSON. — You  must  excuse,  them.  Your  father,  Mr. 
Avenel,  was  never  quite  the  same  man  after  that  sad  event 
which — but  you  are  weeping,  my  friend ;  pardon  me. 
Your  mother  is  a  little  proud  ;  but  so  are  you,  though  in 
another  way. 

WIDOW. — I  proud  !  Lord  love  ye,  sir,  I  have  not  a  bit  o' 
pride  in  me  !  and  that's  the  reason  they  always  looked  down 
on  me. 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  15 

PARSON. — Your  parents  must  be  well  off ;  and  I  shall 
apply  to  them  in  a  year  or  two  on  behalf  of  Lenny,  for 
they  promised  me  to  provide  for  him  when  he  grew  up,  as 
they  ought. 

WIDOW  (with  flashing  eyes). — I  am  sure,  sir,  I  hope  you 
will  do  no  such  thing ;  for  I  would  not  have  Lenny  be- 
holden to  them  as  has  never  given  him  a  kind  word  sin'  he 
was  born  ! 

The  Parson  smiled  gravely,  and  shook  his  head  at  poor 
Mrs.  Fairfield's  hasty  confutation  of  her  own  self-acquittal 
from  the  charge  of  pride  ;  but  he  saw  that  it  was  not  the 
time  or  moment  for  effectual  peace-making  in  the  most  ir- 
ritable of  all  rancors,  viz.,  that  nourished  against  one's 
nearest  relations.  He  therefore  dropped  the  subject,  and 
said  : — "Well,  time  enough  to  think  of  Lenny's  future  pro- 
spects ;  meanwhile,  we  are  forgetting  the  hay-makers. 
Come." 

The  widow  opened  the  back  door,  which  led  across  a 
little  apple  orchard  into  the  fields. 

PARSON. — You  have  a  pleasant  place  here  ;  and  I  see 
that  my  friend  Lenny  should  be  in  no  want  of  apples.  I 
had  brought  him  one,  but  I  have  given  it  away  on  the  road. 

WIDOW. — Oh,  sir,  it  is  not  the  deed — it  is  the  will,  as  I 
felt  when  the  Squire,  God  bless  him  !  took  two  pounds  off 
the  rent  the  year  he — that  is,  Mark — died. 

PARSON. — If  Lenny  continues  to  be  such  a  help  to  you, 
it  will  not  be  long  before  the  Squire  may  put  the  two 
pounds  on  again. 

"Yes,  sir,"  said  the  Widow,  simply  ;  "I  hope  he  will." 

"  Silly  woman  !  "  muttered  the  Parson.  "  That's  not  ex- 
actly what  the  schoolmistress  would  have  said.  You  don't 
read  nor  write,  Mrs.  Fairfield  ;  yet  you  express  yourself 
with  great  propriety." 

"  You  know  Mark  was  a  schollard,  sir,  like  my  poor,  poor 
sister ;  and  though  I  was  a  sad  stupid  girl  afore  I  married, 
I  tried  to  take  after  him  when  we  came  together." 


CHAPTER  IV. 

THEY  were  now  in  the  hay-field  ;  and  a  boy  of  about 
sixteen,  but,  like  most  country  lads,  to  appearance  much 
younger  than  he  was,  looked  up  from  his  rake,  with  lively 


Z6  My  NOVEL;    OR, 

blue  eyes  beaming  forth  under  a  profusion  of  brown  curly 
hair. 

Leonard  Fairfield  was  indeed  a  very  handsome  boy — 
not  so  stout  nor  so  ruddy  as  one  would  choose  for  the  ideal 
of  rustic  beauty  ;  nor  yet  so  delicate  in  limb  and  keen  in 
expression  as  are  those  children  of  cities,  in  whom  the  mind 
is  cultivated  at  the  expense  of  the  body  ;  but  still  he  had  the 
health  of  the  country  in  his  cheeks,  and  was  not  without 
the  grace  of  the  city  in  his  compact  figure  and  easy  move- 
ments. There  was  in  his  physiognomy  something  inter- 
esting from  its  peculiar  character  of  innocence  and  sim- 
plicity. You  could  see  that  he  had  been  brought  up  by  a 
woman,  and  much  apart  from  familiar  contact  with  other 
children  ;  and  such  intelligence  as  was  yet  developed  in 
him  was  not  ripened  by  the  jokes  and  cuffs  of  his  coevals, 
but  fostered  by  decorous  lecturings  from  his  elders,  and 
good-little-boy  maxims  in  good-little-boy  books. 

PARSON. — Come  hither,  Lenny.  You  know  the  benefit 
of  school,  I  see  ;  it  can  teach  you  nothing  better  than  to  be 
a  support  to  your  mother. 

LENNY  (looking  down  sheepishly,  and  with  a  heightened 
glow  over  his  face). — Please,  sir,  that  may  come  one  of 
these  days. 

PARSON. — That's  right,  Lenny.  Let  me  see  !  why,  you 
must  be  nearly  a  man.  How  old  are  you  ? 

Lenny  looks  up  inquiringly  at  his  mother. 

PARSON. — You  ought  to  know,  Lenny;  speak  for  your- 
self. Hold  your  tongue,  Mrs.  Fairfield. 

LENNY  (twirling  his  hat,  and  in  great  perplexity). — Well, 
and  there  is  Flop,  neighbor  Button's  old  sheep-dog.  He  be 
very  old  now. 

PARSON. — I  am  not  asking  Flop's  age,  but  your  own. 

LENNY. — '  Deed,  sir,  I  have  heard  say  as  how  Flop  and  I 
were  pups  together.  That  is,  I — I 

For  the  Parson  is  laughing,  and  so  is  Mrs.  Fairfield  ; 
and  the  hay-makers,  who  have  stood  still  to  listen,  are 
laughing  too.  And  poor  Lenny  has  quite  lost  his  head,  and 
looks  as  if  he  would  like  to  cry. 

PARSON  (patting  the  curly  locks,  encouragingly). — Never 
mind  ;  it  is  not  so  badly  answered,  after  all.  And  how  old 
is  Flop  ? 

LENNY. — Why,  he  must  be  fifteen  year  and  more. 

PARSON. — Hoxv  old,  then,  are  you  ? 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  17 

LKNNY  (looking  up,  with  a  beam  of  intelligence). —  Fif- 
teen year  and  more. 

Widow  sighs  and  nods  her  head. 

"That's  what  we  call  putting  two  and  two  together," 
said  the  Parson.  "  Orj  in  other  words,"  and  here  he  raised 
his  eyes  majestically  toward  the  hay-makers — "in  other 
words— thanks  to  his  love  for  his  book — simple  as  he  stands 
here,  Lenny  Fairfield  has  shown  himself  capable  of  INDUCT- 
IVE RATIOCINATION. 

At  those  words,  delivered  ore  rotundo,  the  hay-makers 
ceased  laughing  ;  for  even  in  lay  matters  they  held  the  Par- 
son to  be  an  oracle,  and  words  so  long  must  have  a  great 
deal  in  them. 

Lenny  drew  up  his  head  proudly. 

"You  are  very  fond  of  Flop,  I  suppose?" 

"'Deed  he  is,"  said  the  Widow,  "and  of  all  poor  dumb 
creatures." 

"  Very  good.  Suppose,  my  lad,  that  you  had  a  fine  apple, 
and  that  you  met  a  friend  who  wanted  it  more  than  you  ; 
what  would  you  do  with  it  ?  " 

"Please  you,  sir,  I  would  give  him  half  of  it." 

The  Parson's  face  fell. — "  Not  the  whole,  Lenny  ?  " 

Lenny  considered. — "  If  he  was  a  friend,  sir,  he  would 
not  like  me  to  give  him  all  ?" 

"  Upon  my  word,  Master  Leonard,  you  speak  so  well  that 
I  must  e'en  tell  the  truth.  I  brought  you  an  apple,  as  a 
prize  for  good  conduct  in  school ;  but  I  met  by  the  way 
a  poor  donkey,  and  some  one  beat  him  for  eating  a  thistle, 
so  I  thought  I  would  make  it  up  by  giving  him  the  apple. 
Ought  I  only  to  have  given  him  the  half  ?" 

Lenny's  innocent  face  became  all  smile ;  his  interest 
was  aroused. — "And  did  the  donkey  like  the  apple  ?" 

"  Very  much,"  said  the  Parson,  fumbling  in  his  pocket ; 
but  thinking  of  Leonard  Fairfield's  years  and  understand- 
ing ;  and  moreover,  observing,  in  the  pride  of  his  heart, 
that  there  were  many  spectators  to  his  deed,  he  thought  the 
meditated  twopence  not  sufficient,  and  he  generously  pro- 
duced a  silver  sixpence. 

"There,  my  man,  that  will  pay  for  the  half-apple  which 
you  would  have  kept  for  yourself."  The  parson  again  pat- 
ted the  curly  locks,  and,  after  a  hearty  word  or  two  with  the 
other  hay-makers,  and  a  friendly  "  Good-day  "  to  Mrs.  Fair- 
field,  struck  into  the  path  that  led  toward  his  own  glebe. 

He  had  just  crossed  the  stile,  when  he  heard  hasty  but 


i8  MY  NOVEL;    OA', 

timorous  feet  behind  him.  Ho  turned,  and  saw  his  friend 
Lenny. 

LENNY  (half-crying,  and  holding  out  the  sixpence). — 
Indeed,  sir,  I  would  rather  not.  I  would  have  given  all  to 
the  Neddy. 

PARSON. — Why,  then,  my  man,  you  have  a  still  greater 
right  to  the  sixpence. 

LENNY. — No,  sir,  'cause  you  only  gave  it  to  make  up  for 
the  half-apple.  And  if  I  had  given  the  whole,  as  I  ought 
to  have  done,  why,  I  should  have  had  no  right  to  the  six- 
pence. Please,  sir,  don't  be  offended  ;  do  take  it  back,  Avill 
you  ? 

The  Parson  hesitated.  And  the  boy  thrust  the  sixpence 
into  his  hand,  as  the  ass  had  poked  its  nose  there  before  in 
quest  of  the  apple. 

"  I  see,"  said  Parson  Dale,  soliloquizing,  "  that  if  one 
don't  give  Justice  the  first  place  at  the  table,  all  the  other 
Virtues  eat  up  her  share." 

Indeed,  the  case  was  perplexing.  Charity,  like  a  for- 
ward*, impudent  baggage  as  she  is,  always  thrusting  herself 
in  the  way,  and  taking  other  people's  apples  to  make  her 
own  little  pie,  had  defrauded  Lenny  of  his  due  ;  and  now 
Susceptibility,  who  looks  like  a  shy,  blush-faced,  awkward 
Virtue  in  her  teens — but  who,  nevertheless,  is  always  en- 
gaged in  picking  the  pockets  of  her  sisters,  tried  to  filch 
from  him  his  lawful  recompense.  The  case  was  perplexing  ; 
for  the  Parson  held  Susceptibility  in  great  honor,  despite 
her  hypocritical  tricks,  and  did  not  like  to  give  her  a  slap 
in  the  face,  which  might  frighten  her  away  for  ever.  So 
Mr.  Dale  stood  irresolute,  glancing  from  the  sixpence  to 
Lenny,  and  from  Lenny  to  the  sixpence. 

'•  Buon  giorno,  Good-day  to  you,"  said  a  voice  behind, 
in  an  accent  slightly  but  unmistakably  foreign,  and  a 
strange-looking  figure  presented  itself  at  the  stile. 

Imagine  a  tall  and  exceedingly  meagre  man,  dressed  in 
a  rusty  suit  of  black — the  pantaloons  tight  at  the  calf  and 
ankle,  and  there  forming  a  loose  gaiter  over  thick  shoes, 
buckled  high  at  the  instep  ; — an  old  cloak,  lined  with  red, 
was  thrown  over  one  shoulder,  though  the  day  was  sultry  ; 
— a  quaint,  red,  outlandish  umbrella,  with  a  carved  brass 
handle,  was  thrust  under  one  arm,  though  the  sky  was 
cloudless  ; — a  profusion  of  raven  hair,  in  waving  curls  that 
seemed  as  fine  as  silk,  escaped  from  the  sides  of  a  straw 
hat  of  prodigious  brim  ;  a  complexion  sallow  and  swarthy, 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  19 

and  features  which,  though  not  without  considerable  beauty 
to  the  eye  of  the  artist,  .were  not  only  unlike  what  we  fair, 
well-fed,  neat-faced  Englishmen  are  wont  to  consider 
comely,  but  exceedingly  like  what  we  are  disposed  to  regard 
as  awful  and  Satanic — to  wit.,  along  hooked  nose,  sunken 
cheeks,  black  eyes,  whose  piercing  brilliancy  took  some- 
thing wizard-like  and  mystical  from  the  large  spectacles 
through  which  they  shone  ;  a  mouth  round  which  played 
an  ironical  smile,  and  in  which  a  physiognomist  would  have 
remarked  singular  shrewdness,  and  some  closeness,  com- 
plete the  picture.  Imagine  this  figure,  grotesque,  peregri- 
nate, and  to  the  eye  of  a  peasant  certainly  diabolical ;  then 
perch  it  on  the  stile  in  the  midst  of  those  green  English 
fields,  and  in  sight  of  that  primitive  English  village  ;  there 
let  it  sit  straddling,  its  long  legs  dangling  down,  a  short 
German  pipe  emitting  clouds  from  one  corner  of  those  sar- 
donic lips,  its  dark  eyes  glaring  through  the  spectacles  full 
upon  the  Parson,  yet  askant  upon  Lenny  Fairfield.  Lenny 
Fairfield  looked  exceedingly  frightened. 

"  Upon  my  word,  Dr.  Riccabocca,"  said  Mr.  Dale,  smil- 
ing, "you  come  in  good  time  to  solve  a  very  nice  question 
in  casuistry ; "  and  herewith  the  Parson  explained  the  case, 
and  put  the.  question — "  Ought  Lenny  Fairfield  to  have  the 
sixpence,  or  ought  he  not?" 

"  Cospetto !  "  said  the  Doctor,  "  if  the  hen  would  but 
hold  her  tongue  nobody  would  know  that  she  had  laid  an 
egg-  " 


CHAPTER    V. 

"  GRANTED,"  said  the  Parson  ;  "  but  what  follows  ?  The 
saying  is  good,  but  I  don't  see  the  application." 

"A  thousand  pardons!"  replied  Dr.  Riccabocca,  with 
all  the  urbanity  of  an  Italian  ;  "but  it  seems  to  me  that  if 
you  had  given  the  sixpence  to  the  fanciullo — that  is,  to  this 
good  little  boy — without  telling  him  the  story  about  the 
donkey,  you  would  never  put  him  and  yourself  into  this 
awkward  dilemma." 

"  But,  my  dear  sir,"  whispered  the  Parson  mildly,  as  he 
inclined  his  lips  to  the  Doctor's  ear,  "  I  should  then  have 
lost  the  opportunity  of  inculcating  a  moral  lesson — you 
understand." 


SO  My  NOVEL;    OR, 

Dr.  Riccabocca  shrugged  his  shoulders,  restored  his 
pipe  to  his  mouth,  and  took  a  long  whiff.  It  was  a  whiff 
eloquent,  though  cynical — a  whiff  peculiar  to  your  phi- 
losophical smoker — a  whiff  that  implied  the  most  absolute, 
but  the  most  placid  incredulity  as  to  the  effect  of  the  Par- 
son's moral  lesson. 

"  Still  you  have  not  given  us  your  decision,"  said  the 
Parson,  after  a  pause. 

•  The  Doctor  withdrew   his    pipe.     "  Cospetto ! "    said    he 
— "  He  who  scrubs  the  head  of  an  ass  wastes  his  soap." 

"  If  you  scrubbed  mine  fifty  times  over  with  those  enig- 
matical proverbs  of  yours,"  said  the  Parson,  testily,  "you 
would  not  make  it  any  the  wiser." 

"Mvgood  sir,"  said  the  Doctor,  bowing  low  from  his 
perch  on  the  stile,  "  I  never  presumed  to  say  that  there 
were  more  asses  than  one  in  the  story  ;  but  I  thought  that 
I  could  not  better  explain  my  meaning,  which  is  simply 
this — you  scrubbed  the  ass's  head,  and  therefore  you  must 
lose  the  soap.  Let  the  fanciullo  have  the  sixpence  ;  and  a 
great  sum  it  is  too,  for  a  little  boy,  Avho  may  spend  it  all  as 
pocket-money  !  " 

"  There,  Lenny — you  hear  ?  "  said  the  Parson,  stretching 
out  the  sixpence.  But  Lenny  retreated,  and  cast  on  the 
umpire  a  look  of  great  aversion  and  disgust. 

"  Please,  Master  Dale,"  said  he,  obstinately,  "I'd  rather 
not." 

"  It  is  a  matter  of  feeling,  you  see,"  said  the  Parson, 
turning  to  the  umpire;  "and  I  believe  the  boy  is 
right." 

"If  it  be  a  matter  of  feeling,"  replied  Dr.  Riccabocca, 
"  there  is  no  more  to  be  said  on  it.  When  Feeling  comes  in 
at  the  door,  Reason  has  nothing  to  do  but  to  jump  out  of 
the  window." 

"Go,  my  good  boy,"  said  the  Parson,  pocketing  the 
coin  ;  "  but  stop  !  give  me  your  hand  first.  There  I  under- 
stand you  ; — good-by  !" 

Lenny's  eyes  glistened  as  the  Parson  shook  him  by  the 
hand,  and,  not  trusting  himself  to  speak,  he  walked  off 
sturdily.  The  Parson  wiped  his  forehead,  and  sat  himself 
down  on  the  stile  beside  the  Italian.  The  view  before  them 
was  lovely,  and  both  enjoyed  it  (though  not  equally)  enough 
to  be  silent  for  some  moments.  On  the  other  side  the  lane 
seen  between  gaps  in  the  old  oaks  and  chestnuts  that  hung 
over  the  moss-grown  pales  of  Hazeldean  Park,  rose  gentle, 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  21 

verdant  slopes,  dotted  with  sheep  and  herds  of  deer  ;  a 
stately  avenue  stretched  far  away  to  the  left,  and  ended  at 
the  right-hand,  within  a  few  yards  of  a  haha  that  divided 
the  park  from  a  level  sward  of  table-land  gay  with  shrubs 
and  flower-pots,  relieved  by  the  shade  of  two  mighty  cedars. 
And  on  this  platform,  only  seen  in  part,  stood  the  Squire's 
old-fashioned  house,  red-brick,  with  stone  mullions,  gable- 
ends,  and  quaint  chimney-pots.  On  this  side  the  road,  im- 
mediately facing  the  two  gentlemen,  cottage  after  cottage 
whitely  emerged  from  the  curves  in  the  lane,  while,  beyond, 
the  ground  declining,  gave  an  extensive  prospect  of  woods 
and  corn-fields,  spires  and  farms.  Behind,  from  a  belt  of 
lilacs  and  evergreens,  you  caught  a  peep  of  the  parsonage- 
house,  backed  by  woodlands,  and  a  little  noisy  rill  running 
in  front.  The  birds  were  still  in  the  hedge-rows, — only,  as 
if  from  the  very  heart  of  the  most  distant  woods,  there 
came  now  and  then  the  mellow  note  of  the  cuckoo. 

"  Verily,"  said  Mr.  Dare,  softly,  "my  lot  has  fallen  on  a 
goodly  heritage." 

The  Italian  twitched  his  cloak  over  him,  and  sighed  al- 
most inaudibly.  Perhaps  he  thought  of  his  own  Summer 
Land,  and  felt  that,  amidst  all  that  fresh  verdure  of  the 
North,  there  was  no  heritage  for  the  stranger. 

However,  before  the  Parson  could  notice  the  sigh,  or 
conjecture  the  cause,  Dr.  Riccabocca's  thin  lips  took  an  ex- 
pression almost  malignant. 

"Per  Bacco !  "  said  he  ;  "in  every  country  I  observe  that 
the  rocks  settle  where  the  trees  are  the  finest.  I  am  sure 
that,  when  Noah  first  landed  on  Ararat,  he  must  have  found 
some  gentleman  in  black  already  settled  in  the  pleasantest 
part  of  the  mountain,  and  waiting  for  his  tenth  of  the  cattle 
as  they  came  out  of  the  Ark." 

The  Parson  fixed  his  meek  eyes  on  the  philosopher,  and 
there  was  in  them  something  so  deprecating,  rather  than 
reproachful,  that  Dr.  Riccabocca  turned  away  his  face,  and 
refilled  his  pipe.  Dr.  Riccabocca  abhorbed  priests ;  but 
though  Parson  Dale  was  emphatically  a  parson,  he  seemed  at 
that  moment  so  little  of  what  Dr.  Riccabocca  understood  by 
a  priest,  that  the  Italian's  heart  smote  him  for  his  irreverent 
jest  on  the  cloth.  Luckily  at  this  moment  there  was  a 
diversion  to  that  untoward  commencement  of  conversation, 
in  the  appearance  of  no  less  a  personage  than  the  donkey 
himself — I  mean  the  donkey  who  ate  the  apple. 


MY  NOVEL;    OR, 


CHAPTER  VI. 

THE  Tinker  was  a  stout  swarthy  fellow,  jovial  and  musical 
withal,  for  he  was  singing  a  stave  as  he  flourished  his  staff, 
and  at  the  end  of  each  refrain  down  carne  the  staff  on  the 
quarters  of  the  donkey.  The  Tinker  went  behind  and  sung, 
the  donkey  went  before  and  was  thwacked. 

"Yours  is  a  droll  country,"  quoth  Dr.  Riccabocca  ;  "in 
mine,  it  is  not  the  ass  that  walks  first  in  the  procession  that 
gets  the  blows." 

The  parson  jumped  from  the  stile,  and  looking  over  the 
hedge  that  divided  the  field  from  the  road — "  Gently,  gently," 
said  he  ;  "the  sound  of  the  stick  spoils  the  singing  !  O,  Mr. 
Sprott,  Mr.  Sprott !  a  good  man  is  merciful  to  his  beast." 

The  donkey  seemed  to  recognize  the  voice  of  its  friend, 
for  it  stopped  short,  pricked  one  ear  wistfully,  and  looked  up. 

The  Tinker  touched  his  hat,  and  looked  up  too.  "  Lord 
bless  your  reverence  !  he  does  not  mind  it,  he  likes  it.  I 
vould  not  hurt  thee  ;  vould  I,  Neddy  ?" 

The  donkey  shook  his  head  and  shivered  ;  perhaps  a  fly 
had  settled  on  the  sore,  which  the  chestnut-leaves  no  longer 
protected. 

"  I  am  sure  you  did  not  mean  to  hurt  him,  Sprott,"  said 
the  Parson,  more  politely  I  fear  than  honestly — for  he  had 
seen  enough  of  that  cross-grained  thing  called  the  human 
heart,  even  in  the  little  world  of  a  country  parish,  to  know 
that  it  requires  management,  and  coaxing,  and  flattering,  to 
interfere  successfully  between  a  man  and  his  own  donkey — 
"  I  am  sure  you  did  not  mean  to  hurt  him  ;  but  he  has  already 
got  a  sore  on  his  shoulder  as  big  as  my  hand,  poor  thing ! " 

"  Lord,  love  'un  !  yes  ;  that  was  done  a-playing  with  the 
manger,  the  day  I  gave  'un  oats ! "  said  the  Tinker. 

Dr.  Riccabocca  adjusted  his  spectacles,  and  surveyed  the 
ass.  The  ass  pricked  up  his  other  ear,  and  surveyed  Dr. 
Riccabocca.  In  that  mutual  survey  of  physical  qualifica- 
tions, each  being  regarded  according  to  the  average  symme- 
try of  its  species,  it  may  be  doubted  whether  the  advantage 
was  on  the  side  of  the  philosopher. 

The  Parson  had  a  great  notion  of  the  wisdom  of  his 
friend,  in  all  matters  not  purely  ecclesiastical : 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  23 

"  Say  a  good  word  for  the  donkey ! "  whispered  he. 

"  Sir,"  said  the  Doctor,  addressing  Mr.  Sprott,  with  a 
respectful  salutation,  "  there's  a  great  kettle  at  my  house — 
the  Casino — which  wants  soldering ;  can  you  recommend 
me  a  tinker?" 

"  Why,  that's  all  in  my  line,"  said  Sprott,  "  and  there 
ben't  a  tinker  in  the  country  that  I  vould  recommend  like 
myself,  thof  I  say  it." 

"You  jest,  good  sir,"  said  the  Doctor,  smiling  pleasantly. 
"  A  man  who  can't  mend  a  hole  in  his  own  donkey,  can 
never  demean  himself  by  patching  up  my  great  kettle." 

"  Lord,  sir  ! "  said  the  Tinker,  archly,  "  if  I  had  known 
that  poor  Neddy  had  had  two  sitch  friends  in  court,  I'd  had 
seen  he  vas  a  gintleman,  and  treated  him  as  sitch." 

"  Corpo  di  Bacco  !  "  quoth  the  Doctor,  "  though  that  jest's 
not  new,  I  think  the  Tinker  comes  very  well  out  of  it." 

"  True  ;  but  the  donkey ! "  said  the  Parson  ;  "  I've  a  great 
mind  to  buy  it." 

"  Permit  me  to  tell  you  an  anecdote  in  point,"  said  Dr. 
Riccabocca. 

';  Well  ? "  said  the  Parson,  interrogatively. 

"Once  in  a  time,"  pursued  Riccabocca,  "the  Emperor 
Adrian,  going  to  the  public  baths,  saw  an  old  soldier,  who 
had  served  under  him,  rubbing  his  back  against  the  marble 
wall.  The  Emperor,  who  was  a  wise,  and  therefore  a  curi- 
ous, inquisitive  man,  sent  for  the  soldier,  and  asked  him 
why  he  resorted  to  that  sort  of  friction.  '  Because,'  an- 
swered the  veteran,  '  I  am  too  poor  to  have  slaves  to  rub  me 
down.'  The  Emperor  was  touched,  and  gave  him  slaves 
and  money.  The  next  day,  when  Adrian  went  to  the  baths, 
all  the  old  men  in  the  city  were  to  be  seen  rubbing  them- 
selves against  the  marble  as  hard  as  they  could.  The 
Emperor  sent  for  them,  and  asked  them  the  same  question 
which  he  had  put  to  the  soldier  ;  the  cunning  old  rogues,  of 
course,  made  the  same  answer.  'Friends,'  said  Adrian, 
'since  there  are  so  many  of  you,  you  will  just  rub  one 
another!'  Mr.  Dale,  if  you  don't  want  to  have  all  the  don- 
keys in  the  country  with  holes  in  their  shoulders,  you  had 
better  not  buy  the  Tinker's  ! " 

"  It  is  the  hardest  thing  in  the  world  to  do  the  least  bit 
of  good,"  groaned  the  Parson,  as  he  broke  a  twig  off  the 
hedge  nervously,  snapped  it  in  two,  and  flung  away  the 
fragments  ;  one  of  them  hit  the  donkey  on  the  nose.  If 
the  ass  could  have  spoken  Latin,  he  would  have  said,  "£t 


34  MY  NOVEL;   OK, 

tu,  Brute  !  "     As  it  was,  he  hung  down  his  ears,  and  walked 
on. 

"  Gee  hup  !  "  said  the  Tinker  ;  and  he  followed  the  ass. 
Then  stopping,  he  looked  over  his  shoulder,  and  seeing 
that  the  parson's  eyes  were  gazing  mournfully  on  his 
protdgc,  "  Never  fear,  your  reverence,"  cried  the  Tinker, 
kindly  ;  "  I'll  not  spite  '  un." 


CHAPTER  VII. 

"FouR  o'clock,"  cried  the  Parson,  looking  at  his  watch  ; 
"  half  an  hour  after  dinner-time,  and  Mrs.  Dale  particularly 
begged  me  to  be  punctual,  because  of  the  fine  trout  the 
Squire  sent  us.  Will  you  venture  on  what  'our  homely 
language  calls  '  pot  luck,'  Doctor  ?  " 

Now  Riccabocca  was  a  professed  philosopher,  and  valued 
himself  on  his  penetration  into  the  motives  of  human  con- 
duct. And  when  the  Parson  thus  invited  him  to  pot  luck,  he 
smiled  with  a  kind  of  lofty  complacency  ;  for  Mrs.  Dale  en- 
joyed the  reputation  of  having  what  her  friends  styled,  "her 
little  tempers."  And,  as  well-bred  ladies  rarely  indulge 
"little  tempers  "  in  the  presence  of  a  third  person  not  of 
the  family,  so  Dr.  Riccabocca  instantly  concluded  that  he 
was  invited  to  stand  between  the  pot  and  the  luck  ! 
Nevertheless — as  he  was  fond  of  trout,  and  a  much  more 
good-natured  man  than  he  ought  to  have  been  according 
to  his  principles — he  accepted  the  hospitality  ;  but  he  did 
so  with  a  sly  look  from  over  his  spectacles,  which  brought  a 
blush  into  the  guilty  cheeks  of  the  Parson.  Certainly 
Riccabocca  had  for  once  guessed  right,  in  his  estimate  of 
human  motives. 

The  two  walked  on,  crossed  a  little  bridge  that  spanned 
the  rill,  and  entered  the  parsonage  lawn.  Two  dogs,  that 
seemed  to  have  sate  on  watch  for  their  master,  sprang  to- 
ward him,  barking ;  and  the  sound  drew  the  notice  of  Mrs. 
Dale,  who,  with  parasol  in  hand,  sallied  out  from  the  sash 
window  which  opened  on  the  lawn.  Now,  O  reader !  I 
know  that,  in  thy  secret  heart,  thou  art  chuckling  over  the 
want  of  knowledge  in  the  sacred  arcana  of  the  domestic 
hearth,  betrayed  by  the  author  ;  thou  art  saying  to  thyself, 
"A  pretty  way  to  conciliate  'little  tempers,'  indeed,  to  add 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  25 

to  the  offence  of  spoiling  the  fish  the  crime  of  bringing  an 
unexpected  friend  to  eat  it.  Pot  luck,  quotha,  when  the 
pot's  boiled  over  this  half  hour  ! " 

But,  to  thy  utter  shame  and  confusion,  O  reader  !  learn 
that  both  the  author  and  Parson  Dale  knew  very  well  what 
they  were  about. 

Dr.  Riccabocca  was  the  special  favorite  of  Mrs.  Dale, 
and  the  only  person  in  the  whole  county  who  never  put 
her  out,  by  dropping  in.  In  fact,  strange  though  it  may 
seem  at  first  glance,  Dr.  Riccabocca  had  that  mysterious 
something  about  him,  which  we  of  his  own  sex  can  so  little 
comprehend,  but  which  always  propitiates  the  other.  He 
owed  this,  in  part,  to  his  own  profound  but  hypocritical 
policy  ;  for  he  looked  upon  woman  as  the  natural  enemy 
to  man — against  whom  it  was  necessary  to  be  always  on  the 
guard  ;  whom  it  was  prudent  to  disarm  by  every  species  of 
fawning  servility  and  abject  complaisance.  He  owed  it 
also,  in  part,  to  the  compassionate  and  heavenly  nature  of 
the  angels  whom  his  thoughts  thus  villanously  traduced — 
for  women  like  one  whom  they  can  pity  without  despising  ; 
and  there  was  something  in  Signer  Riccabocca's  poverty, 
in  his  loneliness,  in  his  exile,  whether  voluntary  or  com- 
pelled, that  excited  pity  ;  while,  despite  the  threadbare 
coat,  the  red  umbrella,  and  the  wild  hair,  he  had,  especially 
when  addressing  ladies,  that  air  of  gentleman  and  cavalier, 
which  is  or  was  more  innate  in  an  educated  Italian,  of 
whatever  rank,  than  perhaps  in  the  highest  aristocracy  of 
any  other  country  in  Europe.  For,  though  I  grant  that 
nothing  is  more  exquisite  than  the  politeness  of  your  French 
marquis  of  the  old  regime — nothing  more  frankly  gracious 
than  the  cordial  address  of  a  high-bred  English  gentleman — 
nothing  more  kindly  prepossessing  than  the  genial  good- 
nature of  some  patriarchal  German,  who  will  condescend  to 
forget  his  sixteen  quarterings  in  the  pleasure  of  doing  you  a 
favor — yet  these  specimens  of  the  suavity  of  their  several 
nations  are  rare  ;  whereas  blandnessand  polish  are  common 
attributes  with  your  Italian.  They  seem  to  have  been  im- 
memorially  handed  down  to  him,  from  ancestors  emulating 
the  urbanity  of  Caesar,  and  refined  by  the  grace  of  Horace. 

"  Dr.  Riccabocca  consents  to  dine  with  us,"  cried  the 
Parson,  hastily. 

"  If  Madame  permit  ?"  said  tbe  Italian,  bowing  over  the 
hand  extended  to  him,  which,  however,  he  forbore  to  take, 
seeing  it  was  already  full  of  the  watch. 


26  MY  NOVEL;    OA\ 

"  I  am  only  sorry  that  the  trout  must  be  quite  spoiled," 
began  Mrs.  Dale,  plaintively. 

"  It  is  not  the  trout  one  thinks  of  when  one  dines  with 
Mrs.  Dale,"  said  the  infamous  dissimulator. 

"  But  I  see  James  coming  to  say  that  dinner  is  ready," 
observed  the  Parson. 

"  He  said  that  three  quarters  of  an  hour  ago,  Charles 
dear,"  retorted  Mrs.  Dale,  taking  the  arm  of  Dr.  Ricca- 
bocca. 


CHAPTER  VII. 

WHILE  the  Parson  and  his  wife  are  entertaining  their 
guest,  I  propose  to  regale  the  reader  with  a  small  treatise 
apropos  of  that  "  Charles  dear,"  murmured  by  Mrs.  Dale — 
a  treatise  expressly  written  for  the  benefit  of  THE  DOMESTIC 
CIRCLE. 

It  is  an  old  jest  that  there  is  not  a  word  in  the  language 
that  conveys  so  little  endearment  as  the  word  "dear." 
But  though  the  saying  itself,  like  most  truths,  be  trite  and 
hackneyed,  no  little  novelty  remains  to  the  search  of  the  in- 
quirer into  the  varieties  of  inimical  import  comprehended 
in  that  malign  monosyllable.  For  instance,  I  submit  to  ihc 
experienced  that  the  degree  of  hostility  it  betrays  is  in 
much  proportion  to  its  collocation  in  the  sentence.  When, 
gliding  indirectly  through  the  rest  of  the  period,  it  takes  its 
stand  at  the  close,  as  in  that  "  Charles  dear  "  of  Mrs.  Dale, 
it  has  spilt  so  much  of  its  natural  bitterness  by  the  way 
that  it  assumes  even  a  smile,  "amara  lento  temperet  risu.'1 
Sometimes  the  smile  is  plaintive,  sometimes  arch.  Ex.  Gr. 

{Plaintive.} — "  I  know  very  well  that  whatever  I  do  is 
wrong,  Charles  dear." 

"  Nay,  I  am  very  glad  you  amused  yourself  so  much 
without  me,  Charles  dear." 

"  Not  quite  so  loud  !  If  you  had  but  my  poor  head, 
Charles  dear,"  etc. 

(Arch} — "  If  you  could  spill  the  ink  anywhere  but  on 
the  best  table-cloth,  Charles  dear  ! " 

"  But  though  you  must  always  have  your  own  way,  you 
are  not  quite  faultless,  own,  Charles  dear,"  etc. 

When  the  enemy  stops'  in  the  middle  of  the  sentence, 
its  venom  is  naturally  less  exhausted.  Ex.  gr. 


VARIETIES   IN  ENGLISH  'LIFE.  27 

"  Really,  I  must  say,  Charles  dear,  that  you  are  the 
most  fidgety  person,"  etc. 

"And  if  the  house  bills  were  so  high  last  week,  ^Charles 
dear,  I  should  just  like  to  know  whose  fault  it  was — that's 
all." 

"  But  you  know,  Charles  dear,  that  you  care  no  more 
for  me  and  the  children  than — "  etc. 

But  if  the  fatal  word  spring  up,  in  its  primitive  fresh- 
ness, at  the  head  of  the  sentence,  bow  your  head  to  the 
storm.  It  then  assumes  the  majesty  of  "my"  before  it; 
it  is  generally  more  than  objurgation — it  prefaces  a  sermon. 
My  candor  obliges  me  to  confess  that  this  is  the  mode  in 
which  the  hateful  monosyllable  is  more  usually  employed 
by  the  marital  part  of  the  one  flesh  ;  and  has  something 
about  it  of  the  odious  assumption  of  the  Petruchian  pater- 
familias— the  head  of  the  family — boding,  not  perhaps 
"peace  and  love,  and  quiet  life,"  but  certainly  "awful  rule 
and  right  supremacy."  Ex.  gr. 

"  My  dear  Jane — I  wish  you  would  just  put  by  that 
everlasting  crochet,  and  listen  to  me  for  a  few  moments," 
etc. 

"  My  dear  Jane — I  Avish  you  Would  understand  me  for 
once — don't  think  I  am  angry — no,  but  I  am  hurt.  You 
must  consider,"  etc. 

"  My  dear  Jane — I  don't  know  if  it  is  your  intention  to 
ruin  me,  but  I  only  wish  you  would  do  as  all  other  women 
do  who  care  three  straws  for  their  husband's  property,"  etc. 

"  My  dear  Jane — I  wish  you  to  understand  that  I  am 
the  last  person  in  the  world  to  be  jealous ;  but  I'll  be 
d d  if  that  puppy,  Captain  Prettyman,"  etc. 

Now,  few  so  carefully  cultivate  the  connubial  garden, 
as  to  feel  much  surprise  at  the  occasional  sting  of  a  homely 
nettle  or  two  ;  but  who  ever  expected,  before  entering 
that  garden,  to  find  himself  pricked  and  lacerated  by  an 
insidious  exotical  "  dear,"  which  he  had  been  taught  to 
believe  only  lived  in  a  hothouse,  along  with  myrtles  and 
other  tender  and  sensitive  shrubs,  which  poets  appropriate 
to  Venus  ?  Nevertheless  Parson  Dale,  being  a  patient 
man,  and  a  pattern  to  all  husbands,  would  have  found  no 
fault  with  his  garden,  though  there  had  not  been  a  single 
specimen  of  "  dear,"  whether  the  dear  humilis,  or  the  dear 
snperba ;  the  deaf  pallida,  rubra,  or  nigra ;  the  dear  suai'is, 
or  the  dear  horrida ; — no,  not  a  single  "dear"  in  the 
whole  horticulture  of  matrimony,  which  Mrs.  Dale  had  not 


2S  Jl/y  NOVEL;    OR, 

brought  to  perfection.  But  this  was  far  from  being  the 
case— Mrs.  Dale,  living  much  in  retirement,  was  unaware 
of  the  modern  improvements,  in  variety  of  color  and  sharp- 
ness of  prickle,  which  have  rewarded  the  persevering  skill 
of  our  female  florists. 


CHAPTER  IX. 

IN  the  cool  of  the  evening  Dr.  Riccabocca  walked  home 
across  the  fields.  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Dale  had  accompanied  him 
half-way  ;  and  as  they  now  turned  back  to  the  parsonage, 
they  looked  behind  to  catch  a  glimpse  of  the  tall,  outlandish 
figure,  winding  slowly  through  the  path  amidst  the  waves 
of  the  green  corn. 

•  "  Poor  man  !  "  said  Mrs.  Dale,  feelingly  ;  "and  the  but- 
ton was  off  his  wristband  !  What  a  pity  he  has  nobody  to 
take  care  of  him!  He  seems  very,  domestic.  Don't  you 
think,  Charles,  it  would  be  a  great  blessing  if  we  could  get 
him  a  good  wife  ?  " 

"  Um,"  said  the  parson  ;  "  I  doubt  if  he  values  the  mar- 
ried state  as  he  ought." 

"What  do  you  mean,  Charles?  I  never  saw  a  man 
more  polite  to  ladies  in  my  life." 

"Yes,  but 

"  But  what  ?  You  are  always  so  mysterious,  Charles 
dear." 

"  Mysterious  !  No,  Carry  ;  but  if  you  could  hear  what 
the  Doctor  says  of  the  ladies  sometimes."  . 

"  Ay,  when  you  men  get  together,  my  dear.  I  know 
what  that  means — pretty  things  you  say  of  us.  But  you 
are  all  alike  ;  you  know  you  are,  love  !  " 

"  I  am  sure,"  said  the  Parson  simply,  "that  I  have  good 
cause  to  speak  well  of  the  sex — when  I  think  of  you,  and 
my  poor  mother." 

Mrs.  Dale,  who,  with  all  her  "tempers,"  was  an  excel- 
lent woman  and  loved  her  husband  with  the  whole  of  her 
little  heart,  was  touched.  She  pressed  his  hand,  and  did 
not  call  him  dear  all  the  way  home. 

Meanwhile  the  Italian  passed  the  fields^  and  came  upon 
the  high-road  about  two  miles  from  Hazeldean.  On  one 
side  stood  an  old-fashioned  solitary  inn,  such  as  English 


I  VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  »9 

inns  used  to  be  before  they  became  railway  hotels — square, 
solid,  old-fashioned,  looking  so  hospitable  and  comfortable, 
with  their  great  signs  swinging  from  some  elm-tree  in 
front,  and  the  long  row  of  stables  standing  a  little  back, 
with  a  chaise  or  two  in  the  yard,  and  the  jolly  landlord 
talking  of  the  crop  to  some  stout  farmer,  whose  rough 
pony  halts  of  itself  at  the  well-known  door.  Opposite  this 
inn,  on  the  other  side  of  the  road,  stood  the  habitation  of 
Dr.  Riccabocca. 

A  few  years  before  the  date  of  these  annals,  the  stage- 
coach on  its  way  to  London  from  a  seaport  town  stopped  at 
the  inn,  as  was  its  wont,  .for  a  good  hour,  that  its  passengers 
might  dine  like  Christian  Englishmen — not  gulp  down  a 
basin  of  scalding  soup,  like  everlasting  heathen  Yankees, 
with  that  cursed  railway  whistle  shrieking  like  a  fiend  in 
their  ears  !  It  was  the  best  dining-place  on  the  whole  road, 
for  the  trout  in  the  neighboring  rill  were  famous,  and  so 
was  the  mutton  which  came  from  Hazeldean  Park. 

From  the  outside  of  the  coach  had  descended  two  pas- 
sengers, who,  alone  insensible  to  the  attraction  of  mutton 
and  trout,  refused  to  dine — two  melancholy-looking  foreign- 
ers, of  whom  one  was  Signor  Riccabocca,  much  the  same  as- 
we  see  him  now,  only  that  the  black  suit  was  less  threadbare, 
the  tall  form  less  meagre,  and  he  did  not  then  wear  specta- 
cles ;  and  the  other  was  his  servant.  "They  would  walk 
about  while  the  coach  stopped."  Now  the  Italian's  eye  had 
been  caught  by  a  mouldering,  dismantled  house  on  the 
other  side  of  the  road,  which  nevertheless  was  well  situated  ; 
half-way  up  a  green  hill,  with  its  aspect  due  south,  a  little 
cascade  falling  down  artificial  rock-work,  a  terrace  with  a 
balustrade,  and  a  few  broken  urns  and  statues  before  its 
Ionic  portico  ;  while  on  the  roadside  stood  a  board,  with 
characters  already  half-effaced,  implying  that  the  house  was 
"  To  be  let  unfurnished,  with  or  without  land." 

The  abode  that  looked  so  cheerless,  and  which  had  so 
evidently  hung  long  on  hand,  was  the  property  of  Squire  Ha- 
zeldean. It  had  been  built  by  his  grandfather  on  the  female 
side — a  country  gentleman  who  had  actually  been  in  Italy 
(a  journey  rare  enough  to  boast  of  in  those  days),  and  who, 
on  his  return  home,  had  attempted  a  miniature  imitation  of 
an  Italian  villa.  He  left  an  only  daughter  and  sole  heiress, 
who  married  Squire  Hazeldean's  father  ;  and  since  that  time, 
the  house,  abandoned  by  its  proprietors  for  the  larger  resi- 
dence of  the  Hazeldeans,  had  been  uninhabited  and  neg- 


30  MY  NOVEL;    OR, 

lected.  Several  tenants,  indeed,  had  offered  themselves  ; 
but  your  true  country  squire  is  slow  in  admitting  upon  his 
own  property  a  rival  neighbor.  Some  wanted  shooting. 
"  That,"  said  the  Hazeldeans,  who  were  great  sportsmen  and 
strict  preservers,  "was  quite  out  of  the  question."  Others 
were  fine  folks  from  London.  "London  servants,"  said 
the  Hazeldeans,  who  were  moral  and  prudent  people, 
"would  corrupt  their  own,  and  bring  London  prices." 
Others,  again,  were  retired  manufacturers,  at  whom  the 
Hazeldeans  turned  up  their  agricultural  noses.  In  short, 
some  were  too  grand,  and  others  too  vulgar.  Some  were 
refused  because  they  wrere  known  -so  well :  "  Friends  are 
best  at  a  distance,"  said  the  Hazeldeans.  Others  because 
they  were  not  known  at  all  :  "  No  good  comes  of  strangers," 
said  the  Hazeldeans.  And  finally,  as  the  house  fell  more 
and  more  into  decay,  no  one  would  take  it  unless  it  was  put 
into  thorough  repair:  "As  if  one  was  made  of  money!" 
said  the  Hazeldeans.  In  short,  there  stood  the  house  un- 
occupied and  ruinous  ;  and  there,  on  its  terrace,  stood  the 
two  forlorn  Italians,  surveying  it  with  a  smile  at  each  other, 
as  for  the  first  time  since  they  set  foot  in  England,  they  re- 
cognized, in  dilapidated  pilasters  and  broken  statues,  in  a 
weed-grown  terrace,  and  the  remains  of  an  orangery,  some- 
thing that  reminded  them  of  the  land  they  had  left  behind. 
On  returning  to  the  inn,  Dr.  Riccabocca  took  the  occa- 
sion to  learn  from  the  innkeeper  (who  was  indeed  a  tenant 
of  the  Squire's)  such  particulars  as  he  could  collect  ;  and  a 
few  days  afterward  Mr.  Hazeldean  received  a  letter  from 
a  solicitor  of  repute  in  London,  stating  that  a  very  respect- 
able foreign  gentleman  had  commissioned  him  to  treat  for 
Clump  Lodge,  otherwise  called  the  "Casino  ;"  that  the  said 
gentleman  did  not  shoot — lived  in  great  seclusion — and, 
having  no  family,  did  not  care  about  the  repairs  of  the 
place,  provided  only  it  were  made  weather-proof — if  the 
omission  of  more  expensive  reparations  could  render  the 
rent  suitable  to  his  finances,  which  were  very  limited. 
The  offer  came  at  a  fortunate  moment— when  the  steward 
had  just  been  representing  to  the  Squire  the  necessity  of 
doing  something  to  keep  the  Casino  from  falling  into  posi- 
tive ruin,  and  the  Squire  was  cursing  the  fates  which  had 
put  the  Casino  into  an  entail — so  that  he  could  not  pull  it 
down  for  the  building  materials.  Mr.  Hazeldean  therefore 
caught  at  the  proposal  even  as  a  fair  lady,  who  has  refused 
the  best  offers  in  the  kingdom,  catches,  at  last,  at  some  bat- 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  3r 

tercel  old  captain  on  half-pay,  and  replied  that,  as  for  rent, 
if  the  solicitor's  client  was  a  quiet,  respectable  man,  he  did 
not  care  for  that,  but  that  the  gentleman  might  have  it  for 
the  first  year  rent-free,  on  condition  of  paying  the  taxes 
and  putting  the  place  a  little  in  order.  If  they  suited  each 
other,  they  could  then  come  to  terms.  Ten  days  subse- 
quently to  this  gracious  reply,  Signor  Riccabocca  and  his 
servant  arrived ;  and,  before  the  year's  end,  the  Squire 
was  so  contented  with  his  tenant  that  he  gave  him  a 
running  lease  of  seven,  fourteen,  or  twenty  one  years,  at  a 
rent  merely  nominal,  on  condition  that  Signor  Riccabocca 
would  put  and  maintain  the  place  in  repair,  barring  the 
roof  and  fences,  which  the  Squire  generously  renewed  at 
his -own  expense.  It  was  astonishing,  by  little  and  little, 
what  a  pretty  place  the  Italian  had  made  of  it,  and,  what  is 
more  astonishing,  how  little  it  had  cost  him.-  He  had,  in- 
deed, painted  the  walls  of  the  hall,  staircase,  and  the  rooms 
appropriated  to  himself,  with  his  own  hands.  His  servant 
had  done  the  greater  part  of  the  upholstery.  The  two  be- 
tween them  had  got  the  garden  into  order.  The  Italians 
seemed  to  have  taken  a  joint  love  to  the  place,  and  to  deck 
it  as  they  would  have  done  some  favorite  chapel  to  their 
Madonna. 

It  was  long  before  the  natives  reconciled  themselves  to 
the  odd  ways  of  the  foreign  settlers — the  first  thing  that 
offended  them  was  the  exceeding  smallness  of  their  house- 
hold bills.  Three  days  out  of  the  seven,  indeed,  both  man 
and  master  dined  on  nothing  else  but  the  vegetables  in  the 
garden,  and  the  fishes  in  the  neighboring  rill ;  when  no 
trout  could  be  caught,  they  fried  the  minnows  (and  cer- 
tainly, even  in  the  best  streams,  minnows  are  more  fre- 
quently caught  than  trouts).  The  next  thing,  which  an- 
gered the  natives  quite  as  much,  especially  the  female  part 
of  the  neighborhood,  was  the  very  sparing  employment  the 
two  he  creatures  gave  to  the  sex  usually  deemed  so  indis- 
pensable in  househould  matters.  At  first,  indeed,  they  had 
no  woman  servant  at  all.  But  this  created  such  horror,  that 
Parson  Dale  ventured  to  hint  upon  the  matter,  which  Ric- 
cabocca took  in  very  good  part,  and  an  old  woman  was 
forthwith  engaged,  after  some  bargaining — at  three  shillings 
a  week — to  wash  and  scrub  as  much  as  she  liked  during  the 
daytime.  She  always  returned  to  her  own  cottage  to  sleep. 
The  man-servant,  who  was  styled  in  the  neighborhood 
"  Jackeymo,"  did  all  else  for  his  master — smoothed  his  room, 


32  MY  NOVEL;    OR, 

dusted  his  papers,  prepared  his  coffee,  cooked  his  dinner, 
brushed  his  clothes,  and  cleaned  his  pipes,  of  which  Ricca- 
bocca  had  a  large  collection.  But  however  close  a  man's 
character,  it  generally  creeps  out  in  driblets  ;  and  on  many 
little  occasions  the  Italian  had  shown  acts  of  kindness,  and, 
on  some  more  rare  occasions,  even  of  generosity,  which  had 
served  to  silence  his  calumniators,  and  by  degrees  he  had 
established  a  very  fair  reputation — suspected,  it  is  true,  of 
being  a  little  inclined  to  the  Black  Art,  and  of  a  strange  in- 
clination to  starve  Jackeymo  and  himself, — in  other  respects 
harmless  enough. 

Signor  Riccabocca  had  become  very  intimate,  as  we 
have  seen,  at  the  parsonage.  But  not  so  at  the  hall.  For 
though  the  Squire  was  inclined  to  be  very  friendly  to  all^his 
neighbors,  he  was,  like  most  country  gentlemen,  rather 
easily  huffed.  .Riccabocca  had,  if  with  great  politeness,  still 
with  great  obstinacy,  refused  Mr.  Hazeldean's  earlier  in- 
vitations to  dinner ;  and  Avhen  the  Squire  found  that  the 
Italian  rarely  declined  to  dine  at  the  parsonage,  he  was 
offen,ded  in  one  of  his  weak  points — viz.,  his  pride  in  the 
hospitality  of  Hazeldean  Hall — and  he  ceased  altogether  in- 
vitations so  churlishly  rejected.  Nevertheless,  as  it  was 
impossible  for  the  Squire,  however  huffed,  to  bear  malice, 
he  now  and  then  reminded  Riccabocca  of  his  existence  by 
presents  of  game,  and  would  have  called  on  him  more  often 
than  he  did,  but  that  Riccabocca  received  him  with  such  ex- 
cessive politeness,  that  the  blunt  country  gentleman  felt 
shy  and  put  out,  and  used  to  say  that  "  to  call  on  Rickey- 
bockey  was  as  bad  as  going  to  court." 

But  we  have  left  Dr.  Riccabocca  on  the  high-road.  By 
this  time  he  has  ascended  a  narrow  path  that  winds  by  the 
side  of  the  cascade  ;  he  has  passed  a  trellis-work  covered  with 
vines,  from  the  which  Jackeymo  has  positively  succeeded  in 
making  what  he  calls  wine — a  liquid,  indeed,  that  if  the 
cholera  had  been  popularly  known  in  those  days,  would 
have  soured  the  mildest  member  of  the  Board  of  Health  ; 
for  Squire  Hazeldean,  though  a  robust  man,  who  daily  car- 
ried off  his  bottle  of  port  with  impunity,  having  once  rashly 
tasted  it,  did  not  recover  the  effect  till  he  had  had  a  bill 
from  the  apothecary  as  long  as  his  own  arm.  Passing  this 
trellis,  Dr.  Riccabocca  entered  upon  the  terrace,  with  its 
stone  pavement  smoothed  and  trimmed  as  hands  could 
make  it.  Here,  on  neat  stands,  all  his  favorite  flowers  were 
arranged  ;  here  four  orange  trees  were  in  full  blossom  ; 


VARIETIES   IN   ENGLISH  LIFE.  33 

here  a  kind  of  summer-house  or  belvidere,  built  by  Jackey- 
mo  and  himself,  made  his  chosen  morning  room  from  May 
till  October  ;  and  from  this  belvidere  there  was  as  beauti- 
ful an  expanse  of  prospect  as  if  our  English  nature  had 
hospitably  spread  on  her  green  board  all  that  she  had  to 
offer  as  a  banquet  to  the  exile. 

A  man  without  his  coat,  which  was  thrown  over  the  bal- 
ustrade, was  employed  in  watering  the  flowers  ;  a  man  with 
movements  so  mechanical,  with  a  face  so  rigidly  grave  in 
its  tawny  hues,  that  he  seemed  like  an  automaton  made 
out  of  mahogany. 

"Giacomo,"  said  Dr.  Riccabocca,  softly. 

The  automaton  stopped  its  hand,  and  turned  its  head. 

"  Put  by  the  watering-pot,  and  come  hither,"  continued 
Riccabocca,  in  Italian  ;  and  moving  toward  the  balustrade, 
he  leaned  over  it.  Mr.  Mitford,  the  historian,  calls  Jean 
Jacques  "John  James"  Following  that  illustrious  example, 
Giacomo  shall  be  Anglified  into  Jackeymo.  Jackeymo  came 
to  the  balustrade  also,  and  stood  a  little  behind  his  master. 

"Friend,"  said  Riccabocca,  " enterprises  have  not  al- 
ways succeeded  with  us.  Don't  you  think,  after  all,  it  is 
tempting  our  evil  star  to  rent  those  fields  from  the  land- 
lord ? "  Jackeymo  crossed  himself,  and  made  some  strange 
movement  with  a  little  coral  charm  which  he  wore  set  in  i^ 
ringon  his  finger. 

"  If  the  Madonna  send  us  luck,  and  we  could  hire  a  lad 
cheap  ?  "  said  Jackeymo,  doubtfully. 

"  Piu  rale  un  presente  che  dui  futuri, "  said  Riccabocca  ("A 
bird  in  the  hand  is  worth  two  in  the  bush.") 

"  Chi  11011  fa  quando  pub,  non  pub  fare  quando  vuolc  " — ("  He 
who  will  not  when  he  may,  when  he  will  it  shall  have  nay  "), 
— answered  Jackeymo,  as  sententiously  as  his  master. 
"  And  the  Padrone  should  think  in  time  that  he  must  lay 
by  for  the  dower  of  the  poor  signorina  "  (young  lady). 

Riccabocca  sighed,  and  made  no  reply. 

"  She  must  be  that  high  now  !  "  said  Jackeymo,  putting 
his  hand  on  some  imaginary  line  a  little  above  the  balus- 
trade. Riccabocca's  eyes,  raised  over  the  spectacles,  fol- 
lowed the  hand. 

"  If  the  Padrone  could  but  see  her  here — 

"  I  thought  I  did  !  "  muttered  the  Italian. 

"  He  would  never  let  her  go  from  his  side  till  she  went 
to  a  husband's,"  continued  Jackeymo. 

"But  this  climate — she  could  never  stand  it,"  said  Ric- 


34  MY  NOVEL;    OA\ 

cabocca,  drawing  his  cloak  round  him,  as  the  north  wind 
took  him  in  the  rear. 

"The  orange-trees  blossom  even  here  with  care,"  said 
Jackeymo,  turning  back  to  draw  down  an  awning  where  the 
orange-trees  faced  the  north.  "  See  ! "  he  added,  as  he  re- 
turned with  a  sprig  in  full  bud. 

Dr.  Riccabocca  bent  over  the  blossom,  and  then  placed 
it  in  his  bosom. 

"  The  other  one  should  be  there  too,"  said  Jackeymo. 

"  To  die — as  this  does  already  !  "  answered  Riccabocca. 
"Say  no  more." 

Jackeymo  shrugged  his  shoulders  ;  and  then,  glancing 
at  his  master,  drew  his  hand  over  his  eyes. 

There  was  a  pause.     Jackeymo  was  the  first  to  break  it. 

"  But,  whether  here  or  there,  beauty  without  money  is 
the  orange-tree  without  shelter.  If  a  lad  could  be  got 
cheap,  I  would  hire  the  land,  and  trust  for  the  crop  to  the 
Madonna." 

"  I  think  I  know  of  such  a  lad,"  said  Riccabocca,  re- 
covering himself,  and  with  his  sardonic  smile  once  more 
lurking  about  the  corners  of  his  mouth, — "  a  lad  made  for 
us." 

"  Diavolo  !  " 

"  No,  not  the  Diavolo  >  Friend,  I  have  this  day  seen  a 
boy  who — refused  sixpence  !  " 

"  Cffsa  Stupenda  !  " — (Stupendous  thing  !) — exclaimed 
Jackeymo,  opening  his  eyes,  and  letting  fall  the  watering- 
pot. 

"  It  is  true,  my  friend." 

"  Take  him,  Padrone,  in  Heaven's  name,  and  the  fields 
will  grow  gold." 

"  I  will  think  of  it,  for  it  must  require  management  to 
catch  such  a  boy,"  said  Riccabocca.  "Meanwhile,  light  a 
candle  in  the  parlor,  and  bring  from  my  bed-room — that 
great  folio  of  Machiavelli." 


CHAPTER  X. 

IN  my  next  chapter  I  shall  present  Squire  Hazeldean  in 
patriarchal  state — not  exactly  under  the  fig-tree  he  has 
planted,  but  before  the  stocks  he  has  reconstructed — Squire 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  35 

Hazeldean  and  his  family  on  the  village  green  !  The  can- 
vas is  all  ready  for  the  colors. 

But  in  this  chapter  I  must  so  far  afford  a  glimpse  into 
antecedents  as  to  let  the  reader  know  that  there  is  one 
member  of  the  family  whom  he  is  not  likely  to  meet  at 
present,  if  ever,  on  the  village  green  at  Hazeldean. 

Our  Squire  lost  his  father  two  years  after  his  birth  ;  his 
mother  was  very  handsome — and  so  was  her  jointure  ;  she 
married  again  at  the  expiration  of  her  year  of  mourning  ; 
the  object  of  her  second  choice  was  Colonel  Egerton. 

In  every  generation  of  Englishmen  (at  least  since  the 
lively  reign  of  Charles  II.)  there  are  a  few  whom  some 
elegant  genius  skims  off  from  the  milk  of  human  nature, 
and  reserves  for  the  cream  of  society.  •  Colonel  Egerton 
was  one  of  these  ter  quaturque  beati,  and  dwelt  apart  on  a 
top  shelf  in  that  delicate  porcelain  dish — not  bestowed  upon 
vulgar  buttermilk — which  persons  of  fashion  call  The  Great 
World.  Mighty  was  the  marvel  of  Pall  Mall,  and  profound 
was  the  pity  of  Park  Lane,  when  this  super-eminent  person- 
age condescended  to  lower  himself  into  a  husband.  But 
Colonel  Egerton  was  not  a  mere  gaudy  butterfly  ;  he  had 
the  provident  instincts  ascribed  to  the  bee.  Youth  had 
passed  from  him,  and  carried  off  much  solid  property  in  its 
flight ;  he  saw  that  a  time  was  fast  coming  when  a  home, 
with  a  partner  who  could  help  to  maintain  it,  would  be  con- 
ducive to  his  comforts,  and  an  occasional  hum-drum  even- 
ing by  the  fireside  beneficial  to  his  health.  In  the  midst  of 
one  season  at  Brighton,  to  which  gay  place  he  had  accom- 
panied the  Prince  of  Wales,  he  saw  a  widow  who,  though 
in  the  weeds  of  mourning,  did  not  appear  inconsolable. 
Her  person  pleased  his  taste — the  accounts  of  her  jointure 
satisfied  his  understanding — he  contrived  an  introduction, 
and  brought  a  brief  wooing  to  a  happy  close.  The  late 
Mr.  Hazeldean  had  so  anticipated  the  chance  of  the  young 
widow's  second  espousals,  that,  in  case  of  that  event,  he 
transferred,  by  his  testamentary  dispositions,  the  guardian- 
ship of  his  infant  heir  from  the  mother  to  two  squires,  whom 
he  had  named  his  executors.  This  circumstance  combined 
with  her  new  ties  somewhat  to  alienate  Mrs.  Hazeldean 
from  the  pledge  of  her  former  loves  ;  and  when  she  had 
borne  a  son  to  Colonel  Egerton,  it  was  upon  that  child  that 
her  maternal  affections  gradually  concentrated. 

William  Hazeldean  was  sent  by  his  guardians  to  a  large 
provincial  academy,  at  which  his  forefathers  had  received 


36  MY  NOVEL;    OR, 

their  education  time  out  of  mind.  At  first  lie  spent  his 
holidays  with  Mrs.  Egerton  ;  but  as  she  now  resided  either 
in  London,  or  followed  her  lord  to  Brighton,  to  partake 
of  the  gaieties  at  the  Pavilion — so,  as  he  grew  older, 
William,  who  had  a  hearty  affection  for  country  life,  and 
of  whose  bluff  manners  and  rural  breeding  Mrs.  Egerton 
(having  grown  exceedingly  refined)  was  openly  ashamed, 
asked  and  obtained  permission  to  spend  his  vacations  either 
with  his  guardians  or  at  the  old  Hall.  He  went  late  to  a 
small  college  at  Cambridge,  endowed  in  the  fifteenth  cen- 
tury by  some  ancestral  Hazeldean  ;  and  left  it,  on  coming 
of  age,  without  taking  a  degree.  A  few  years  afterward  he 
married  a  young  lady,  country  born  and  bred  like  himself. 

Meanwhile  his  half-brother,  Audley  Egerton,  may  be 
said  to  have  begun  his  initiation  into  the  beau  monde  before 
he  had  well  cast  aside  his  coral  and  bells  ;  he  had  been 
fondled  in  the  lap  of  duchesses,  and  had  galloped  across  the 
room  astride  on  the  canes  of  ambassadors  and  princes.  For 
Colonel  Egerton  was  not  only  very  highly  connected — not 
only  one  of  the  Dii  majorcs  of  fashion — but  he  had  the  still 
rarer  good  fortune  to  be  an  exceedingly  popular  man  with 
all  who  knew  him  ;  so  popular,  that  even  the  fine  ladies 
whom  he  had  adored  and  abandoned  forgave  him  for 
marrying  out  of  "the  set,"  and  continued  to  be  as  friendly 
as  if  he  had  not  married  at  all.  People  who  were  commonly 
called  heartless  were  never  weary  of  doing  kind  things  to 
the  Egertons.  When  the  time  came  for  Audley  to  leave 
the  preparatory  school  at  which  his  infancy  budded  forth 
amongst  the  stateliest  of  the  little  lilies  of  the  field,  and  go 
to  Eton,  half  the  fifth  and  sixth  forms  had  been  canvassed 
to  be  exceedingly  civil  to  young  Egerton.  The  boy  soon 
showed  that  he  inherited  his  father's  talent  for  acquiring 
popularity,  and  that  to  this  talent  he  added  those  which  put 
popularity  to  use.  Without  achieving  any  scholastic  dis- 
tinction, he  yet  contrived  to  establish  at  Eton  the  most 
desirable  reputation  which  a  boy  can  obtain — namely,  that 
among  his  own  contemporaries,  the  reputation  of  a  boy  who 
was  sure  so  do  something  when  he  grew  to  be  a  man.  As 
a  gentleman  commoner  at  Christ  Church,  Oxford,  he  con- 
tinued to  sustain  this  high  expectation,  though  he  won  no 
prizes,  and  took  but  an  ordinary  degree  ;  and  at  Oxford  the 
future  "something"  became  more  defined — it  was  "some- 
thing in  public  life  "  that  this  young  man  was  to  do. 

While  he  was  yet  at  the  university,  both  his  parents  died 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  37 

— within  a  few  months  of  each  other.  And  when  Audley 
Egerton  came  .of  age,  he  succeeded  to  a  paternal  property 
which  was  supposed  to  be  large,  and  indeed  had  once  been 
so  ;  but  Colonel  Egerton  had  been  too  lavish  a  man  to  enrich 
his  heir,  and  about  _£  1,500  a  year  was  all  that  sales  and 
mortgages  left  of  an  estate  that  had  formerly  approached  a 
rental  of  ;£  10,000. 

Still,  Audley  was  considered  to  be  opulent,  and  he  did 
not  dispel  that  favorable  notion  by  any  imprudent  exhibition 
of  parsimony.  On  entering  the  world  of  London,  the  Clubs 
tiew  open  to  receive  him,  and  he  woke  one  morning  to  find 
himself,  not  indeed  famous — but  the  fashion.  To  this  fash- 
ion he  at  once  gave  a  certain  gravity  and  value — he  asso- 
ciated as  much  as  possible  with  public  men  and  political 
ladies — he  succeeded  in  confirming  the  notion  that  he  was 
"  born  to  ruin  or  to  rule  the  State." 

The  dearest  and  most  intimate  friend  of  Audley  Egerton 
was  Lord  L'Estrange,  from  whom  he  had  been  inseparable 
at  Eton  ;  and  who  now,  if  Audley  Egerton  was  the  fashion, 
was  absolutely  the  rage  in  London. 

Harley,  Lord  L'Estrange,  was  the  only  son  of  the  Earl 
of  Lansmere,  a  nobleman  of  considerable  wealth,  and  allied, 
by  intermarriages,  to  the  loftiest  and  most  powerful  families 
in  England.  Lord  Lansmere,  nevertheless,  was  but  little 
known  in  the  circles  of  London.  He  lived  chiefly  on  his 
estates,  occupying  himself  with  the  various  duties  of  a  great 
proprietor,  and  when  he  came  to  the  metropolis,  it  was 
rather  to  save  than  to  spend  ;  so  that  he  could  afford  to  give 
his  son  a  very  ample  allowance,  when  Harley,  at  the  age  of 
sixteen  (having  already  attained  to  the  sixth  form  at  Eton), 
left  school  for  one  of  the  regiments  of  the  Guards. 

Few  knew  what  to  make  of  Harley  L'Estrange — and  that 
was,  perhaps,  the  reason  why  he  was  so  much  thought  of. 
He  had  been  by  far  the  most  brilliant  boy  of  his  time  at 
Eton — not  only  the  boast  of  the  cricket-ground,  but  the 
marvel  of  the  school-room  ;  yet  so  full  of  whims  and  oddi- 
ties, and  seeming  to  achieve  his  triumphs  with  so  little  aid 
from  steadfast  application,  that  he  had  not  left  behind  him 
the  same  expectations  of  solid  eminence  which  his  friend 
and  senior,  Audley  Edgerton,  had  excited.  His  eccentri- 
cities— his  quaint  sayings,  and  out-of-the-way  actions,  be- 
came as  notable  in  the  great  world  as  they  had  been  in  the 
small  one  of  a  public  school.  That  he  was  very  clever  there 
was  no  doubt,  and  that  the  cleverness  was  of  a  high  order 


38  MY  NOVEL  ;    OR, 

might  be  surmised,  not  only  from  the  originality  but  from 
the  independence  of  his  character.  He  dazzled  the  world, 
without  seeming  to  care  for  its  praise  or  its  censure — daz- 
zled it,  as  it  were,  because  he  could  not  help  shining.  He 
had  some  strange  notions,  whether  political  or  social,  which 
rather  frightened  his  father.  According  to  Southey,  "A 
man  should  be  no  more  ashamed  of  having  been  a  republi- 
can than  of  having  been  young."  Youth  and  extravagant 
opinions  naturally  go  together.  I  don't  know  whether 
Harley  L'Estrange  was  a  republican  at  the  age  of  eighteen  ; 
but  there  was  no  young  man  in  London  who  seemed  to  care 
less  for  being  heir  to  an  illustrious  name  and  some  forty  or 
fifty  thousand  pounds  a  year.  It  was  a  vulgar  fashion  in 
that  day  to  play  the  exclusive,  and  cut  persons  who  wore  bad 
neckcloths,  and  called  themselves  Smith  or  Johnson.  Lord 
L'Estrange  never  cut  any  one,  and  it  was  quite  enough  to 
slight  some  worthy  man  because  of  his  neckcloth  or  his 
birth,- to  insure  to  the  offender  the  pointed  civilities  of  this 
eccentric  successor  to  the  Belforts  and  the  Wildairs. 

It  was  the  wish  of  his  father  that  Harley,  as  soon  as  he 
came  of  age,  should  represent  the  borough  of  Lansmere 
(which  said  borough  was  the  single  plague  of  the  Earl's  life). 
But  this  wish  was  never  realized.  Suddenly,  when  the 
young  idol  of  London  still  wanted  some  two  or  three  years 
of  his  majority,  a  new  whim  appeared  to  seize  him.  He 
withdrew  entirely  from  society — he  left  unanswered  the  most 
pressing  three-cornered  notes  of  inquiry  and  invitation  that 
ever  strewed  the  table  of  a.  young  Guardsman  ;  he  was  rare- 
ly seen  anywhere  in  his  former  haunts — when  seen,  was  either 
alone  or  with  Egerton  ;  and  his  gay  spirits  seemed  wholly 
to  have  left  him.  A  profound  melancholy  was  written  on 
his  countenance,  and  breathed  in  the  listless  tones  of  his 
voice.  About  this  time  a  vacancy  happening  to  occur  for 
the  representation  of  Lansmere,  Harley  made  it  his  special 
request  to  his  father  that  the  family  interest  might  be  given 
to  Audley  Egerton — a  request  which  Avas  backed  by  all  the 
influence  of  his  lady  mother,  who  shared  in  the  esteem 
which  her  son  felt  for  his  friend.  The  Earl  yielded  ;  and 
Egerton,  accompanied  by  Harley,  went  down  to  Lansmere 
Park,  which  adjoined  the  borough,  in  order  to  be  intro- 
duced to  the  electors.  This  visit  made  a  notable  epoch  in 
the  history  of  many  personages  who  figure  in  my  narrative  ; 
but  at  present  I  content  myself  with  saying,  that  circum- 
stances arose  which,  just  as  the  canvass  for  the  new  election 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  39 

commenced,  caused  both  L'Estrange  and  Audley  to  absent 
themselves  from  the  scene  of  action,  and  that  the  last  even 
wrote  to  Lord  Lansmere  expressing  his  intention  of  declin- 
ing- to  contest  the  borough. 

Fortunately  for  the  parliamentary  career  of  Audley 
Egerton,  the  election  had  become  to  Lord  Lansmere  not 
only  a  matter  of  public  importance,  but  of  personal  feeling. 
He  resolved  that  the  battle  should  be  fought  out,  even  in 
the  absence  of  the  candidate,  and  at  his  own  expense. 
Hitherto  the  contest  for  this  distinguished  borough  had 
been,  to  use  the  language  of  Lord  Lansmere,  "  conducted 
in  the  spirit  of  gentlemen," — that  is  to  say,  the  only  oppon- 
ents to  the  Lansmere  interest  had  been  found  in  one  or  the 
other  of  two  rival  families  in  the  same  county  ;  and  as  the 
Earl  was  a  hospitable,  courteous  man,  much  respected  and 
liked  by  the  neighboring  gentry,  so  the  hostile  candidate 
had  always  interlarded  his  speeches  with  profuse  compli- 
ments to  his  Lordship's  high  character,  and  civil  expres- 
sions as  to  his  Lordship's  candidate.  Butr  thanks  to 
successive  elections,  one  of  these  two  families  had  come  to 
an  end,  and  its  actual  representative  was  now  residing  with- 
in the  Rules  of  the  Bench  ;  the  head  of  the  other  family 
was  the  sitting  member,  and  by  an  amicable  agreement 
with  the  Lansmere  interest,  he  remained  as  neutral  as  it  is 
in  the  power  of  any  sitting  member  to  be  amidst  the  pas- 
sions of  an  intractable  committee.  Accordingly,  it  had 
been  hoped  that  Egerton  would  come  in  without  opposition, 
when,  the  very  day  on  which  he  had  abruptly  left  the  place, 
a  handbill,  signed  "  Haverill  Dashmore,  Captain  R.  N., 
Baker  Street,  Portman  Square,"  announced,  in  very  spirited 
language,  the  intention  of  that  gentleman  "  to  emancipate 
the  borough  from  the  unconstitutional  domination  of  an 
oligarchical  faction,  not  with  a  view  to  his  own  political 
aggrandizement — iri*deed,  at  great  personal  inconvenience 
—but  actuated  solely  by  abhorrence  to  tyranny,  and  patri- 
otic passion  for  the  purity  of  election." 

This. announcement  was  followed,  within  two  hours,  by 
the  arrival  of  Captain  Dashmore  himself,  in  a  carriage  and 
four,  covered  with  yellow  favors,  and  filled,  inside  and  out, 
with  harum-scarum-looking  friends,  who  had  come  down 
with  him  to  share  the  canvass  and  partake  the  fun. 

Captain  Dashmore  was  a  thorough  sailor,  who  had,  how- 
ever, conceived  a  disgust  to  the  profession  from  the  date  in 
which  a  minister's  nephew  had  been  appointed  to  the  com- 


40  MY  NOVEL;    OR, 

mand  of  a  ship  to  which  the  Captain  considered  himself 
unquestionably  entitled.  It  is  just  to  the  minister  to  add, 
that  Captain  Dashmore  had  shown  as  little  regard  to  orders 
from  a  distance,  as  had  immortalized  Nelson  himself  ;  but 
then  the  disobedience  had  not  achieved  the  same  redeeming 
success  as  that  of  Nelson,  and  Captain  Dashmore  ought  to 
have  thought  himself  fortunate  in  escaping  a  severer  treat- 
ment than  the  loss  of  promotion.  But  no  man  knows  when  he 
well  off  ;  and  retiring  on  half-pay,  just  as  he  came  into  un- 
expected possession  of  some  forty  or  fifty  thousand  pounds, 
bequeathed  by  a  distant  relation,  Captain  Dashmore  was 
seized  with  a  vindictive  desire  to  enter  Parliament,  and  inflict 
oratorical  chastisement  on  the  Administration. 

A  very  few  hours  sufficed  to  show  the  sea-captain  to  be  a 
most  capital  electioneerer  for  a  popular  but  not  enlightened 
constituency.  It  is  true  that  he  talked  the  saddest  nonsense 
ever  heard  from  an  open  window  ;  but  then  his  jokes  were 
so  broad,  his  manner  so  hearty,  his  voice  so  big,  that  in  those 
dark  days,  before  the  schoolmaster  was  abroad,  he  would 
have  beaten  your  philosophical  Radical  and  moralizing 
Democrat  hollow.  Moreover,  he  kissed  all  the  women,  old 
and  young,  with  the  zest  of  a  sailor  who  has  known  what  it 
is  to  be  three  years  at  sea  without  sight  of  a  beardless  lip  ; 
he  threw  open  all  the  public  houses,  asked  a  numerous 
committee  every  day  to  dinner,  and,  chucking  his  purse  up 
in  the  air,  declared  "  he  would  stick  to  his  guns,  while  there 
was  a  shot  in  his  locker."  Till  then,  there  had  been  but 
little  political  difference  between  the  candidate  supported 
by  Lord  Lansmere's  interest  and  the  opposing  parties — for 
country  gentlemen,  in  those  days,  were  pretty  much  of  the 
same  way  of  thinking,  and  the  question  had  been  really 
local — viz.,  whether  the  Lansmere  interest  should  or  should 
not  prevail  over  that  of  the  two  squirearchical  families  who 
had  alone,  hitherto,  ventured  to  opptfse  it.  But  though 
Captain  Dashmore  was  really  a  very  loyal  man,  and  much 
too  old  a  sailor  to  think  that  the  State  (which,  according  to 
established  metaphor,  is  a  vessel  par  excellence}  should  admit 
Jack  upon  quarter-deck,  yet,  what  with  talking  against  lords 
and  aristocracy,  jobs  and  abuses,  and  searching  through  no 
very  refined  vocabulary  for  the  strongest  epithets  to  apply 
to  those  irritating  nouns-substantive,  his  bile  had  got  the 
better  of  his  understanding,  and  he  became  fuddled,  as  it 
were,  by  his  own  eloquence.  Thus,  though  as  innocent  of 
Jacobinical  designs  as  he  was  incapable  of  setting  the 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE,  41 

Thames  on  fire,  you  would  have  guessed  him,  by  his 
speeches,  to  be  one  of  the  most  determined  incendiaries 
that  ever  applied  a  match  to  the  combustible  materials  of  a 
contested  election  ;  while,  being  by  no  means  accustomed  to 
respect  his  adversaries,  lie  could  not  have  treated  the  Earl 
of  Lansmere  with  less  ceremony  if  his  Lordship  had  been  a 
Frenchman.  He  usually  designated  that  respectable  noble- 
man, who  was  still  in  the  prime  of  life,  by  the  title  of  "  Old 
Pompous  ;"  and  the  Mayor,  who  was  never  seen  abroad  but 
in  top-boots,  and  the  solicitor,  who  was  of  a  large  build, 
received  from  his  irreverent  wit  the  joint  sobriquet  of  "  Tops 
and  Bottoms  !  "  Hence  the  election  had  now  become,  as  I 
said  before,  a  personal  matter  with  my  Lord,  and  indeed, 
with  the  great  heads  of  the  Lansmere  interest.  The  Earl 
seemed  to  consider  his  very  coronet  at  stake  in  the  question. 
"  The  Man  from  Baker  Street,"  with  his  preternatural  auda- 
city, appeared  to  him  a  being  ominous  and  awful — not  so 
much  to  be  regarded  with  resentment  as  with  superstitious 
terror  ;  he  felt  as  felt  the  dignified  Montezuma,  when  that 
ruffianly  Cortez,  with  his  handful  of  Spanish  rapscallions, 
bearded  him  in  his  own  capital  and  in  the  midst  of  his  Mexi- 
can splendor.  The  gods  were  menaced  if  man  could  be  so 
insolent!  wherefore,  said  my  Lord,  tremulously — "The 
Constitution  is  gone  if  the  Man  from  Baker  Street  comes  in 
for  Lansmere  ! " 

But,  in  the  absence  of  Audley  Egerton,  the  election 
looked  extremely  ugly,  and  Captain  Dashmore  gained 
ground  hourly,  when  the  Lansmere  solicitor  happily  be- 
thought him  of  a  notable  proxy  for  the  missing  candidate. 
The  Squire  of  Hazeldean,  with  his  young  wife,  had  been 
invited  by  the  earl  in  honor  of  Audley  ;  and  in  the  Squire, 
the  solicitor  beheld  the  only  mortal  who  could  cope  with 
the  sea-captain — a  man  with  a  voice  as  burly  and  a  face  as 
bold — a  man  who,  if  permitted  for  the  nonce  by  Mrs.  Hazel- 
dean,  would  kiss  all  the  women  no  less  heartily  than  the 
captain  kissed  them  ;  and  who  was,  moreover,  a  taller,  and 
a  handsomer,  and  a  younger  man — all  three  great  recom- 
mendations in  the  kissing  department  of  a  contested  election. 
Yes,  to  canvass'the  borough,  and  to  speak  from  the  windows, 
Squire  Hazeldean  would  be  even  more  popularly  presentable 
than  the  London-bred  and  accomplished  Audley  Egerton 
himself. 

The  Squire,  applied  to  and  urged  on  all  sides,  at  first 
said  bluntly,  "  that  he  would  do  anything  in  reason  to  serve 


42  MY  NOVEL;    OR, 

his  brother,  but  that  he  did  not  like,  for  his  own  part,  appear- 
ing, even  in  proxy,  as  a  lord's  nominee  ;  and  moreover,  if 
he  was  to  be  sponsor  for  his  brother,  why,  he  must  promise 
and  vow,  in  his  name,  to  be  staunch  and  true  to  the  land 
they  lived  by  !  And  how  could  he  tell  that  Audley,  when 
once  he  got  into  the  House,  would  not  forget  the  land,  and 
then  he,  William  Hazeldean,  would  be  made  a  liar,  and  look 
like  a  turncoat !  " 

But  these  scruples  being  overruled  by  the  arguments  of 
the  gentlemen,  and  the  entreaties  of  the  ladies,  who  took  in 
the  election  that  intense  interest  which  those  gentle  creatures 
usually  do  take  in  all  matters  of  strife  and  contest,  the 
Squire  at  length  consented  to  confront  the  Man  from  Baker 
Street,  and  went  accordingly  into  the  thing  with  that  good 
heart  and  old  English  spirit  with  which  he  went  into  every- 
thing whereon  he  had  once  made  up  his  mind. 

The  expectations  formed  of  the  Squire's  capacities  for" 
popular  electioneering  were  fully  realized.  He  talked  quite 
as  much  nonsense  as  Captain  Dashmore  on  every  subject 
except  the  landed  interest ;  there  he  was  great,  for  he  knew 
the  subject  well — knew  it  by  the  instinct  that  comes  with 
practice,  and  compared  to  which  all  your  showy  theories 
are  mere  cobwebs  and  moonshine. 

The  agricultural  outvoters — many  of  whom,  not  living 
under  Lord  Lansmere,  but  being  small  yeomen,  had  hitherto 
prided  themselves  on  their  independence,  and  gone  against 
my  Lord — could  not  in  their  hearts  go  against  one  who  was 
every  inch  the  farmer's  friend.  They  began  to  share  in  the 
Earl's  personal  interest  against  the  Man  from  Baker  Street ; 
and  big  fellows,  with  legs  bigger  round  than  Captain  Dash- 
more's  tight  little  body,  and  huge  whips  in  their  hands,  were 
soon  seen  entering  the  shops,  "intimidating  the  electors," 
as  Captain  Dashmore  indignantly  declared. 

These  new  recruits  made  a  great  difference  in  the  muster- 
roll  of  the  Lansmere  books  ;  and  when  the  day  for  polling 
arrived,  the  result  was  a  fair  question  for  even  betting.  At 
the  last  hour,  after  a  neck-and-neck  contest,  Mr.  Audley 
Egerton  beat  the  Captain  by  two  votes.  And  the  names  of 
these  voters  were  John  Avenel,  resident  freeman,  and  his 
son-in-law,  Mark  Fairfield,  an  outvoter,  who,  though  a 
Lansmere  freeman,  had  settled  in  Hazeldean,  where  he  had 
obtained  the  situation  of  head  carpenter  on  the  Squire's 
estate. 

These  votes  were  unexpected;  for,  though  Mark  Fair- 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  43 

field  had  come  to  Lansmere  on  purpose  to  support  the 
Squire's  brother,  and  though  the  Avenels  had  been  always 
staunch  supporters  of  the  Lansmere  Blue  interest,  yet  a 
severe  affliction  (as  to  the  nature  of  which,  not  desiring  to 
sadden  the  opening  of  my  story,  I  am  considerately  silent) 
had  befallen  both  these  persons,  and  they  had  left  the  town 
on  the  very  day  after  Lord  L'Estrange  and  Mr.  Egerton  had 
quitted  Lansmere  Park. 

Whatever  might  have  been  the  gratification  of  the  Squire, 
as  a  canvasser  and  a  brother,  at  Mr.  Egerton 's  triumph,  it 
was  much  damped  when,  on  leaving  the  dinner  given  in 
honor  of  the  victory  at  the  Lansmere  Arms,  and  about,  with 
no  steady  step,  to  enter  the  carriage  which  was  to  convey 
him  to  his  lordship's  house,  a  letter  was  put  into  his  hands 
by  one  of  the  gentlemen  who  had  accompanied  the  Captain 
to  the  scene  of  action  ;  and  the  perusal  of  that  letter,  and  a 
few  whispered  words  from  the  bearer  thereof,  sent  the 
Squire  back  to  Mrs.  Hazeldean  a  much  soberer  man  than  she 
had  ventured  to  hope  for.  The  fact  was,  that  on  the  day  of 
nomination,  the  Captain  having  honored  Mr.  Hazledean 
with  many  poetical  and  figurative  appellations — such  as 
"  Prize  Ox,"  "  Tony  Lumpkin,"  "  Blood-sucking  Vampire," 
and  "Brotherly  Warming-pan,"  the  Squire  had  retorted  by 
a  joke  about  "  Salt-water  Jack  ;"  and  the  Captain,  who,  like 
all  satirists,  was  extremely  susceptible  and  thin-skinned, 
could  not  consent  to  be  called  "  Salt-water  Jack "  by  a 
"Prize  Ox  "  and  a  "  Blood-sucking  Vampire." 

The  letter,  therefore,  now  conveyed  to  Mr.  Hazeldean 
by  a  gentleman,  who,  being  from  the  Sister  Country,  Avas 
deemed  the  most  fitting  accomplice  in  the  honorable  destruc- 
tion of  a  brother  mortal,  contained  nothing  more  nor  less 
than  an  invitation  to  single  combat ;  and  the  bearer  there- 
of, with  the  suave  politeness  enjoined  by  etiquette  on  such 
well-bred  homicidal  occasions,  suggested  the  expediency  of 
appointing  the  place  of  meeting  in  the  neighborhood  of 
London,  in  order  to  prevent  interference  from  the  suspicious 
authorities  of  Lansmere. 

The  natives  of  some  countries — the  warlike  French  in 
particular — think  little  of  that  formal  operation  which  goes 
by  the  name  of  DUELLING.  Indeed,  they  seem  rather  to  like 
it  than  otherwise.  But  there  is  nothing  your  thorough- 
paced Englishman — a  Hazeldean  of  Hazeldean — considers 
with  more  regugnance  and  aversion,  than  that  same  cold- 
blooded ceremonial.  It  is'  not  within  the  range  of  an  Eng- 


44  MY  NOVEL;    OK, 

lishman's  ordinary  habits,  of  thinking.  He  prefers  going  to 
law — a  much  more  destructive  proceeding  of  the  two. 
Nevertheless,  if  an  Englishman  must  fight,  why,  he  will 
fight.  He  says  "it  is  very  foolish  ;"  he  is  sirre  "it  is  most 
unchristianlike  ; "  he  agrees  with  all  that  Philosophy, 
Preacher,  and  Press  have  laid  down  on  the  subject  ;  but  he 
makes  his  will,  says  his  prayers,  and  goes  out — like  a 
heathen. 

It  never,  therefore,  occurred  to  the  Squire  to  show  the 
white  feather  upon  this  unpleasant  occasion.  The  next 
day,  feigning  excuse  to  attend  the  sale  of  a  hunting  stud  at 
Tattersall's,  he  ruefully  went  up  to  London,  after  taking  a 
peculiarly  affectionate  leave  of  his  wife.  Indeed,  the  Squire 
felt  convinced  that  he  should  never, return  home  except  in 
a  coffin.  "  It  stands  to  reason,"  said  he  to  himself,  "  that  a 
man  who  has  been  actually  paid  by  the  King's  Government 
for  shooting  people  ever  since  he  was  a  little  boy  in  a  mid- 
shipman's jacket,  must  be  a  dead  hand  at  the  job.  I  should ( 
not  mind  if  it  was  with  double-barrelled  Mantons  and  small 
shot ;  but,  ball  and  pistol !  they  aren't  human  nor  sports- 
manlike !  "  However,  the  Squire,  after  settling  his  worldly 
affairs,  and  hunting  up  an  old  college  friend  who  undertook 
to  be  his  second,  proceeded  to  a  sequestered  corner  of 
Wimbledon  Common,  and  planted  himself,  not  sideways,  as 
one  ought  to  do  in  such  encounters  (the  which  posture  the 
Squire  swore  was  an  unmanly  way  of  shirking),  but  full 
front  to  the  mouth  of  his  adversary's  pistol,  with  such  sturdy 
composure,  that  Captain  Dashmore,  who,  though  an  excel- 
lent shot,  was  at  bottom  as  good-natured  a  fellow  as  ever 
lived,  testified  his  admiration  by  letting  off  his  gallant  op- 
ponerit  with  a  ball  in  the  fleshy  part  of  the  shoulder,  after 
which  he  declared  himself  perfectly  satisfied.  The  parties 
then  shook  hands,  mutual  apologies  were  exchanged,  and 
the  Squire,  much  astonished  to  find  himself  still  alive,  was 
conveyed  to  Limmer's  Hotel,  where,  after  a  considerable 
amount  of  anguish,  the  ball  was  extracted  and  the  wound 
healed.  Now  it  was  all  over,  the  Squire  felt  very  much 
raised  in  his  own  conceit ;  and  when  he  was  in  a  humor  more 
than  ordinarily  fierce,  that  perilous  event  became  a  favorite 
allusion  with  him. 

He  considered,  moreover,  that  his  brother  had  incurred 
at  his  hand  the  most  lasting  obligations  ;  and  that,  having 
procured  Audley's  return  to  Parliament,  and  defended  his 
interests  at  risk  of  his  own  life,  he  had  an  absolute  right  to 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  45 

dictate  to  that  gentleman  how  to  vote — upon  all  matters,  at 
least,  connected  with  the  landed  interest.  And  when,  not 
very  long  after  Audley  took  his  seat  in  Parliament  (which 
he  did  not  do  for  some  months),  he  thought  proper  both  to 
vote  and  to  speak  in  a  manner  wholly  belying  the  promises 
the  Squire  had  made  on  his  behalf,  Mr.  Hazeldean  wrote 
him  such  a  trimmer  that  it  could  not  but  produce  an  uncon- 
ciliatory  reply.  Shortly  afterward,  the  Squire's  exaspera- 
tion reached  the  culminating  point  ;  for  having  to  pass 
through  J^ansmere  on  a  market-day,  he  was  hooted  by  the 
very  farmers  whom  he  had  induced  to  vote  for  his  brother  ; 
and  justly  imputing  the  disgrace  to  Audley,  he  never  heard 
the  name  of  that  traitor  to  the  land  mentioned  without  a 
heightened  color  and  an  indignant  expletive.  Monsieur  de 
Ruqueville — who  was  the  greatest  wit  of  his  day — had,  like 
the  Squire,  a  half-brother,  with  whom  he  was  not  on  the  best 
of  terms,  and  of  whom  he  always  spoke  as  his  " frere  de 
loin  !  "  Audley  Egerton  was  thus  Squire  Hazeldean's  "  dis- 
tant brother  !" — Enough  of  these  explanatory  antecedents — 
let  us  return  to  the  Stocks. 


CHAPTER  XI. 

THE  Squire's  carpenters  were  taken  from  the  park  pales, 
and  set  to  work  at  the  Parish  Stocks.  Then  came  the  painter 
and  colored  them  a  beautiful  dark  blue,  with  white  border 
— and  a  white  rim  round  the  holes — with  an  ornamental 
flourish  in  the  middle.  It  was  the  gayest  public  edifice  in 
the  whole  village — though  the  village  possessed  no  less  than 
three  other  monuments  of  the  Vitruvian  genius  of  the 
Hazeldeans — to  wit,  the  almshouse,  the  school,  and  the 
parish  pump. 

A  more  elegant,  enticing,  coquettish  pair  of  stocks  never 
gladdened  the  eye  of  a  justice  of  the  peace. 

And  Squire  Hazeldean's  eye  was  gladdened.  In  the  pride 
of  his  heart  he  brought  all  the  family  down  to  look  at  the 
stocks.  The  Squire's  family  (omitting  the  frcre  dc  loin] 
consisted  of  Mrs.  Hazeldean,  his  wife  ;  next,  of  Miss  Jemima 
Hazeldean,  his  first-cousin  ;  thirdly,  of  Mr.  Francis  Hazel- 
dean,  his  only  son  ;  and  fourthly,  of  Captain  Barnabas 
Higginbotham,  a  distant  relation — who,  indeed,  strictly 


46  MY  NOVEL;    OK, 

speaking,  was  not  of  the  family,  but  only  a  visitor  ten 
months  in  the  year.  Mrs.  Hazeldean  was  every  inch  the 
lady — the  lady  of  the  parish.  In  her  comely,  florid,  and 
somewhat  sunburnt  countenance,  there  was  an  equal  ex- 
pression of  majesty  and  benevolence  ;  she  had  a  blue  eye 
that  invited  liking,  and  an  aquiline  nose  that  commanded 
respect.  Mrs.  Hazeldean  had  no  affectation  of  fine  airs — no 
wish  to  be  greater  and  handsomer  and  cleverer  than  she  was. 
She  knew  herself,  and  her  station,  and  thanked  heaven  for 
it.  There  was  about  her  speech  and  manner  something  of 
the  shortness  and  bluntness  which  often  characterize 
royalty  ;  and  if  the  lady  of  a  parish  is  not  a  queen  in  her 
own  circle,  it  is  never  the  fault  of  a  parish.  Mrs.  Hazeldean 
dressed  her  part  to  perfection.  She  wore  silks  that  seemed 
heirlooms — so  thick  were  they,  so  substantial  and  imposing. 
And  over  these,  when  she  was  in  her  own  domain,  the 
whitest  of  aprons  ;  while  at  her  waist  was  seen  no  fiddle- 
faddle  chatelaine,  with  breldques  and  trumpery,  but  a  good 
honest  gold  watch  to  mark  the  time,  and  a  long  pair  of 
scissors  to  cut  off  the  dead  leaves  from  her  flowers — for  she 
was  a  great  horticulturist.  When  occasion  needed,  Mrs. 
Hazeldean,  could,  however,  lay  by  her  more  sumptuous  and 
imperial  raiment  for  a  stout  riding-habit,  of  blue  Saxony, 
and  canter  by  her  husband's  side  to  see  the  hounds  throw 
off.  Nay,  on  the  days  on  which  Mr.  Hazeldean  drove  his 
famous  fast-trotting  cob  to  the  market-town,  it  was  rarely 
that  you  did  not  see  his  wife  on  the  left  side  of  the  gig. 
She  cared  as  little  as  her  lord  did  for  wind  and  weather,  and 
in  the  midst  of  some  pelting  shower,  her  pleasant  face 
peeped  over  the  collar  and  capes  of  a  stout  dreadnough,  ex- 
panding into  smiles  and  bloom  as  some  frank  rose,  that 
opens  from  its  petals,  and  rejoices  in  the  dews.  It  was  easy 
to  see  that  the  worthy  couple  had  married  for  love  ;  they 
Avere  as  little  apart  as  they  could  help  it.  And  still,  on  the 
first  of  September,  if  the  house  was  not  full  of  company 
which  demanded  her  cares,  Mrs.  Hazeldean  "stepped  out" 
over  the  stubbles  by  her  husband's  side,  with  as  light  a  tread 
and  as  blithe  an  eye  as  when,  in  the  first  bridal  year,  she  had 
enchanted  the  Squire  by  her  genial  sympathy  with  his 
sports. 

So  there  now  stands  Harriet  Hazeldean,  one  hand  lean- 
ing on  the  Squire's  broad  shoulder,  the  other  thrust  into  her 
apron,  and  trying  her  best  to  share  her  husband's  enthu- 
siasm for  his  own  public-spirited  patriotism,  in  the  renova- 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  47 

tion  of  the  parish  stocks.  A  little  behind,  with  two  fingers 
resting  on  the  thin  arm  of  Captain  Barnabas,  stood  Miss 
Jemima,  the  orphan  daughter  of  the  Squire's  uncle,  by  a 
runaway  imprudent  marriage  with  a  young  lady  who  be- 
longed to  a  family  which  had  been  at  war  with  the  Hazel- 
deans  since  the  reign  of  Charles  the  First,  respecting  a 
right  of  way  to  a  small  wood  (or  rather  spring)  of  about  an 
acre,  through  a  piece  of  furze  land,  which  was  let  to  a  brick- 
maker  at  twelve  shillings  a-year.  The  wood  belonged  to  the 
Hazeldeans,  the  furze  land  to  the  Sticktorights  (an  old 
Saxon  family,  if  ever  there  was  one).  Every  twelfth  year, 
when  the  fagots  and  timber  were  felled,  this  feud  broke 
out  afresh  ;  for  the  Sticktorights  refused  to  the  Hazeldeans 
the  right  to  cart  off  the  said  fagots  and  timber  through  the 
only  way  by  which  a  cart  could  possibly  pass.  It  is  just  to 
the  Hazeldeans  to  say  that  they  had  offered  to  buy  the  land 
at  ten  times  its  value.  But  the  Sticktorights,  with  equal 
magnanimity,  had  declared  that  they  would  not  "  alienate 
the  family  property  for  the  convenience  of  the  best  squire 
that  ever  stood  upon  shoe-leather."  Therefore,  every  twelfth 
year,  there  was  always  a  great  breach  of  the  peace  on  the 
part  of  both  Hazeldeans  and  Sticktorights,  magistrates  and 
djputy-lieutenants  though  they  were.  The  question  was 
fairly  fought  out  by  their  respective  dependents,  and  fol- 
lowed by  various  actions  for  assault  and  trespass.  As  the 
legal  question  of  right  was  extremely  obscure,  it  never  had 
been  properly  decided  ;  and  indeed,  neither  party  wished  it 
to  be  decided,  each  at  heart  having  some  doubt  of  the  pro- 
priety of  its  own  claim.  A  marriage  between  a  younger  son 
of  the  Hazeldeans,  and  a  younger  daughter  of  the  Stickto- 
rights, was  viewed  with  equal  indignation  by  both  families ; 
and  the  consequence  had  been  that  the  runaway  couple, 
unblessed  and  unforgiven,  had  scrambled  through  life  as 
they  could,  upon  the  scanty  pay  of  the  husband,  who  was 
in  a  marching  regiment,  and  the  interest  of  ^1,000,  which 
was  the  wife's  fortune  independent  of  her  parents.  They 
died  and  left  an  only  daughter  (upon  whom  the  maternal 
;£i,ooo  had  been  settled),  about  the  time  that  the  Squire 
came  of  age  and  into  possession  of  his  estates.  And  though 
he  inherited  all  the  ancestral  hostility  toward  the  Stickto- 
rights, it  was  not  in  his  nature  to  be  unkind  to  a  poor  or- 
phan, who  was,  after  all,  the  child  of  a  Hazeldean.  There- 
fore, he  had  educated  and  fostered  Jemima  with  as  much 
tenderness  as  if  she  had  been  his  sister  ;  put  out  her  ^£1,000 


43  MY  NOVEL;    OR, 

at  nurse,  and  devoted,  from  the  ready  money  which  had  ac- 
crued from  the  rents  during  his  minority,  as  much  as  made 
her  fortune  (with  her  o-.vn  accumulated  at  compound  inter- 
est), no  less  than  ^4,000,  the  ordinary  marriage  portion  of 
the  daughters  of  Hazeldean.  On  her  coming  of  age,  he 
transferred  this  sum  to  her  absolute  disposal,  in  order  that 
she  might  feel  herself  independent,  see  a  little  more  of  the 
world  than  she  could  at  Hazeldean,  have  candidates  to 
choose  from  if  she  deigned  to  marry ;  or  enough  to  live 
upon,  if  she  chose  to  remain  single.  Miss  Jemima  had 
somewhat  availed  herself  of  this  liberty,  by  occasional  visits 
to  Cheltenham  and  other  watering-places.  But  her  grate- 
ful affection  to  the  Squire  was  such,  that  she  could  never 
bear  to  be  long  away  from  the  Hall.  And  this  was  the 
more  praise  to  her  heart,  inasmuch  as  she  was  far  from  tak- 
ing kindly  to  the  prospect  of  being  an  old  maid.  And  there 
were  so  few  bachelors  in  the  neighborhood  of  Hazeldean, 
that  she  could  not  but  have  that  prospect  before  her  eyes 
whenever  she  looked  out  of  the  Hall  windows.  Miss 
Jemima  was  indeed  one  of  the  most  kindly  and  affectionate 
of  beings  feminine  ;  and  if  she  disliked  the  thought  of  sin- 
gle blessedness,  it  really  was  from  those  innocent  and  wo- 
menly  instincts  toward  the  tender  charities  of  hearth  and 
home,  without  which  a  lady,  however  otherwise  estimable, 
is  little  better  than  a  Minerva  in  bronze.  But  whether  or 
not,  despite  her  fortune  and  her  face,  which  last,  though 
not  strictly  handsome,  was  pleasing,  and  would  have  been 
positively  pretty  if  she  had  laughed  more  often  (for  when 
she  laughed,  there  appeared  three  charming  dimples,  in- 
visible when  she  was  grave) — whether  or  not,  I  say,  it  was 
the  fault  of  our  insensibility  or  her  own  fastidiousness,  Miss 
Jemima  approached  her  thirtieth  year,  and  was  still  Miss 
Jemima.  Now,  therefore,  that  beautifying  laugh  of  hers 
was  very  rarely  heard,  and  she  had  of  late  become  confirmed 
in  two  opinions,  not  at  all  conducive  to  laughter.  One  was 
a  conviction  of  the  general  and  progressive  wickedness  of 
the  male  sex,  and  the  other  was  a  decided  and  lugubrious 
belief  that  the  world  was  coming  to  an  end.  Miss  Jemima 
was  now  accompanied  by  a  small  canine  favorite,  true  Blen- 
heim, with  a  snub  nose.  It  was  advanced  in  life,  and  some- 
what obese.  It  sate  on  its  haunches,  with  its  tongue  out  of 
its  mouth,  except  when  it  snapped  at  the  flies.  There  was 
a  strong  platonic  friendship  between  Miss  Jemima  and 
Captain  Barnabas  Higginbotham  ;  for  he  too  was  unmar- 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  49 

ried,  and  he  had  the  same  ill  opinion  of  your  sex,  my  dear 
madam,  that  Miss  Jemima  had  of  ours.  The  Captain  was  a 
man  of  a  slim  and  elegant  figure  ; — the  less  said  about  the 
face  the  better,  a  truth  of  which  the  Captain  .himself  was 
sensible,  for  it  was  a  favorite  maxim  of  his — "  that  in  a  man, 
everything  is  a  slight,  gentlemanlike  figure."  Captain  Bar- 
nabas did  not  absolutely  deny  that  the  world  was  coming  to 
an  end,  only  he  thought  it.  would  last  his  time. 

Quite  apart  from  all  the  rest,  with  the  nonchalant  sur- 
vey of  virgin  dandyism,  Francis  Hazeldean  looked  over  one 
of  the  high  starched  neckcloths  which  were  then  the  fashion 
— a  handsome  lad,  fresh  from  Eton  for  the  summer  holi- 
days, but  at  that  ambiguous  age,  when  one  disdains  the 
sport  of  the  boy,  and  has  not  yet  arrived  at  the  resources  of 
the  man. 

"  I  should  be  glad,  Frank,"  said  the  Squire,  suddenly 
turning  round  to  his  son,  "to  see  you  take  a  little  more  in- 
terest in  duties  which,  one  day  or  the  other,  you  may  be 
called  upon  to  discharge.  I  can't  bear  to  think  that  the 
property  should  fall  into  the  hands  of  a  fine  gentleman,  who 
will  let  things  go  to  rack  and  ruin,  instead  of  keeping  them 
up  as  I  do." 

And  the  Squire  pointed  to  the  stocks. 

Master  Frank's  eye  followed  the  direction  of  the  cane, 
as  well  as  his  cravat  would  permit  ;  and  he  said  dryly — 

"Yes,  sir  ;  but  how  came  the  stocks  to  be  so  long  out  of 
repair? " 

"  Because  one  can't  see  to  everything  at  once,"  retorted 
the  Squire,  tartly.  "When  a  man  has  got  eight  thousand 
acres  to  look  after,  he  must  do  a  bit  at  a  time." 

"  Yes,"  said  Captain  Barnabas.  "I  know  that  by  ex- 
perience." 

"  The  deuce  you  do !  "  cried  the  Squire,  bluntly.  Ex- 
perience in  eight  thousand  acres  !" 

"  No  ;  in  my  apartments  in  the  Albany — No.  3  A.  I 
have  had  them  ten  years,  and  it  was  only  last  Christmas 
that  I  bought  my  Japan  cat." 

"Dear  me,"  said  Miss  Jemima;  "a  Japan  cat!  that 
must  be  very  curious.  What  sort  of  a  creature  is  it  ?  " 

"  Don't  you  know?  Bless  me,  a  thing  with  three  legs, 
and  holds  toast !  I  never  thought  of  it,  I  assure  you,  till 
my  friend  Cosey  said  to  me,  one  morning  when  he  was 
breakfasting  at  my  rooms — '  Higginbotham,  how  is  it  that 
you,  who  like  to  have  things  comfortable  about  you,  don't 

3 


50  MY  NOVEL;    OR, 

have  a  cat ! '  '  Upon  my  life,'  said  I,  '  one  can't  think  of 
everything  at  a  time  ;'  just  like  you,  Squire." 

"  Pshaw,"  said  Mr.  Hazeldean,  gruffly — "not  at  all  like 
me.  And  I'll  thank  you  another  time,  Cousin  Higgin- 
botham,  not  to  put  me  out,  when  I  am  speaking  on  matters 
of  importance  ;  poking  your  cat  into  my  stocks  !  They  look 
something  like  now,  my  stocks — don't  they,  Harry  ?  I 
declare  that  the  whole  village  seems  more  respectable.  It 
is  astonishing  how  much  a  little  improvement  adds  to  the — 
to  the " 

"  Charm  of  the  landscape,"  put  in  Miss  Jemina,  senti- 
mentally. 

The  Squire  neither  accepted  nor  rejected  the  suggested 
termination  ;  but,  leaving  his  sentence  uncompleted,  broke 
suddenly  off  with — 

"  And  if  I  had  listened  to  Parson  Dale " 

"  You  would  have  done  a  very  wise  thing,"  said  a  voice 
behind,  as  the  Parson  presented  himself  in  the  rear. 

"  Wise  thing  !  Why,  surely,  Mr.  Dale,"  said  Mrs.  Hazel- 
dean,  with  spirit,  for  she  always  resented  the  least  contra- 
diction to  her  lord  and  master — perhaps  as  an  interference 
with  her  own  special  right  and  prerogative! — "why,  surety 
if  it  is  necessary  to  have  stocks,  it  is  necessary  to  repair 
them." 

"That's  right — go  it,  Harry!"  cried  the  Squire,  chuck- 
ling, and  rubbing  his  hands  as  if  he  had  been  setting  his 
terrier  at  the  Parson  ;  "  St— St — at  him  !  Well,  Master 
Dale,  what  do  you  say  to  that?  " 

"My  dear  ma'am,"  said  the  Parson,  replying  in  prefer- 
ence to  the  lady,  "  there  are  many  institutions  in  the  coun- 
try which  are  very  old,  look  very  decayed,  and  don't  seem 
of  much  use  ;  but  I  would  not  pull  them  down  for  all 
that." 

"You  would  reform  them,  then,"  said  Mrs.  Hazeldean, 
doubtfully,  and  with  a  look  at  her  husband,  as  much  as  to 
say,  "He  is  on  politics  now — that's  your  business." 

"  No,  I  would  not,  ma'am,"  said  the  Parson,  stoutly. 

"  What  on  earth  would  you  do,  then  ? "  quoth  the 
Squire. 

"Just  let  'em  alone,"  said  the  Parson.  "Master  Frank, 
there's  a  Latin  maxim  which  was  often  in  the  mouth  of  Sir 
Robert  Walpole,  and  which  they  ought  to  put  into  the 
Eton  grammar — '  Quieta  non  movere.'  If  things  are 
quiet,  let  them  be  quiet !  I  would  not  destroy  the  stocks, 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  51 

because  that  might  seem  to  the  ill-disposed  like  a  license 
to  offend  ;  and  I  would  not  repair  the  stocks,  because  that 
puts  it  into  people's  heads  to  get  into  them." 

The  Squire  was  a  staunch  politician  of  the  old  school, 
and  he  did  not  like  to  think  that,  in  repairing  the  stocks, 
he  had  perhaps  been  conniving  at  revolutionary  prin- 
ciples. 

"  This  constant  desire  of  innovation,"  said  Miss  Jemima, 
suddenly  mounting  the  more  funereal  of  her  two  favorite 
hobbies,  "  is  one  of  the  great  symptoms  of  the  approaching 
crash.  We  are  altering,  and  mending,  and  reforming,  when 
in  twenty  years  at  the  utmost  the  world  itself  may  be  de- 
stroyed !  "  The  fair  speaker  paused,  and — 

Captain  Barnabas  said  thoughtfully — "Twenty  years  ! 
— the  insurance  offices  rarely  compute  the  best  life  at  more 
than  fourteen."  He  struck  his  hand  on  the  stocks  as  he 
spoke,  and  added,  with  his  usual  consolatory  conclusion — 
"  The  odds  are,  that  it  will  last  our  time,  Squire." 

But  whether  Captain  Barnabas  meant  the  stocks  or  the 
world,  he  did  not  clearly  explain,  and  no  one  took  the 
trouble  to  inquire. 

"  Sir,"  said  Master  Frank  to  his  father,  with  that  furtive 
spirit  of  quizzing,  which  he  had  acquired  amongst  other 
polite  accomplishments  at  Eton—"  sir,  it  is  no  use  now  con- 
sidering whether  the  stocks  should  or  should  not  have  been 
repaired.  The  only  question  is,  whom  you  will  get  to  put 
into  them?" 

"True,"  said  the  Squire,  with  much  gravity. 

"Yes,  there  it  is!"  said  the  Parson,  mournfully.  "If 
you  would  but  learn  '  non  quieta  movere  ! ' ' 

"Don't  spout  your  Latin  at  me,  Parson!"  cried  the 
Squire,  angrily  ;  "  I  can  give  you  as  good  as  you  bring,  any 
day. 

'  Propria  quse  maribus  tribuuntur  moscula  clicas, — 
As  in  praesenti,  perfectum  format  in  avi.' 

There,"  added  the  Squire,  turning  triumphantly  toward 
his  Harry,  who  looked  with  great  admiration  at  this  un- 
precedented burst  of  learning  on  the  part  of  Mr.  Hazeldean 
— "  there,  two  can  play  at  that  game  !  And  now  that  we 
have  all  seen  the  stocks,  we  may  as  well  go  home,  and  drink 
tea.  Will  you  come  up  and  play  a  rubber,  Dale  ?  No  ! — 
hang  it,  man,  I've  not  offended  you — you  know  my 
ways." 


52  MY  NOVEL  ;    OR, 

"  That  I  do,  and  they  are  among  the  things  I  would  not 
have  altered,"  cried  the  Parson — holding  out  his  hand 
cheerfully.  The  Squire  gave  it  a  hearty  shake,  and  Mrs. 
Hazeldean  hastened  to  do  the  same. 

"  Do  come  ;  I  am  afraid  we've  been  very  rude  ;  we  are 
sad  blunt  folks.  Do  come  ;  that's  a  dear  good  man  ;  and  of 
course,  poor.  Mrs.  Dale  too."  Mrs.  Hazeldean's  favorite 
epithet  for  Mrs.  Dale  was  poor,  and  that  for  reasons  to  be 
explained  hereafter. 

"  I  fear  my  wife  has  got  one  of  her  bad  headaches,  but  I 
will  give  her  your  kind  message,  and  at  all  events  you  may 
depend  upon  me." 

"  That's  right,"  said  the  Squire  ;  "  in  half-an-hour,  eh  ? 
— How  dy'e  do,  my  little  man  ? "  as  Lenny  Fairfield,  on  his 
way  home  from  some  errand  in  the  village,  drew  aside  and 
pulled  off  his  hat  with  both  hands.  "  Stop — you  see  those 
stocks — eh  ?  Tell  all  the  bad  boys  in  the  parish  to  take 
care  how  they  get  into  them — a  sad  disgrace — you'll  never 
be  in  such  a  quandary  ?  " 

"That  at  least  I  will  answer  for,"  said  the  Parson. 

"And  I  too,"  added  Mrs.  Hazeldean,  patting  the  boy's 
curly  head.  "Tell  your  mother  I  shall  come  and  have  a 
good  chat  with  her  to-morrow  evening." 

And  so  the  party  passed  on,  and  Lenny  stood  still  on 
the  road,  staring  hard  at  the  stocks,  which  stared  back  at 
him  from  its  four  great  eyes. 

But  Lenny  did  not  remain  long  alone.  As  soon  as  the 
great  folks  had  fairly  disappeared,  a  large  number  of  small 
folks  emerged  timorously  from  the  neighboring  cottages, 
and  approached  the  site  of  the  stocks  Avith  much  marvel, 
fear,  and  curiosity. 

In  fact,  the  renovated  appearance  of  this  monster — a 
propos  de  bottes,  as  one  may  say — had  already  excited  con- 
siderable sensation  among  the  population  of  Hazeldean. 
And  even  as  when  an  unexpected  owl  makes  his  appear- 
ance in  broad  daylight,  all  the  little  birds  rise  from  tree  and 
hedgerow,  and  cluster  round  their  ominous  enemy,  so  now 
gathered  all  the  much-excited  villagers  round  the  intrusive 
and  portentous  phenomenon. 

"  D'ye  know  what  the  diggins  the  Squire  dit  it  for, 
Gaffer  Solomons  ? "  asked  one  many-childed  matron,  with 
a  baby  in  arms,  an  urchin  three  years  old  clinging  fast  to 
her  petticoat,  and  her  hand  maternally  holding  back  a  more 
adventurous  hero  of  six,  who  had  a  great  desire  to  thrust 


VARIETIES  IN' ENGLISH  LIFE.  53 

his  head  into  one  of  the  grisly  apertures.  All  eyes  turned 
to  a  sage  old  man,  the  oracle  of  the  village,  who,  leaning 
both  hands  on  his  crutch,  shook  his  head  bodingly. 

"Maw  be,"  said  Gaffer  Solomons,  "some  of  the  boys 
ha'  been  robbing  the  orchards." 

"  Orchards !  "  cried  a  big  lad,  who  seemed  to  think  him- 
self personally  appealed  to — "why,  the  bud's  scarce  off  the 
trees  yet ! " 

"  No  more  it  in't  !  "  said  the  dame  with  many  children, 
and  she  breathed  more  freely. 

"  Maw  be,"  said  Gaffer  Solomons,  "  some  o'  ye  has  been 
sitting  snares." 

"What  for?"  said  a  stout,  sullen-looking  young  fellow, 
whom  conscience  possibly  pricked  to  reply — "what  for, 
when  it  bean't  (he  season  ?  And  if  a  poor  man  did  find  a 
hear  in  his  pocket  i'  the  hay-time,  I  should  like  to  know  if 
ever  a  Squire  in  the  world  would  let  un  off  with  the 
stocks — eh  ? " 

This  last  question  seemed  a  settler,  and  the  wisdom  of 
Gaffer  Solomons  went  down  fifty  per  cent,  in  the  public 
opinion  of  Hazeldean. 

"  Maw  be,"  said  the  Gaffer — this  time  with  a  thrilling 
effect,  which  restored  his  reputation — "maw  be  some  o'  ye 
ha'  been  getting  drunk,  and  making  beestises  o'  your- 
sels ! " 

There  was  a  dead  pause,  for  this  suggestion  applied  too 
generally  to  be  met  with  a  solitary  response.  At  last  one 
of  the  women  said,  with  a  meaning  glance  at  her  husband, 
"God  bless  the  Squire;  he'll  make  some  on  us  happy 
women,  if  that's  all  !  " 

There  then  arose  an  almost  unanimous  murmur  of  ap- 
probation among  the  female  part  of  the  audience  ;  and  the 
men  looked  at  each  other,  and  then  at  the  phenomenon, 
with  a  very  hang-dog  expression  of  countenance. 

"  Or,  maw  be,"  resumed  Gaffer  Solomons,  encouraged  to 
a  fourth  suggestion  by  the  success  of  its  predecessor — 
"  maw  be  some  o'  the  Misseses  ha'  been  making  a  rumpus, 
and  scolding  their  goodmen.  I  heard  say  in  my  gran- 
feythir's  time,  that  arter  old  Mother  Bang  nigh  died  o'  the 
ducking-stool,  them  'ere  stocks  were  first  made  for  the 
women,  out  o'  compassion  like  !  And  every  one  knows  the 
Squire  is  a  koind-hearted  man,  God  bless  un  !  " 

"God  bless  un !"  cried  the  men  heartily;  and  they 
gathered  lovingly  round  the  phenomenon,  like  heathens  of 


54  MY  NOfEL;    OKy 

old  round  a  ttitclary  temple.  But  then  there  rose  one 
shrill  clamor  among  the  females,  as  they  retreated  with 
involuntary  steps  toward  the  verge  of  the  green,  whence 
they  glared  at  Solomons  and  the  phenomenon  with  eyes  so 
sparkling,  and  pointed  at  both  with  gestures  so  menacing, 
that  Heaven  only  knows  if  a  morsel  of  either  would  have 
remained  much  longer  to  offend  the  eyes  of  the  justly 
enraged  matronage  of  Hazeldean,  if  fortunately  Master 
Stirn,  the  Squire's  right-hand  man,  had  not  come  up  in  the 
nick  of  time. 

Master  Stirn  was  a  formidable  personage — more  formi- 
dable than  the  Squire  himself — as,  indeed,  a  Squire's  right 
hand  is  generally  more  formidable  than  the  head  can  pre- 
tend to  be.  He  inspired  the  greater  awe,  because,  like  the 
stocks,  of  which  he  was  deputed  guardian,  his  powers  were 
undefined  and  obscure,  and  he  had  no  particular  place  in 
the  out-of-door  establishment.  He  was  not  the  steward, 
yet  he  did  much  of  what  ought  to  be  the  steward's  work  ; 
he  was  not  the  farm-bailiff,  for  the  Squire  called  himself  his 
own  farm-bailiff  ;  nevertheless,  Mr.  Hazeldean  sowed  and 
•ploughed,  cropped  and  stocked,  bought  and  sold,  very 
much  as  Mr.  Stirn  condescended  to  advise.  He  was  not  the 
park-keeper,  for  he  neither  shot  the  deer  nor  superintended 
the  preserves  ;  but  it  was  he  who  always  found  out  who 
had  broken  a  park-pale  or  snared  a  rabbit.  In  short, 
what  may  be  called  all  the  harsher  duties  of  a  large  landed 
proprietor,  devolved,  by  custom  and  choice,  upon  M.  Stirn. 
If  a  laborer  was  to  be  discharged,  or  a  rent  enforced,  and  the 
Squire  knew  that  he  should  be  talked  over  and  that  the 
steward  would  be  as  soft  as  himself,  Mr.  Stirn  was  sure  to 
be  the  avenging  ayyeXos  or  messenger,  to  pronounce  the 
words  of  fate  ;  so  that  he  appeared  to  the  inhabitants  of 
Hazeldean  like  the  Poet's  Saevft  JVcccssitas,  a  vague  incar- 
nation of  remorseless  power,  armed  with  whips,  nails,  and 
wedges.  The  very  brute  creation  stood  in  awe  of  Mr. 
Stirn.  The  calves  knew  that  it  wras  he  who  singled  out 
which  should  be  sold  to  the  butcher,  and  huddled  up  into  a 
corner  with  beating  hearts  at  his  grim  footstep  ;  the  sow 
grunted,  the  duck  quacked,  the  hen  bristled  her  feathers 
and  called  to  her  chicks  when  Mr.  Stirn  drew  near.  Nature 
had  set  her  stamp  upon  him.  Indeed,  it  may  be  questioned 
whether  the  great  M.  de  Chambray  himself,  surnamed  the 
brave,  had  an  aspect  so  awe-inspiring  as  that  of  Mr.  Stirn  ; 
albeit  the  face  of  that  hero  was  so  terrible,  that  a  man  who 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  55 

had  been  his  lackey,  seeing  his  portrait  after  he  had  been 
dead  twenty  years,  fell  a-trembling  all  over  like  a  leaf ! 

"  And  what  the  plague  are  you  all  doing  here  ?  "  said 
Mr.  Stirn,  as  he  waved  and  smacked  a  great  cart-whip 
which  he  held  in  his  hand,  "  making  such  a  hullabaloo, 
you  women,  you  !  that  I  suspect  the  Squire  will  be  sending 
out  to  know  if  the  village  is  on  fire.  Go  home,  will  ye  ? 
High  time  indeed  to  have  the  stocks  ready,  when  you 
get  squalling  and  conspiring  under  the  very  nose  of  a 
justice  of  the  peace,  just  as  the  French  revolutioners  did 
afore  they  cut  off  their  king's  head  ;  my  hair  stands  on  end 
to  look  at  ye."  But  already,  before  half  this  address  was 
delivered,  the  crowd  had  dispersed  in  all  directions — the 
women  still  keeping  together,  and  the  men  sneaking  off 
toward  the  ale-house.  Such  was  the  beneficent  effect  of 
the  fatal  stocks,  on  the  first  day  of  their  resuscitation  ! 

However,  in  the  break-up  of  every  crowd  there  must 
always  be  one  who  gets  of  the  last  ;  and  it  so  happened 
that  our  friend  Lenny  Fairfield,  who  had  mechanically  ap- 
proached close  to  the  stocks,  the  better  to  hear  the  oracular 
opinions  of  Gaffer  Solomons,  had  no  less  mechanically,  on 
the  abrupt  appearance  of  Mr.  Stirn,  crept,  as  he  hoped,  out 
of  sight  behind  the  trunk  of  the  elm-tree  which  partially 
shaded  the  stocks  ;  and  there  now,  as  if  fascinated,  he  still 
cowered,  not  daring  to  emerge  in  full  view  of  Mr.  Stirn, 
and  in  immediate  reach  of  the  cart  whip — when  the  quick 
eye  of  the  right-hand  man  detected  his  retreat. 

"  Hallo  you,  sir — what  the  deuce,  laying  a  mine  to  blow 
up  the  stocks  !  just  like  Guy  Fox  and  the  Gunpowder 
Plot,  I  declares  !  What  ha'  you  got  in  your  willanous  little 
fist  there  ?  " 

"  Nothing,  sir,"  said  Lenny,  opening  his  palm. 

"  Nothing— um  !  "  said  Mr.  Stirn,  much  dissatisfied  ; 
and  then,  as  he  gazed  more  deliberately,  recognizing  the 
pattern  boy  of  the  village,  a  cloud  yet  darker  gathered 
over  his  brow — for  Mr.  Stirn,  who  valued  himself  much  on 
his  learning — and  who,  indeed,  by  dint  of  more  knowledge 
as  well  as  more  wit  than  his  neighbors,  had  attained  his 
present  eminent  station  of  life — was  extremely  anxious 
that  his  only  son  should  also  be  a  scholar  ;  that  wish 

"  The  gods  dispersed  in  empty  air." 

Master  Stirn  was  a  notable  dunce  at  the  Parson's  school, 
while  Lenny  Fairfield  was  the  pride  and  boast  of  it ;  there- 


56  MY  NOVEL;    Off, 

fore  Mr.  Stirn  was  naturally,  and  almost  justifiably,  ill- 
disposed  toward  Lenny  Fairfield,  who  had  appropriated  to 
himself  the  praises  which  Mr.  Stirn  had  designed  for  his 
own  son. 

"  Um  ! "  said  the  right-hand  man,  glowering  on  Lenny 
malignantly,  "you  are  the  pattern  boy  of  the  village,  are 
you  ?  Very  well,  sir — then  I  put  these  here  stocks  under 
your  care — and  you'll  keep  off  the  other  boys  from  sitting 
on  'em,  and  picking  off  the  paint,  and  playing  three-holes 
and  chuck-farthing,  as  I  declare  they've  been  a-doing,  just 
in  front  of  the  elewation.  Now,  you  knows  your  'sponsi- 
bilities,  little  boy — and  a  great  honor  they  are  too,  for  the 
like  o'  you.  If  any  damage  be  done,  it  is  to  you  I  shall 
look  ;  d'ye  understand  ? — and  that's  what  the  Squire  says  to 
me.  So  you  see  what  it  is  to  be  a  pattern  boy,  Master 
Lenny  ! " 

With  that  Mr.  Stirn  gave  a  loud  crack  of  the  cart-whip, 
by  way  of  military  honors,  over  the  head  of  the  vice- 
gerent he  had  thus  created,  and  strode  off  to  pay  a  visit  to 
two  young  unsuspecting  pups,  whose  ears  and  tails  he  had 
graciously  promised  their  proprietor  to  crop  that  evening. 
Nor,  albeit  few  charges  could  be  more  obnoxious  than  that 
of  deputy-governor  or  charge-c?  affaires  extraordinaire*  to  the 
Parish  Stocks,  nor  one  more  likely  to  render  Lenny  Fair- 
field  odious  to  his  contemporaries,  ought  he  to  have  been 
insensible  to  the  signal  advantage  of  his  condition  over  that 
of  the  two  sufferers,  against  whose  ears  and  tails  Mr.  Stirn 
had  no  special  motives  of  resentment.  To  every  bad  there 
is  a  worse — and  fortunately  for  little  boys,  and  even  for 
grown  men,  whom  the  Stirns  of  the  world  regard  malignly, 
the  majesty  of  law  protects  their  ears,  and  the  merciful 
forethought  of  nature  deprived  their  remote  ancestors  of 
the  privilege  of  entailing  tails  upon  them.  Had  it  been 
otherwise — considering  what  handles  tails  would  have  given 
to  the  oppressor,  how  many  traps  envy  would  have  laid  for 
them,  how  often  they  must  have  been  scratched  and  muti- 
lated by  the  briars  of  life,  how  many  good  excuses  would 
have  been  found  for  lopping,  docking,  and  trimming  them 
— I  fear  that  only  the  lap-dogs  of  Fortune  would  have  gone 
to  the  grave  tail-whole. 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  57 


CHAPTER  XII. 

THE  card-table  was  set  out  in  the  drawing-room  at  Haz- 
eldean  Hall  ;  though  the  little  party  were  still  lingering  in 
the  deep  recess  of  the  large  bay-window — which  (in  itself  of 
dimensions  that  would  have  swallowed  up  a  moderate-sized 
London  parlor)  held  the  great  round  tea-table,  with  all  ap- 
pliances and  means  to  boot — for  the  beautiful  summer 
moon  shed  on  the  sward  so  silvery  a  lustre,  and  the  trees 
cast  so  quiet  a  shadow,  and  the  flowers  and  new-mown  hay 
sent  up  so  grateful  a  perfume,  that,  to  close  the  windows, 
draw  the  curtains,  and  call  for  other  lights  than  those  of 
heaven,  would  have  been  an  abuse  of  the  prose  of  life  which 
even  Captain  Barnabas,  who  regarded  whist  as  the  business 
of  town  and  the  holiday  of  the  country,  shrank  from  sug- 
gesting. Without,  the  scene,  beheld  by  the  clear  moon- 
light, had  the  beauty  peculiar  to  the  garden-ground  round 
those  old-fashioned  country  residences  which,  though  a  lit- 
tle modernized,  still  preserve  their  original  character  ;  the 
velvet  lawn,  studded  with  large  plots  of  flowers,  shaded  and 
scented — here,  to  the  left,  by  lilacs,  laburnums,  and  rich 
seringas— there,  to  the  right,  giving  glimpses,  over  low- 
clipped  yews,  of  a  green  bowling-alley,  with  the  white  col- 
umns of  a  summer-house  built  after  the  Dutch  taste,  in  the 
reign  of  William  III.;  and  in  front — stealing  away  under 
covert  of  those  still  cedars,  into  the  wilder  landscape  of  the 
well-wooded  undulating  park.  Within,  viewed  by  the  placid 
glimmer  of  the  moon,  the  scene  was  no  less  characteristic 
of  the  abodes  of  that  race  which  has  no  parallel  in  other 
lands,  and  which,  alas  !  is  somewhat  losing  its  native  idio- 
syncrasies in  this — the  stout  country  gentleman,  not  the 
fine  gentleman  of  the  country — the  country  gentleman 
somewhat  softened  and  civilized  from  the  mere  sportsman 
or  farmer,  but  still  plain  and  homely,  relinquishing  the  old 
hall  for  the  drawing-room,  and  with  books  not  three  months 
old  on  his  table,  instead  of  Fox's  Martyrs  and  Baker's  Chroni- 
cle— yet  still  retaining  many  a  sacred  old  prejudice,  that, 
like  the  knots  in  his  native  oak,  rather  adds  to  the  orna- 
ment of  the  grain  than  takes  from'the  strength  of  the  tree. 
Opposite  to  the  window,  the  high  chimney-piece  rose  to 


58  My  NOVEL;    OR, 

the  heavy  cornice  of  the  ceiling,  with  dark  panels  glistening 
against  the  moonlight.  The  broad  and  rather  clumsy  chintz 
sofas  and  settees  of  the  reign  of  George  III.,  contrasted  at 
intervals  with  the  tall-backed  chairs  of  a  far  more  distant 
generation,  when  ladies  in  fardingales  and  gentlemen  in  trunk 
hose  seem  never  to  have  indulged  in  horizontal  positions. 
The  walls,  of  shining  wainscot,  were  thickly  covered,  chiefly 
with  family  pictures  ;  though  now  and  then  some  Dutch 
fair,  or  battle-piece,  showed  that  a  former  proprietor  had 
been  less  exclusive  in  his  taste  for  the  arts.  The  pianoforte 
stood  open  near  the  fire-place  ;  a  long  dwarf  bookcase,  at 
the  far  end,  added  its  sober  smile  to  the  room.  That  book- 
case contained  what  was  called  "  The  Lady's  Library,"  a 
collection  commenced  by  the  Squire's  grandmother,  of 
pious  memory,  and  completed  by  his  mother,  who  had  more 
taste  for  the  lighter  letters,  with  but  little  addition  from  the 
bibliomaniac  tendencies  of  the  present  Mrs.  Hazeldean,  who, 
being  no  great  reader,  contented  herself  with  subscribing  to 
the  Book  Club.  In  this  feminine  Bodleian,  the  sermons 
collected  by  Mrs.  Hazeldean,  the  grandmother,  stood  cheek- 
by-jowl  beside  the  novels  purchased  by  Mrs.  Hazeldean,  the 
mother. 

"  Mixtaque  ridenti  colocasia  fundet  acantho  !  " 

But,  to  be  sure,  the  novels,  in  spite  of  very  inflamma- 
tory titles,  such  as  "  Fatal  Sensibility,"  "  Errors  of  the 
Heart,"  etc.,  were  so  harmless,  that  I  doubt  if  the  sermons 
could  have  had  much  to  say  against  their  next-door  neigh- 
bors— and  that  is  all  that  can  be  expected  by  the  best  of 
us. 

A  parrot  dozing  on  his  perch — some  gold-fish  fast 
asleep  in  their  glass  bowl — two  or  three  dogs  on  the  rug, 
and  Flimsey,  Miss  Jemima's  spaniel,  curled  into  a  ball  on 
the  softest  sofa — Mrs.  Hazeldean's  work-table  rather  in  dis- 
order, as  if  it  had  been  lately  used — the  St.  James  s  Chronicle 
dangling  down  from  a  little  tripod  near  the  Squire's  arm- 
chair— a  high  screen  of  gilt  and  stamped  leather  fencing  off 
the  card-table  ;  all  these,  dispersed  about  a  room  large 
enough  to  hold  them  all  and  not  seem  crowded,  offered 
many  a  pleasant  resting-place  for  the  eye,  when  it  turned 
from  the  world  of  nature  to  the  home  of  man. 

But  see,  Captain  Barnabas,  fortified  by  his  fourth  cup  of 
tea,  has  at  length  summoned  courage  to  whisper  to  Mrs. 
Hazeldean,  "  Don't  you  think  the  Parson  will  be  impatient 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  59 

for  his  rubber  ?"  Mrs.  Hazeldean  glanced  at  the  Parson,  and 
smiled  ;  but  she  gave  the  signal  to  the  Captain,  and  the  bell 
was  rung,  lights  were  brought  in,  the  curtains  let  down  ;  in  a 
few  moments  more,  the  group  had  collected  round  the  card- 
table.  The  best  of  us  are  but  human — that  is  not  a  new  truth, 
I  confess,  but  yet  people  forget  it  every  day  of  their  lives 
— and  I  dare  say  there  are  many  who  are  charitably  thinking 
at  this  very  moment,  that  my  Parson  ought  not  to  be  play- 
ing at  whist.  All  I  can  say  to  those  rigid  disciplinarians  is, 
"  Every  man  has  his  favorite  sin  :  whist  was  Parson  Dale's ! 
— ladies  and  gentlemen,  what  is  yours  ?"  In  truth,  I  must 
not  set  up  my  poor  parson  now-a-days,  as  a  pattern  parson 
— it  is  enough  to  have  one  pattern  in  a  village  no  bigger 
than  Hazeldean,  and  we  all  know  that  Lenny  Fairfield  has 
bespoken  that  place,  and  got  the  patronage  of  the  stocks  for 
his  emoluments !  Parson  Dale  was  ordained,  not  indeed  so 
very  long  ago,  but  still  at  a  time  when  churchmen  took  it  a 
great  deal  more  easily  than  they  do  now.  The  elderly  par- 
son of  that  day  played  his  rubber  as  a  matter  of  course,  the 
middle-aged  parson  was  sometimes  seen  riding  to  cover  (I 
knew  a  schoolmaster,  a  doctor  of  divinity,  and  an  excellent 
man,  whose  pupils  were  chiefly  taken  from  the  highest  fam- 
ilies in  England,  who  hunted  regularly  three  times  a  week 
during  the  season),  and  the  young  parson  would  often  sing 
a  capital  song — not  composed  by  David — and  join  in  those 
rotatory  dances,  which  certainly  David  never  danced  before 
the  ark. 

Does  it  need  so  long  an  exordium  to  excuse  thee,  poor 
Parson  Dale,  for  turning  up  that  ace  of  spades  with  so 
triumphant  a  smile  at  thy  partner  ?  I  must  own  that 
nothing  which  could  well  add  to  the  Parson's  offence  was 
wanting.  In  the  first  place,  he  did  not  play  charitably,  and 
merely  to  oblige  other  people.  He  delighted  in  the  game — 
he  rejoiced  in  the  game — his  whole  heart  was  in  the  game — 
neither  was  he  indifferent  to  the  mammon  of  the  thing,  as  a 
Christian  pastor  ought  to  have  been.  He  looked- very  sad 
when  he  took  his  shillings  out  of  his  purse,  and  exceed- 
ingly pleased  when  he  put  the  shillings  that  had  just  before 
belonged  to  other  people  into  it.  Finally,  by  one  of  those 
arrangements  common  with  married  people,  who  play  at 
the  same  table,  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Hazeldean  were  invariably 
partners,  and  no  two  people  could  play  worse  ;  while  Captain 
Barnabas,  who  had  played  at  Graham's  with  honor  and 
profit,  necessarily  became  partner  to  Parson  Dale,  who  him- 


63  MY  NOVEL;    OX, 

self  played  a  good  steady  parsonic  game.  So  that,  in  strict 
truth,  it  was  hardly  fair  play — it  was  almost  swindling — the 
combination  of  these  two  great  dons  against  that  innocent 
married  couple  !  Mr.  Dale,  it  is  true,  was  aware  of  this  dis- 
proportion of  force,  and  had  often  proposed,  either  to 
change  partners  or  to  give  odds — proposition  always  scorn- 
fully scouted  by  the  Squire  and  his  lady,  so  that  the  Parson 
was  obliged  to  pocket  his  conscience,  together  with  the  ten 
points  which  made  his  average  winnings. 

The  strangest  thing  in  the  world  is  the  different  way  in 
which  whist  affects  the  temper.  It  is  no  test  of  temper,  as 
some  pretend — not  at  all !  The  best-tempered  people  in  the 
world  grow  snappish  at  whist  ;  and  I  have  seen  the  most 
testy  and  peevish  in  the  ordinary  affairs  of  life  bear  their 
losses  with  the  stoicism  of  Epictetus.  This  was  notably 
manifested  in  the  contrast  between  the  present  adversaries 
of  the  Hall  and  the  Rectory.  The  Squire,  who  was  esteemed 
as  choleric  a  gentleman  as  most  in  the  country,  was  the 
best-humored  fellow  you  could  imagine  when  you  set  him 
down  to  whist  opposite  the  sunny  face  of  his  wife.  You 
never  heard  one  of  those  incorrigible  blunderers  scold  each 
other ;  on  the  contrary,  they  only  laughed  when  they 
threw  away  the  game,  with  four  by  honors  in  their  hands. 
The  utmost  that  was  ever  said  was  a  "  Well,  Harry,  that 
was  the  oddest  trump  of  yours  !  Ho — ho — ho  ! "  or  "  Bless 
me,  Hazeldean — why,  they  made  three  tricks  in  clubs,  and 
you  had  the  ace  in  your  hand  all  the  time  !  Ha — ha — ha !  " 

Upon  which  occasions  Captain  Barnabas,  with  great 
good-humor,  always  echoed  both  the  Squire's  Ho — ho 
— ho  !  and  Mrs.  Hazeldean's  Ha — ha — ha  ! 

Not  so  the  Parson.  He  had  so  keen  and  sportsmanlike 
an  interest  in  the  game,  that  even  his  adversaries'  mistakes 
ruffled  him.  And  you  would  hear  him,  with  elevated  voice 
and  agitated  gestures,  laying  down  the  law,  quoting  Hoyle, 
appealing  to  all  the  powers  of  memory  and  common  sense 
against  the  very  delinquencies  by  which  he  \vas  enriched — 
a  waste  of  eloquence  that  always  heightened  the  hilarity  of 
Mr.  and  Mrs.  Hazeldean.  While  these  four  were  thus  en- 
gaged, Mrs.  Dale,  who  had  come  with  her  husband  despite 
her  headache,  sat  on  the  sofa  beside  Miss  Jemima,  or  rather 
beside  Miss  Jemima's  Flimsey,  which  had  already  secured 
the  centre  of  the  sofa,  and  snarled  at  the  very  idea  of  being 
disturbed. 

Master  Frank — at  a  table   by   himself — was   employed 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  6t 

sometimes  in  looking  at  his  pumps,  and  sometimes  at 
Gilray's  Caricatures,  which  his  mother  had  provided  for  his 
intellectual  requirements.  Mrs.  Dale,  in  her  heart  liked 
Miss  Jemima  better  than  Mrs.  Hazeldean,  of  whom  she  was 
rather  in  awe,  notwithstanding  they  had  been  little  girls  to- 
gether, and  occasionally  still  called  each  other  Harry  and 
Carry.  But  those  tender  diminutives  belonged  to  the 
"  Dear  "  genus,  and  were  rarely  employed  by  the  ladies,  ex- 
cept at  times  when — had  they  been  little  girls  still,  and  the 
governess  out  of  the  way,  they  would  have  slapped  and 
pinched  each  other.  Mrs.  Dale  was  still  a  very  pretty 
woman,  as  Mrs.  Hazeldean  was  still  a  very  fine  woman. 
Mrs.  Dale  painted  in  water  colors,  and  sang,  and  made  card- 
racks  and  pen-holders,  and  was  called  an  "  elegant,  accom- 
plished woman."  Mrs.  Hazeldean  cast  up  the  Squire's 
accounts,  wrote  the  best  part  of  his  letters,  kept  a  large  es- 
tablishment in  excellent  order,  and  was  called  "a  clever, 
sensible  woman."  Mrs.  Dale  had  headaches  and  nerves, 
Mrs.  Hazeldean  had  neither  nerves  nor  headaches.  Mrs. 
Dale  said  "  Harry  had  no  real  harm  in  her,  but  was  cer- 
tainly very  masculine."  Mrs.  Hazeldean  said  "  Carry  would 
be  a  good  creature  but  for  her  airs  and  graces."  Mrs.  Dale 
said  Mrs.  Hazeldean  was  "  just  made  to  be  a  country 
squire's  lady."  Mrs.  Hazeldean  said  "  Mrs.  Dale  was  the 
last  person  in  the  world  who  ought  to  have  been  a  parson's 
wife."  Carry,  when  she  spoke  of  Harry  to  a  third  person, 
said,  "  Dear  Mrs.  Hazeldean."  Harry,  when  she  referred 
incidentally  to  Carry,  said  "  Poor  Mrs.  Dale."  And  now 
the  reader  knows  why  Mrs.  Hazeldean  called  Mrs.  Dale 
"  poor,"  at  least  as  well  as  I  do.  For,  after  all,  the  word  be- 
longed to  that  class  in  the  female  vocabulary  which  may  be 
called  "obscure  significants,"  resembling  the  Konx  Ompax, 
\vhich  hath  so  puzzled  the  inquirers  into  the  Eleusinian 
Mysteries  ;  the  application  is  rather  to  be  illustrated  than 
the  meaning  to  be  exactly  explained. 

"  That's  really  a  sweet  little  dog  of  yours,  Jemima,"  said 
Mrs.  Dale,  who  was  embroidering  the  word  CAROLINE  on 
the  border  of  a  cambric  pocket-handkerchief,  but  edging  a 
little  farther  off,  as  she  added,  "  he'll  not  bite,  will  he  ?  "- 
"  Dear  me,  no  !  "  said  Miss  Jemima  ;  but  (she  added  in  a 
confidential  whisper)  "  don't  say  he — 'tis  a  lady  dog !  " 
"  Oh,"  said  Mrs.  Dale,  edging  off  still  farther,  as  if  that  con-, 
fession  of  the  creature's  sex  did  not  serve  to  allay  her  ap- 
prehensions— "  Oh,  then,  you  carry  your  aversion  to  the 


62  MY  NOVEL;    OR, 

gentlemen  even  to  lap-dogs — that  is  being  consistent,  in- 
deed, Jemima!  " 

Miss  JEMIMA. — I  had  a  gentleman  dog  once — a  pug^ — 
pugs  are  getting  very  scarce  now. — I  thought  he  was  so 
fond  of  me — he  snapped  at  every  one  else — the  battles  I 
fought  for  him  !  Well,  will  you  believe — I  had  been  staying 
with  my  friend,  Miss  Smilecox,  at  Cheltenham.  Knowing 
that  William  is  so  hasty,  and  his  boots  are  so  thick,  I  trem- 
bled to  think  what  a  kick  might  do.  So,  on  coming  here,  I 
left  Buff — that  was  his  name — with  Miss  Smilecox.  (A 
pause.) 

MRS.  DALE  (looking  up  languidly). — Well,  my  love  ? 

Miss  JEMIMA. — Will  you  believe  it,  I  say,  when  I  re- 
turned to  Cheltenham,  only  three  months  afterward,  Miss 
Smilecox  had  seduced  his  affections  from  me,  and  the  un- 
grateful creature  did  not  even  know  me  again.  A  pug, 
too — yet  people  say  pugs  are  faithful  !  ! !  I  am  sure  they 
ought  to  be,  nasty  things.  I  have  never  had  a  gentleman 
dog  since — they  are  all  alike,  believe  me,  heartless,  selfish 
creatures. 

MRS.  DALE. — Pugs  ?     I  dare  say  they  are  ! 

Miss  JEMIMA  (with  spirit). — MEN!— I  told  you  it  was  a 
gentleman  dog! 

MRS.  DALE  (apologetically). — True,  my  love,  but  the 
whole  thing  was  so  mixed  up  ! 

Miss  JEMIMA. — You  saw  that  cold-blooded  case  of  Breach 
of  Promise  of  Marriage  in  the  papers — an  old  wretch,  too, 
of  sixty- four.  No  age  makes  them  a  bit  better.  And  when 
one  thinks  that  the  end  of  all  flesh  is  approaching,  and 
that— 

MRS.  DALE  (quickly,  for  she  prefers  Miss  Jemima's 
other  hobby  to  that  black  one  upon  which  she  is  preparing 
to  precede  the  bier  of  the  imiverse). — Yes,  my  love,  we'll 
avoid  that  subject,  if  you  please.  Mr.  Dale  has  his  own 
opinions,  and  it  becomes  me,  you  know,  as  a  parson's  wife 
(said  smilingly;  Mrs.  Dale  has  as  pretty  a  dimple  as  any 
of  Miss  Jemima's,  and  makes  more  of  that  one  than  Miss 
Jemima  of  three),  to  agree  with  him— that  is  in  theology. 

Miss  JEMIMA  (earnestly). — But  the  thing  is  so  clear,  if 
you  will  but  look  into 

MRS.  DALE  (putting  her  hand  on  Miss  Jemima's  lips 
playfully). — Not  a  word  more.  Pray,  what  do  you  think  of 
the  Squire's  tenant  at  the  Casino,  Signor  Riccabocca  ?  An 
interesting  creature,  is  not  he  ? 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  63 

Miss  JEMIMA. — Interesting !  not  to  me.  Interesting  ? 
Why  is  he  interesting  ? 

Mrs.  Dale  is  silent,  and  turns  her  handkerchief  in  her 
pretty  little  white  hands,  appearing  to  contemplate  the  R 
in  Caroline. 

Miss  JEMIMA  (half  pettishly,  half  coaxingly). — Why  is 
he  interesting  ?  I  scarcely  ever  looked  at  him  ;  they  say 
he  smokes,  and  never  eats.  Ugly,  too  ! 

MRS.  DALE. — Ugly — no.  A  fine  head — very  like  Dante's 
— but  what  is  beauty  ? 

Miss  JEMIMA. — Very  true  ;  what  is  it,  indeed  ?  Yes, 
as  you  say,  I  think  there  is  something  interesting  about 
him  ;  he  looks  melancholy,  but  that  may  be  because  he  is 
poor. 

MRS.  DALE. — It  is  astonishing  how  little  one  feels  pov- 
erty when  one  loves.  Charles  and  I  were  very  poor  once 

— before  the  Squire (Mrs.  Dale  paused,  looked  toward 

the  Squire,  and  murmured  a  blessing,  the  warmth  of  which 
brought  tears  into  her  eyes). — Yes  (she  added  after  a 
pause),  we  were  very  poor,  but  we  were  happy  even  then — 
more  thanks  to  Charles  than  to  me  (and  tears  from  a  new 
source  again  dimmed  those  quick,  lively  eyes,  as  the  little 
woman  gazed  fondly  on  her  husband,  whose  brows  were 
knit  into  a  black  frown  over  a  bad  hand). 

Miss  JEMIMA. — It  is  only  those  horrid  men  who  think 
of  money  as  a  source  of  happiness.  I  should  be  the  last 
person  to  esteem  a  gentleman  less  because  he  was  poor. 

MRS.  DALE. — I  wonder  the  Squire  does  not  ask  Signer 
Riccabocca  here  more  often.  Such  an  acquisition  we  find 
him  ! 

The  Squire's  voice  from  the  card-table. — "Whom  ought 
I  to  ask  more  often,  Mrs.  Dale  ? " 

Parson's  voice,  impatiently. — "  Come — come — come, 
Squire  ;  play  to  my  queen  of  diamonds — do  !  " 

SQUIRE. — There,  I  trump  it — pick  up  the  trick,  Mrs.  H. 

PARSON. — Stop  !  stop  !  trump  my  diamond  ? 

The  CAPTAIN  (solemnly). — Trick  turned ;  play  on, 
Squire. 

SQUIRE. — The  king  of  diamonds. 

MRS.  HAZELDEAN. — Lord !  Hazeldean  ;  why,  that's  the 
most  barefaced  revoke — ha — ha— ha  !  trump  the  queen  of 
diamonds  and  play  out  the  king  !  well  I  never — ha — ha — 
ha! 

CAPTAIN  BARNABAS  (in  tenor). — Ha,  ha,  ha ! 


64  MY  NOVEL;    OR, 

SQUIRE. — Ho — ho — ho  !  bless  my  soul  ;  ho,  ho,  ho  ! 

CAPTAIN  BARNABAS  (in  base). — Ho — ho — ho  ! 

Parson's  voice  raised,  but  drowned  by  the  laughter  of 
his  adversaries  and  the  firm,  clear  tone  of  Captain  Barna- 
bas— "  Three  to  our  score  ! — game  ! " 

SQUIRE  (wiping  his  eyes). — No  help  for  it,  Harry — deal 
for  me  !  Whom  ought  I  to  ask,  Mrs.  Dale  ?  (waxing 
angry).  First  time  I  ever  heard  the  hospitality  of  Hazel- 
dean  called  in  question  ! 

MRS.  DALE. — My  dear  sir,  I  beg  a  thousand  pardons, 
but  listeners — you  know  the  proverb. 

SQUIRE  (growling  like  a  bear). — I  hear  nothing  but 
proverbs  ever  since  we  had  that  Mounseer  among  us. 
Please  to  speak  plainly,  ma'am. 

MRS.  DALE  (sliding  into  a  little  temper  at  being  thus 
roughly  accosted). — It  was  of  Mounseer,  as  you  call  him, 
that  I  spoke,  Mr.  Hazeldean. 

SQUIRE. — What  !     Rickeybockey  ? 

MRS.  DALE  (attempting  the  pure  Italian  accentuation). 
— Signer  Riccabocca. 

PARSON  (slapping  his  cards  on  the  table  in  despair). 
— Are  we  playing  at  whist,  or  are  we  not  ? 

The  Squire,  who  is  fourth  player,  drops  the  king  to 
Captain  Higginbotham's  lead  of  the  ace  of  hearta  Now 
the  Captain  has  left  queen,  knave,  and  t\vo  other  hearts — 
four  trumps  to  the  queen  and  nothing  to  win  a  trick  with 
in  the  two  other  suits.  This  hand  is  therefore  precisely  one 
of  those  in  which,  especially  after  the  fall  of  that  king  of 
hearts  in  the  adversary's  hand,  it  becomes  a  matter  of  rea- 
sonable doubt  whether  to  lead  trumps  or  not.  The  Captain 
hesitates,  and  not  liking  to  play  out  his  good  hearts  with 
the  certainty  of  their  being  trumped  by  the  Squire,  nor,  on 
the  other  hand,  liking  to  open  the  other  suits,  in  which  he 
has  not  a  card  that  can  assist  his  partner,  resolves,  as  be- 
comes a  military  man,  in  such  dilemma,  to  make  a  bold 
push  and  lead  out  trumps,  in  the  chance  of  finding  his  part- 
ner strong,  and  so  bringing  in  his  long  suit. 

SQUIRE  (taking  advantage  of  the  much  meditating  pause 
made  by  the  Captain). — Mrs.  Dale,  it  is  not  my  fault.  I 
have  asked  Rickeybockey — time  out  of  mind.  But  I  sup- 
pose I  am  not  fine  enough 'for  those  foreign  chaps.  He'll 
not  come — that's  all  I  know. 

PARSON  (aghast  at  seeing  the  Captain  play  out  trumps 
of  which  he,  Mr.  Dale,  has  only  two,  wherewith  he  expects 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  65 

to  ruff  the  suit  of  spades  of  which  he  has  only  one — the 
cards  all  falling  in  suits — while  he  has  not  a  single  other 
chance  of  a  trick  in  his  hand). — Really,  Squire,  we  had 
better  give  up  playing  if  you  put  out  my  partner  in  this 
extraordinary  way — jabber — jabber — jabber  ! 

SQUIRE. — Well,  we  must  be  good  children,  Harry. 
What ! — trumps,  Barney  ?  Thank  ye  for  that ! '  And  the 
Squire  might  well  be  grateful,  for  the  unfortunate  adver- 
sary has  led  up  to  ace  king  knave — with  two  other  trumps. 
Squire  takes  the  Parson's  ten  with  his  knave,  and  plays  out 
ace  king ;  then,  having  cleared  all  the  trumps  except  the 
Captain's  queen  and  his  own  remaining  two,  leads  off  tierce 
major  in  that  very  suit  of  spades  of  which  the  Parson  has 
only  one — and  the  Captain,  indeed,  but  two — forces  out  the 
Captain's  queen,  and  wins  the  game  in  a  canter. 

PARSON  (with  a  look  at  the  Captain  which  might  have 
become  the  awful  brows  of  Jove,  when  about  to  thunder). 
— That,  I  suppose,  is  the  new-fashioned  London  play !  In 
my  time  the  rule  was,  "  First  save  the  game,  then  try  to 
win  it." 

CAPTAIN. — Could  not  save  it,  sir. 

PARSON  (exploding). — Not  save  it ! — two  ruffs  in  my  own 
hand — two  tricks  certain  till  you  took  them  out !  Monstrous  ! 
The  rashest  trump  — Seizes  the  cards — spreads  them  on  the 
table,  lip  quivering,  hands  trembling — tries  to  show  how 
five  tricks  could  have  been  gained — (N.B.  It  is  short  whist, 
which  Captain  Barnabas  had  introduced  at  the  Hall)  can't 
make  out  more  than  four — Captain  smiles  triumphantly — 
Parson  in  a  passion,  and  not  at  all  convinced,  mixes  all 
the  cards  together  again,  and  falling  back  in  his  chair, 
groans,  with  tears  in  his  voice — "  The  cruelest  trump  !  the 
most  wanton  cruelty  !  " 

The  Hazeldeans  in  chorus. — "  Ho — ho — ho  !  Ha — ha — 
ha!" 

The  Captain,  who  does  not  laugh  this  time,  and  whose 
turn  it  is  to  deal,  shuffles  the  cards  for  the  conquering  game 
of  the  rubber  with  as  much  caution  and  prolixity  as  Fabius 
might  have  employed  in  posting  his  men.  The  Squire  gets 
up  to  stretch  his  legs,  and,  the  insinuation  against  his  hos- 
pitality recurring  to  his  thoughts,,  calls  out  to  his  wife — 
"  Write  to  Rickeybockey  to-morrow  yourself,  Harry,  and 
ask  him  to  come  and  spend  two  or  three  days  here.  There, 
Mrs.  Dale,  you  hear  me?" 

"  Yes,"  said  Mrs.   Dale,  putting  her  hands  to  her  ears 


66-  My  NOVEL;    OR, 

in  implied  rebuke  at  the  loudness  of  the  Squire's  tone. 
"  My  dear  sir,  do  remember  that  I'm  a  sad  nervous  creature." 

"Beg  pardon,"  muttered  Mr.  Hazeldean,  turning  to  his 
son,  who,  having  got  tired  of  the  caricatures,  had  fished 
out  for  himself  the  great  folio  County  History,  which  was 
the  only  book  in  the  library  that  the  Squire  much  valued, 
and  which'  he  usually  kept  under  lock  and  key,  in  his  study, 
together  with  the  field-books  and  steward's  accounts,  but 
which  he  had  reluctantly  taken  into  the  drawing-room 
that  day,  in  order  to  oblige  Captain  Higginbotham.  For 
the  Higginbothams — an  old  Saxon  family,  as  the  name  evi- 
dently denotes — had  once  possessed  lands  in  that  very 
county.  And  the  Captain,  during  his  visits  to  Hazeldean 
Hall,  was  regularly  in  the  habit  of  asking  to  look  into  the 
County  History,  for  the  purpose  of  refreshing  his  eyes,  and 
renovating  his  sense  of  ancestral  dignity,  with  the  following 
paragraph  therein  : — "  To  the  left  of  the  village  of  Dunder, 
and  pleasantly  situated  in  a  hollow,  lies  Botham  Hall,  the 
residence  of  the  ancient  family  of  Higginbotham,  as  it  is 
now  commonly  called.  Yet  it  appears  by  the  county  rolls, 
and  sundry  old  deeds,  that  the  family  formerly  styled  itself 
Higges,  till  the  Manor  House  lying  in  Botham,  they  gradu- 
ally assumed  the  appellation  of  Higges-in-Botham,  and  in 
process  of  time,  yielding  to  the  corruptions  of  the  vulgar, 
Higginbotham." 

"  What,  Frank  !  my  County  History !  "  cried  the  Squire. 
"  Mrs.  H.,  he  has  got  my  County  History  !  " 

"Well,  Hazeldean,  it  is  time  he  should  know  something 
about  the  County." 

"Ay,  and  History  too,"  said  Mrs.  Dale,  malevolently, 
for  the  little  temper  was  by  no  means  blown  over. 

FRANK. — I'll  not  hurt  it,  I  assure  you,  sir.  But  I'm  very 
much  interested  just  at  present. 

The  CAPTAIN  (putting  down  the  cards  to  cut). — You've 
got  hold  of  that  passage  about  Botham  Hall,  page  706, 
eh? 

FRANK. — No  ;  I  was  trying  to  make  out  how  far  it  is  to 
Mr.  Leslie's  place,  Rood  Hall.  Do  you  know,  mother  ? 

MRS.  HAZELDEAN. — I  can't  say  I  do.  The  Leslies  don't 
mix  with  the  country  ;  and  Rood  lies  very  much  out  of  the 
way. 

FRANK. — Why  don't  they  mix  with  the  country  ? 

MRS.  HAZELDEAN.— I  believe  they  are  poor,  and  there- 
fore I  suppose  they  are  proud  ;  they  are  an  old  family. 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  6? 

PARSON  (thrumming  on  the  table  with  great  impatience). 
— Old  Fiddledee  ! — talking  of  old  families  when  the  cards 
have  been  shuffled  this  half-hour  ! 

CAPTAIN  BARNABAS. — Will  you  cut  for  your  partner, 
ma'am  ? 

SQUIRE  (who  has  been  listening  to  Frank's  inquiries 
with  a  musing  air). — Why  do  you  want  to'  know  the  distance 
to  Rood  Hall  ? 

FRANK  (rather  hesitatingly). — Because  Randal  Leslie  is 
there  for  the  holidays,  sir. 

PARSON. — Your  wife  has  cut  for  you,  Mr.  Hazeldean  ;  I 
don't  think  it  was  quite  fair  ;  and  my  partner  has  turned 
up  a  deuce  — deuce  of  hearts.  Please  to  come  and  play,  if 
you  mean  to  play. 

The  Squire  returns  to  the  table,  and  in  a  few  minutes 
the  game  is  decided  by  a  dexterous  finesse  of  the  Captain 
against  the  Hazeldeans.  The  clock  strikes  ten  ;  the  ser- 
vants enter  with  a  tray  ;  the  Squire  counts  up  his  own  and 
his  wife's  losings  ;  and  the  Captain  and  Parson  divide  six- 
teen shillings  between  them. 

SQUIRE. — There,  Parson,  I  hope  now  you'll  be  in  a 
better  humor.  You  win  enough  out  of  us  to  set  up  a  coach- 
and-four. 

"Tut ! "  muttered  the  Parson  ;  "at  the  end  of  the  year, 
I'm  not  a  penny  the  richer  for  it  all." 

And  indeed,  monstrous  as  that  assertion  seemed,  it  was 
perfectly  true,  for  the  Parson  portioned  out  his  gains  into 
three  divisions.  One-third  he  gave  to  Mrs.  Dale,  for  her 
own  special  pocket-money ;  what  became  of  the  second 
third  he  never  owned  even  to  his  better  half  ;  but  certain  it 
was,  that  every  time  the  Parson  won  seven-and-sixpence, 
half-a-crown,  which  nobody  could  account  for,  found  its 
way  to  the  poor-box  ;  while  the  remaining  third  the  Par- 
son, it  is  true,  openly  and  avowedly  retained  ;  but  I  have  no 
manner  of  ddubt  that,  at  the  year's  end,  it  got  to  the  poor 
quite  as  safely  as  if  it  had  been  put  into  the  box. 

The  party  had  now  gathered  round  the  tray,  and  were 
helping  themselves  to  wine  and  water,  or  wine  without 
water — except  Frank,  who  still  remained  poring  over  the 
map  in  the  County  History,  with  his  head  leaning  on  his 
hands,  and  his  fingers  plunged  in  his  hair. 

"  Frank,"  said  Mrs.  Hazeldean,  "  I  never  saw  you  so 
studious  before." 


63  MY  NOVEL;    OR, 

Frank  started  up  and  colored,  as  if  ashamed  of  being 
accused  of  too  much  study  in  anything. 

The  SQUIRE  (with  a  little  embarrassment  in  his  voice). 
— Pray,  Frank,  what  do  you  know  of  Randal  Leslie  ? 

"Why,  sir,  he  is  at  Eton." 

"  What  sort  of  a  boy  is  he  ?"  asked  Mrs.  Hazeldean. 

Frank  hesitated,  as  if  reflecting,  and  then  answered, — 
"  They  say  he  is  the  cleverest  boy  in  the  school.  But  then 
he  saps." 

"  In  other  words,"  said  Mr.  Dale,  with  proper  parsonic 
gravity,  "  he  understands  that  he  was  sent  to  school  to 
learn  his  lessons,  -and  he  learns  them.  You  call  that  sap- 
ping,— I  call  it  doing  his  duty.  But,  pray,  who  and  what 
is  this  Randal  Leslie,  that  you  look  so  discomposed, 
Squire  ? " 

"  Who  and  what  is  he  ? "  repeated  the  Squire,  in  a  low 
growl.  "Why,  you  know,  Mr.  Audley  Egerton  married 
Miss  Leslie,  the  great  heiress  ;  and  this  boy  is  a  relation  of 
hers.  I  may  say,"  added  the  Squire,  "that  he  is  a  near  re- 
lation of  mine,  for  his  grandmother  was  a  Hazeldean.  But 
all  I  know  about  the  Leslies  is,  that  Mr.  Egerton,  as  I  am 
told,  having  no  children  of  his  own,  took  up  young  Randal 
(when  his  wife  died,  poor  woman),  pays  for  his  schooling, 
and  has,  I  suppose,  adopted  the  boy  as  his  heir.  Quite 
welcome.  Frank  and  I  want  nothing  from  Mr.  Audley 
Egerton,  thank  Heaven  !  " 

"  I  can  well  believe  in  your  brother's  generosity  to  his 
wife's  kindred,"  said  the  Parson,  sturdily,  "for  I  am  sure 
Mr.  Egerton  is  a  man  of  strong  feeling." 

"What  the  deuce  do  you  know  about  Mr.  Egerton?  I 
don't  suppose  you  could  ever  have  even  spoken  to  him.  " 

"Yes,"'  said  the  Parson,  coloring  up,  and  looking  con- 
fused, "  I  had  some  conversation  with  him  once  ;"  and  ob- 
serving the  Squire's  surprise,  he  added, —  "when  I  was 
curate  at  Lansmere,  and  about  a  painful  busifless  connected 
with  the  family  of  one  of  my  parishioners." 

"  Oh !  one  of  your  parishioners  at  Lansmere, — one  of 
the  constituents  Mr.  Audley  Egerton  threw  over,  after 
all  the  pains  I  had  taken  to  get  him  his  seat.  Rather  odd 
you  should  never  have  mentioned  this  before,  Mr.  Dale ! " 

"  My  dear  sir,"  said  the  Parson,  sinking  his  voice,  and 
in  a  mild  tone  of  conciliatory  expostulation,  "  you  are  so 
irritable  whenever  Mr.  Egerton's  name  is  mentioned  at 
all," 


VARIETIES   IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  69 

"  Irritable  ! "  exclaimed  the  Squire,  whose  wrath  had 
long  been  simmering,  and  now  fairly  boiled  over.  "  Irrita- 
ble, sir!  — I  should  think  so  ;  a  man  for  whom  I  stood  god- 
father at  the  hustings,  Mr.  Dale! — a  man  for  whose  sake  I 
was  called  a  'prize  ox,'  Mr.  Dale  ! — a  man  for  whom  I  was 
hissed  in  a  market-place,  Mr.  Dale! — a  man  for  whom  I 
was  shot  at,  in  cold  blood,  by  an  officer  in  his  Majesty's  ser- 
vice, who  lodged  a  ball  in  my  right  shoulder,  Mr.  Dale  !  — 
a  man  who  had  the  ingratitude,  after  all  this,  to  turn  his 
back  on  the  landed  interest, — to  deny  that  there  was  any 
agricultural  distress  in  a  year  which  broke  three  of  the  best 
farmers  I  ever  had,  Mr.  Dale! — a  man,  sir,  who  made  a 
speech  on  the  Currency,  which  was  complimented  by  Ri- 
ciirdo,  a  Jew  !  Good  Heavens  !  a  pretty  parson  you  are, 
to  stand  up  for  a  fellow  complimented  by  a  Jew !  Nice 
ideas  you  must  have  of  Christianity.  Irritable,  sir  !  "  now 
fairly  roared  the  Squire,  adding  to  the  thunder  of  his  voice 
the  cloud  of  a  brow  which  evinced  a  menacing  ferocity  that 
might  have  done  honor  to  Bussy  d'Amboise  or  Fighting 
Fitzgerald.  "  Sir,  if  that  man  had  not  been  my  own  half- 
brother,  I'd  have  called  him  out.  I  have  stood  my  ground 
before  now.  I  have  had  a  ball  in  my  right  shoulder.  Sir, 
I'd  have  called  him  out." 

"Mr.  Hazeldean  ! — Mr.  Hazeldean  !  I'm  shocked  at  you," 
cried  the  Parson  ;  and,  putting  his  lips  close  to  the  Squire's 
ear,  he  went  on  in  a  whisper, — "What  an  example  to  your 
son  !  You'll  have  him  fighting  duels  one  of  these  days,  and 
nobody  to  blame  but  yourself." 

This  warning  cooled  Mr.  Hazeldean  ;  and  muttering, 
"Why  the  deuce  did  you  set  me  off?  "  he  fell  back  into  his 
chair,  and  began  to  fan  himself  with  his  pochet-handker- 
chief. 

The  Parson  skilfully  and  remorselessly  pursued  the  ad- 
vantage he  had  gained.  "And  now,  that  you  may  have  it 
in  your  power  to  show  civility  and  kindness  to  the  boy 
whom  Mr.  Edgerton  has  taken  up,  out  of  respect  to  his 
wife's  memory — a  kinsman,  you  say,  of  your  own, — and  who 
has  never  offended  you, — a  boy  whose  diligence  in  his  stud- 
ies proves  him  to  be  an  excellent  companion  to  your  son — 
Frank  (here  the  parson  raised  his  voice),  I  suppose  you 
would  like  to  call  on  young  Leslie,  as  you  were  studying 
he  county  map  so  attentively  ?" 

"Why,  yes,"  answered  Frank,  rather  timidly,  "if  my 
father  does  not  object  to  it.  Leslie  has  been  very  kind 


70  MY  NOVEL;    OR, 

to  me,  though  he  is  in  the  sixth  form,  and,  indeed,  almost 
the  head  of  the  school." 

"  Ah  !"  said  Mrs.  Hazeldean,  "one  studious  boy  has  a 
fellow-feeling  for  another ;  and  though  you  enjoy  your 
holidays,  Frank,  I  am  sure  you  read  hard  at  school." 

Mrs.  Dale  opened  her  eyes  very  wide,  and  stared  in 
astonishment. 

Mrs.  Hazeldean  retorted  that  look  with  great  anima- 
tion. "  Yes,  Carry,"  said  she,  tossing  her  head,  "though 
you  may  not  think  Frank  clever,  his  masters  find  him  so. 
He  got  a  prize  last  half.  That  beautiful  book,  Frank — 
hold  up  your  head,  my  love,— what  did  you  get  it  for  ?  " 

FRANK  (reluctantly). — Verses,  ma'am. 

MRS.  HAZKLDEAN  (with  triumph). — Verses  ! — there, 
Carry,  verses  ! 

FRANK  (in  a  hurried  tone). — Yes,  but  Leslie  wrote  them 
for  me. 

MRS.  HAZELDEAN  (recoiling).— O  Frank  !  a  prize  for 
what  another  did  for  you — that  was  mean. 

FRANK  (ingenuously). — You  can't  be  more  ashamed, 
mother,  than  I  was  when  they  gave  me  the  prize. 

MRS.  DALE  (though  previously  provoked  at  being 
snubbed  by  Harry,  now  showing  the  triumph  of  generosity 
over  temper). — I  beg  your  pardon,  Frank.  Your  mother 
must  be  as  proud  of  that  shame  as  she  was  of  the  prize. 

Mrs.  Hazeldean  puts  her  arm  round  Frank's  neck, 
smiles  beamingly  on  Mrs.  Dale,  and  converses  with  her 
son  in  a  low  tone  about  Randal  Leslie.  Miss  Jemima 
now  approached  Carry,  and  said  in  an  "aside," — "  But 
we  are  forgetting  poor  Mr.  Riccabocca.  Mrs.  Hazel- 
dean,  though  the  dearest  creature  in  the  world,  has  such 
a  blunt  way  of  inviting  people — don't  you  think  if  you 
were  to  say  a  word  to  him,  Carry  ?  " 

MRS.  DALE  (kindly,  as  she  wraps  her  shawl  round  her). 
— Suppose  you  write  the  note  yourself.  Meanwhile,  I 
shall  see  him,  no  doubt. 

PARSON  (putting  his  hand  on  the  Squire's  shoulder). 
—You  forgive  my  impertinence,  my  kind  friend.  We 
parsons,  you  know,  are  apt  to  take  strange  liberties,  when 
we  honor  and  love  folks,  as  I  do. 

"  Pish,"  said  the  Squire  ;  but  his  hearty  smile  came  to 
his  lips  in  spite  of  himself. — "You  always  get  your  own 
way,  and  I  suppose  Frank  must  ride  over  and  see  this  pet 
of  my " 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  71 

"Brother's"  quoth  the  Parson,  concluding  the  sentence 
in  a  tone  which  gave  to  the  sweet  word  so  sweet  a  sound 
that  the  Squire  would  not  correct  the  Parson,  as  he  had 
been  about  to  correct  himself. 

Mr.  Dale  moved  on  ;  but  as  he  passed  Captain  Barnabas, 
the  benignant  character  of  his  countenance  changed  sadly. 

"  The  crudest  trump,  Captain  Higginbotham  !  "  said 
he  sternly,  and  stalked  by — majestic. 

The  night  was  so  fine  that  the  Parson  and  his  wife,  as 
they  walked  home,  made  a  little  detour  through  the  shrub- 
bery. 

MRS.  DALE. — I  think  I  have  done  a  good  piece  of  work 
to-night. 

PARSON  (rousing  himself  from  a  reverie). — Have  you, 
Carry  ? — it  will  be  a  very  pretty  handkerchief. 

MRS.  DALE. — Handkerchief! — nonsense,  dear.  Don't 
you  think  it  would  be  a  very  happy  thing  for  both,  if 
Jemima  and  Signor  Riccabocca  could  be  brought  together  ? 

PARSON. — Brought  together ! 

MRS.  DALE. — You  do  snap  up  one  so,  my  dear — I  mean, 
if  I  could  make  a  match  of  it. 

PARSON. — I  think  Riccabocca  is  a  match  already,  not 
only  for  Jemima,  but  yourself  into  the  bargain. 

MRS.  DALE  (smiling  loftily). — Well,  we  shall  see.  Was 
not  Jemima's  fortune  about  ^4,000  ? 

PARSON  (dreamily,  for  he  is  relapsing  fast  into  his  in- 
terrupted reverie). — Ay — ay — I  dare  say. 

MRS.  DALE. — And  she  must  have  saved!  I  dare  say  it 
is  nearly  ^6,000  by  this  time  ; — eh  !  Charles  dear,  you 
really  are  so — good  gracious,  what's  that ! 

As  Mrs.  Dale  made  this  exclamation,  they  had  just 
emerged  from  the  shrubbery  into  the  village  green. 

PARSON. — What's  what  ? 

MRS.  DALE  (pinching  her  husband's  arm  very  nippingly). 
— That  thing — there — there  ! 

PARSON. — Only  the  new  stocks,  Carry  ;  I  don't  wonder 
they  frighten  you,  for  you  are  a  very  sensible  woman.  I 
only  wish  they  would  frighten  the  Squire. 


MY  NOVEL;    OK, 


CHAPTER  XIII. 

SUPPOSED  TO  BE  A  LETTER  FROM  MRS.  HAZELDEAN  TO  A. 
RICCABOCCA,  ESQ.,  THE  CASINO  J  BUT  EDITED,  AND  INDEED 
COMPOSED,  BY  MISS  JEMIMA  HAZELDEAN. 

"DEAR  SIR, — To  a  feeling  heart  it  must  always  be  pain- 
ful to  give  pain  to  another,  and  (though  I  am  sure  uncoun- 
sciously)  you  have  given  the  greatest  pain  to  poor  Mr. 
Hazeldean  and  myself,  indeed  to  all  our  little  circle,  in  so 
cruelly  refusing  our  attempts  to  become  better  acquainted 
with  a  gentleman  we  so  highly  ESTEEM.  Do,  pray,  dear 
sir,  make  us  the  amende  honorable,  and  give  us  the  pleasure 
of  your  company  for  a  few  days  at  the  Hall !  May  we 
expect  you  Saturday  next  ? — our  dinner  hour  is  six  o'clock. 

"  With  the  best  compliments  of  Mr.  and  Miss  Jemima 
Hazeldean, 

"  Believe  me,  my  dear  Sir,  yours  truly, 

"H.  H. 

"  Hazeldean  Hall." 

Miss  Jemima  having  carefully  sealed  this  note,  which 
Mrs.  Hazeldean  had  very  willingly  deputed  her  to  write, 
took  it  herself  into  the  stable-yard,  in  order  to  give  the 
groom  proper  instructions  to  wait  for  an  answer.  But 
while  she  was  speaking  to  the  man,  Frank,  equipped  for 
riding  with  more  than  his  usual  dandyism,  came  into  the 
yard,  calling  for  his  pony  in  a  loud  voice,  and  singling  out 
the  very  groom  whom  Miss  Jemima  was  addressing — for, 
indeed,  he  was  the  smartest  of  all  in  the  Squire's  stables — 
told  him  to  saddle  the  gray  pad,  and  accompany  the  pony. 

"No,  Frank,"  said  Miss  Jemina,  "you  can't  have 
George  ;  your  father  wants  him  to  go  on  a  message — you 
can  take  Mat." 

"  Mat,  indeed  ! "  said  Frank,  grumbling  with  some  rea- 
son ;  for  Mat  was  a  surly  old  fellow,  who  tied  a  most  inde- 
fensible neckcloth,  and  always  contrived  to  have  a  great 
patch  in  his  boots; — besides,  he  called  Frank  "Master," 
and  obstinately  refused  to  trot  down  hill; — "Mat,  indeed  I 
— let  Mat  take  the  message,  and  George  go  with  me." 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  73 

But  Miss  Jemina  had  also  her  reasons  for  rejecting  Mat. 
Mat's  foible  was  not  servility,  and  he  always  showed  true 
English  independence  in  all  houses  where  he  was  riot  in- 
vited to  take  his  ale  in  the  servants'  hall.  Mat  might  offend 
Signor  Riccabocca,  and  spoil  all.  An  animated  altercation 
ensued,  in  the  midst  of  which  the  Squire  and  his  wife  en- 
entered  the  yard,  with  the  intention  of  driving  in  the  con- 
jugal gig  to  the  market-town.  The  matter  was  referred  to 
the  natural  umpire  by  both  the  contending  parties. 

The  Squire  looked  with  great  contempt  on  his  son. 
"  And  what  did  you  want  a  groom  at  all  for  ?  Are  you 
afraid  of  tumbling  off  the  pony?" 

FRANK. — No,  sir  ;  but  I  like  to  go  as  a  gentleman,  when 
I  pay  a  visit  to  a  gentleman ! 

SQUIRE  (in  high  wrath). — You  precious  puppy  !  I  think 
I'm  as  good  a  gentleman  as  you  any  day,  and  I  should  like 
to  know  when  you  ever  saw  me  ride  to  call  on  a  neighbor 
with  a  fellow  jingling  at  my  heels,  like  that  upstart  Ned 
Spankie,  whose  father  kept  a  cotton-mill.  First  time  I  ever 
heard  of  a  Hazeldean  thinking  a  livery-coat  was  necessary 
to  prove  his  gentility  ! 

MRS.  HAZELDEAN  (observing  Frank  coloring,  and  about 
to  reply). — Hush,  Frank,  never  answer  your  father — and 
you  are  going  to  call  on  Mr.  Leslie  ? 

"  Yes,  ma'am,  and  I  am  very  much  obliged  to  my  father 
for  letting  me,"  said  Frank,  taking  the  Squire's  hand. 

"Well,  but  Frank,"  continued  Mrs.  Hazeldean,  "I  think 
you  heard  that  the  Leslies  were  very  poor." 

FRANK. — Eh,  mother? 

MRS.  HAZELDEAN. — And  would  you  run  the  chance  of 
wounding  the  pride  of  a  gentleman,  as  well  born  as  your- 
self, by  affecting  any  show  of  being  richer  than  he  is  ? 

SQUIRE  (with  great  admiration). — Harry,  I'd  give  ten 
pounds  to  have  said  that ! 

FRANK  (leaving  the  Squire's  hand  to  take  his  mother's). 
—You're  quite  right,  mother — nothing  could  be  more 
snobbish  ! 

SQUIRE. — Give  us  your  fist,  too,  sir  ;  you'll  be  a  chip  of 
the  old  block,  after  all. 

Frank  smiled,  and  walked  off  to  his  pony. 

MRS.  HAZELDEAN  (to  Miss  Jemima). — Is  that  the  note  you 
were  to  write  for  me  ? 

Miss  JEMIMA. — Yes  ;  I  supposed  you  did  not  care  about 
seeing  it,  so  I  have  sealed  it,  and  given  it  to  George. 


74  MY  NOVEL;    OR, 

MRS.  HAZELDEAN. — But  Frank  will  pass  close  by  the  Ca- 
sino on  his  way  to  the  Leslies'.  It  may  be  more  civil  if  he 
leaves  the  note  himself. 

Miss  JEMIMA  (hesitatingly). — Do  you  think  so  ? 

MRS.  HAZELDEAN. — Yes,  certainly.  Frank — Frank — as 
youpass  by  the  Casino,  call  on  Mr.  Riccabocca,  give  this 
note  and  say  we  shall  be  heartily  glad  if  he  will  come. 

Frank  nods. 

"  Stop  a  bit,"  cried  the  Squire.  "  If  Rickeybockey's  at 
home,  'tis  ten  to  one  if  he  don't  ask  you  to  take  a  glass  of 
wine  !  If  he  does,  mind,  'tis  worse  than  asking  you  to  take 
a  turn  on  the  rack.  Faugh  !  you  remember,  Harry  ? — I 
thought  it  was  all  up  with  me." 

"  Y"es,"  cried  Mrs.  Hazeldean  ;  "  for  Heaven's  sake,  not 
a  drop.  Wine,  indeed  !  " 

"Don't  talk  of  it,"  cried  the  Squire,  making  a  wry  face. 

"  I'll  take  care,  sir  !"  said  Frank,  laughing  as  he  disap- 
peared within  the  stable,  followed  by  Miss  Jemima,  who  now 
coaxingly  makes  it  up  with  him,  and  does  not  leave  off  her 
admonitions  to  be  extremely  polite  to  the  poor  foreign 
gentleman  till  Frank  gets  his  foot  into  the  stirrup,  and 
the  pony,  who  knows  whom  he  has  got  to  deal  with,  gives  a 
preparatory  plunge  or  two,  and  then  darts  out  of  the  yard. 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  75 


BOOK    SECOND. 


INITIAL   CHAPTER. 

INFORMING     THE     READER    HOW     THIS     WORK     CAME     TO     HAVE 
INITIAL    CHAPTERS. 

"THERE  can'fbe  a~ doubt,"  said  my  father,  "that  to  each 
of  the  main  divisions  of  your  work — whether  you  call  them 
Books  or  Parts — you  should  prefix  an  Initial  or  Introduc- 
tory Chapter." 

PISISTRATUS. — Can't  be  a  doubt,  sir  !     Why  so  ? 

MR.  CAXTON. — Fielding  lays  it  down  as  an  indispensable 
rule,  which  he  supports  by  his  example  ;  and  Fielding  was 
an  artistical  writer,  and  knew  what  he  was  about. 

PISISTRATUS. — Do  you  remember  any  of  his  reasons, 
sir? 

MR.  CAXTON. — Why,  indeed,  Fielding  says  very  justly, 
that  he  is  not  bound  to  assign  any  reason  ;  but  he  does  as- 
sign a  good  many,  here  and  there — to  find  which,  I  refer 
you  to  Tom  Jones.  I  will  only  observe,  that  one  of  his  rea- 
sons, which  is  unanswerable,  runs  to  the  effect  that  thus, 
in  every  Part  or  Book,  the  reader  has  the  advantage  of  be- 
ginning at  the  fourth  or  fifth  page  instead  of  the  first— "a 
matter  by  no  means  of  trivial  consequence,"  saith  Fielding, 
"  to  persons  who  read  books  with  no  other  view  than  to 
say  they  have  read  them — a  more  general  motive  to  read- 
ing than  is  commonly  imagined  ;  and  from  which  not  only 
law  books  and  good  books,  but  the  pages  of  Homer  and 
Virgil,  of  Swift  and  Cervantes,  have  been  often  turned 
over."  There,  cried  my  father  triumphantly,  I  will  lay  a 
shilling  to  twopence  that  f  have  quoted  the  very  words. 

MRS.  CAXTON.  — Dear  me  !  that  only  means  skipping ;  I 
don't  see  any  great  advantage  in  writing  a  chapter,  merely 
for  people  \Q  skip  it. 

PISISTRATUS.— 'Neither  do  I. 


76  MY  NOVEL;    OR, 

MR.  CAXTON  (dogmatically). — It  is  the  repose  in  the  pic- 
ture— Fielding  calls  it  "  contrast  " — (still  more  dogmatically) 
I  say  there  can't  be  a  doubt  about  it.  Besides  (added  my 
father  after  a  pause),  besides,  this  usage  gives  you  opportu- 
nities'to  explain  what  has  gone  before,  or  to  prepare  for 
what's  coming  ;  or,  since  Fielding  contends,  with  great  truth, 
that  some  learning  is  necessary  for  this  kind  of  historical 
composition,  it  allows  you,  naturally  and  easily,  the  intro- 
duction of  light  and  pleasant  ornaments  of  that  nature.  At 
each  flight  in  the  terrace,  you  may  give  the  eye  the  relief 
of  an  urn  or  a  statue.  Moreover,  when  so  inclined,  you 
create  proper  pausing  places  for  reflection  ;  and  complete 
by  a  separate,  yet  harmonious  ethical  department,  the  de- 
sign of  a  work,  which  is  but  a  mere  Mother  Goose's  tale  if 
it  does  not  embrace  a  general  view -of  the  thoughts  and 
actions  of  mankind. 

PISISTRATUS. — But  then,  in  these  initial  chapters,  the 
author  thrusts  himself  forward  ;  and  just  when  you  want  to 
get  on  with  the  dramatis  persona,  you  find  yourself  face  to 
face  with  the  poet  himself. 

MR.  CAXTON.  — Pooh  !  you  can  contrive  to  prevent  that ! 
Imitate  the  chorus  of  the  Greek  stage,  who  fill  up  the  in- 
tervals between  the  action  by  saying  what  the  author  would 
otherwise  say  in  his  own  person. 

PISISTRATUS  (slily). — That's  a  good  idea,  sir  ;  and  I  have 
a  chorus,  and  a  choregus  too,  already  in  my  eye. 

MR.  GAXT.QN  (unsuspectingly). — Aha!  you  are  not  so  dull 
a  fellow  as  you  would  make  yourself,  out  to  be  ;  and,  even 
if  an  author  did  thrust  himself  forward,  what  objection  is 
there  to  that  ?  It  is  a  mere  affectation  to  suppose  that  a 
book  can  come  into  the  world  without  an  author.  Every 
child  has  a  father — one  father  at  least,  as  the  great  Conde 
says  very  well  in  his  poem. 

PISISTRATUS. — The  great  Concle  a  poet  !— I  never  heard 
that  before. 

MR.  CAXTON. — I  don't  say  he  was  a  poet,  but  he  sent  a 
poem  to  Madame  do  Montansier.  Envious  critics  think  that 
he  must  have  paid  somebody  else  to  write  it  ;  but  there  is 
no  reason  why  a  great  captain  should  not  write  a  poem  ;  I 
don't  say  a  good  poem,  but  a  poem.  I  wonder,  Roland,  if 
the  Duke  ever  tried  his  hand  at  "  Stanzas  to  Mary,"  or 
"  Lines  to  a  sleeping  babe." 

CAPTAIN  ROLAND. — Austin,  I'm  ashamed  of  you.  Of 
course,  the  Duke  could  write  poetry  if  he  pleased — some- 


VARIETIES  IN  EN  CL  IS  PI  LIFE.  7. 

thing,  I  dare  say,  in  the  way  of  the  great  Conde  ;  that  is, 
something  warlike  and  heroic,  I'll  be  bound.     Let's  hear. 
MR.  CAXTON  (reciting) — 

"  Telle  est  du  Ciella  loi  severe 

Qu'il  faut  qiruu  enfant  ait  un  pere  ; 

\)n  dit  meme  quelquefoLs 

Tel  enfant  en  a  jusqu'a  trois."  * 

CAPTAIN  ROLAND  (greatly  disgusted). — Conde  write  such 
stuff  ! — I  don't  believe  it. 

PISISTRATUS. — I  do,  and  accept  the  quotation  ;  you  and 
Roland  shall  be  joint  fathers  to  my  child  as  well  as  myself. 

"  Tel  enfant  en  a  jusqu'a  trois." 

MR.  CAXTON  (solemnly). — I  refuse  the  proffered  pater- 
nity ;  but  so  far  as -administering  a  little  wholesome  castiga- 
tion,  now  and  then,  I  have  no  objection  to  join  in  the  dis- 
charge of  a  father's  duty. 

PISISTRATUS. — Agreed.  Have  you  anything  to  say  against 
the  infant  hitherto  ? 

MR.  CAXTON. — He  is  in  long  clothes  at  present ;  let  us 
wait  till  he  can  walk. 

BLANCHE. — But  pray,  whom  do  you  mean  for  a  hero  ? — 
and  is  Miss  Jemima  your  heroine  ? 

CAPTAIN  ROLAND. — There  is  some  mystery  about  the 

PISISTRATUS  (hastily). — Hush,  uncle  ;  no  letting  the  cat 
out  of  the  bag  yet.  Listen  all  of  you  !  I  left  Frank  Hazel- 
dean  on  his  way  to  the  Casino. 


CHAPTER  II. 

"  IT  is  a  sweet,  pretty  place,"  thought  Frank,  as  he 
opened  the  gate  which  led  across  the  fields  to  the  Casino, 
that  smiled  down  upon  him  with  its  plaster  pilasters.  "  I 
wonder,  though,  that  my  father,  who  is  so  particular  in  gen- 
eral, suffers  the  carriage-road  to  be  so  full  of  holes  and 
weeds.  Mounseer  does  not  receive  many  visits,  I  take  it." 

*  Paraphrase  : — 

"  That  each  chi'.J  has  a  father 

Is  Nature's  decree ; 
But,  to  judge  by  a  rumor, 
Some  children  have  three." 


78  MY  NOVEL;    OR, 

But  when  Frank  got  into  the  ground  immediately  before 
the  house,  he  saw  no  cause  of  complaint  as  to  want  of 
order  and  repair.  Nothing  could  be  kept  more  neatly. 
Frank  was  ashamed  of  the  dint  made  by  the  pony's  hoofs 
in  the  smooth  gravel  ;  he  dismounted,  tied  the  anirmil 
to  the  wicket,  and  went  on  foot  toward  the  glass-door  in 
front. 

He  rang  the  bell  once,  twice,  but  nobody  came,  for  the 
old  woman-servant,  who  was  hard  of  hearing,  was  far  away 
in  the  yard,  searching  for  any  eggs  which  the  hen  might 
have  scandalously  hidden  from  culinary  purposes ;  and 
Jackeymo  was  fishing  for  the  sticklebacks  and  minnows, 
which  Avere,  when  caught,  to  assist  the  eggs,  when  found, 
in  keeping  together  the  bodies  and  souls  of  himself  and 
his  master.  The  old  woman  had  been  lately  put  upon 
board-wages — lucky  old  woman  !  Frank  rang  a  third  time, 
and  with  the  impetuosity  of  his  age.  A  face  peeped  from 
the  belvidere  on  the  terrace.  "  Diavolo  ! "  said  Dr.  ,Ricca- 
bocca  to  himself.  "Young  cocks  crow  hard  on  their  own 
dunghill  ;  it  must  be  a  cock  of  a  high  race  to  crow  so  loud 
at  another's." 

Therewith  he  shambled  out  of  the  summer-house,  and 
appeared  suddenly  before  Frank,  in  a  very  wizard-like 
dressing-robe  of  black  serge,  a  red  cap  on  his  head,  and  a 
cloud  of  smoke  coming  rapidly  from  his  lips,  as  a  final  con- 
solatory whiff,  before  he  removed  the  pipe  from  them. 
Frank  had  indeed  seen  the  doctor  before,  but  never  in  so 
scholastic  a  costume,  and  he  was  alittled  startled  by  the  ap- 
parition at  his  elbow,  as  he  turned  round. 

"  Signorino  "  (young  gentleman),  said  the  Italian,  taking 
off  his  cap  with  his  usual  urbanity,  "  pardon  the  negligence 
of  my  people — I  am  too  happy  to  receive  your  commands 
in  person." 

"  Dr.  Rickeybockey  ? "  stammered  Frank,  much  con- 
fused by  this  polite  address,  and  the  low,  yet  stately,  bow 
with  which  it  was  accompanied.  "  I — I  have  a  note  from 
the  Hall.  Mamma — that  is,  my  mother — and  Aunt  Jemi- 
ma beg  their  best  compliments,  and  hope  you  will  come, 
sir." 

The  doctor  took  the  note  with  another  bow,  and,  open- 
ing the  glass  door,  invited  Frank  to  enter. 

The  young  gentleman,  with  a  schoolboy's  usual  blunt- 
ness,  was  about  to  say  that  he  was  in  a  hurry,  and  had  rather 
not ;  but  Dr.  Riccabocca's  grand  manner  awed  him,  while  a 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  79 

glimpse  of  the  hall  excited   his   curiosity — so    he    silently 
obeyed  the  invitation. 

The  hall,  which  was  of  an  octagon  shape,  had  been 
originally  panelled  off  into  compartments,  and  in  these  the 
Italian  had  painted  landscapes,  rich  with  the  warm  sunny 
light  of  his  native  climate.  Frank  was  no  judge  of  the  art 
displayed  ;  but  he  was  greatly  struck  with  the  scenes  de- 
picted ;  they  were  all  views  of  some  lake,  real  or  imaginary 
— in  all,  dark-blue  shining  waters  reflected  dark -blue  placid 
skies.  In  one,  a  flight  of  steps  descended  to  the  lake,  and  a 
gay  group  was  seen  feasting  on  the  margin  ;  in  another, 
sunset  threw  its  rose-hues  over  a  vast  villa  or  palace,  backed 
by  Alpine  hills,  and  flanked  by  long  arcades  of  vines,  while 
pleasure-boats  skimmed  over  the  waves  below.  In  short, 
throughout  all  the  eight  compartments,  the  scene,  though 
it  differed  in  details,  preserved  the  same  general  character, 
as  if  illustrating  some  favorite  locality.  The  Italian  did 
not,  however,  evince  any  desire  to  do  the  honors  of  his  own 
art,  but,  preceding  Frank  across  the  hall,  opened  the  door 
of  his  usual  sitting-room,  and  requested  him  to  enter.  Frank 
did  so,  rather  reluctantly,  and  seated  himself  with  unwonted 
bashfulness  on  the  edge  of  a  chair.  But  here  new  speci- 
mens of  the  Doctor's  handicraft  soon  riveted  attention.  The 
room  had  been  originally  papered  ;  but  Riccabocca  had 
stretched  canvas  over  the  walls,  and  painted  thereon  sundry 
satirical  devices,  each  separated  from  the  other  by  scroll- 
works of  fantastic  arabesques.  Here  a  Cupid  was  trundling 
a  wheel-barrow  full  of  hearts,  which  he  appeared  to  be 
selling  to  an  ugly  old  fellow,  with  a  money-bag  in  his  hand 
— probably  Plutus.  There  Diogenes  might  be  seen  walking 
through  a  market-place,  with  his  lantern  in  his  hand,  in 
search  of  an  honest  man,  wrhilst  the  children  jeered  at  him, 
and  the  curs  snapped  at  his  heels.  In  another  place,  a  lion 
was  seen  half  dressed  in  a  fox's  hide,  while  a  wolf  in  a  sheep's 
mask  was  conversing  very  amicably  with  a  young  lamb. 
Here  again  might  be  seen  the  geese  stretching  out  their 
necks  from  the  Roman  Capitol  in  full  cackle,  while  the  stout 
invaders  were  beheld  in  the  distance,  running  off  as  hard  as 
they  could.  In  short,  in  all  these  quaint  entablatures  some 
pithy  sarcasm  was  symbolically  conveyed  ;  only  over  the 
mantelpiece  was  the  design  graver  and  more  touching.  It 
was  the  figure  of  a  man  in  a  pilgrim's  garb,  chained  to  the 
earth  by  small,  but  innumerable  ligaments,  while  a  phantom 
likeness  of  himself,  his  shadow,  was  seen  hastening  down 


So  MY  NOVEL;    OR, 

what  seemed  an  interminable  vista  ;  and  underneath  were 
written  the  pathetic  words  of  Horace — 

"  Patrice  quis  exul 
Se  quoque  fugit  ?  " 

("  What  exile  from  his  country  can  also  fly  from  himself  ? ") 
The  furniture  of  the  room  was  extremely  simple,  and  some- 
what scanty  ;  yet  it  was  arranged  so  as  to  impart  an  air  of 
taste  and  elegance  to  the  room.  Even  a  few  plaster  busts 
and  statues,  though  bought  but  of  some  humble  itinerant, 
had  their  classical  effect,  glistening  from  out  stands  of  flow- 
ers that  were  grouped  around  them,  or  backed  by  graceful 
screen-works  formed  from  twisted  osiers,  which,  by  the 
simple  contrivance  of  trays  at  the  bottom  filled  with  earth, 
served  for  living  parasitical  plants,  with  gay  flowers  con- 
trasting thick  ivy  leaves,  and  gave  to  the  whole  room  the 
aspect  of  a  bower. 

"  May  I  ask  your  permission  ? "  said  the  Italian,  with  his 
finger  on  the  seal  of  the  letter. 

"  Oh,  yes,"  said  Frank  with  naivete. 

Riccabocca  broke  the  seal,  and  a  slight  smile  stole  over 
his  countenance.  Then  he  turned  a  little  aside  from  Frank, 
shaded  his  face  with  his  hand,  and  seemed  to  muse.  "  Mrs. 
Hazeldean,"  said  he  at  last,  "  does  me  very  great  honor.  I 
hardly  recognize  her  hand-writing,  or  I  should  have  been 
more  impatient  to  open  the  letter."  The  dark  eyes  were 
lifted  over  the  spectacles,  and  went  right  into  Frank's  un- 
protected and  undiplomatic  heart.  The  doctor  raised  the 
note,  and  pointed  to  the  characters  with  his  forefinger. 

"  Cousin  Jemima's  hand,"  said  Frank,  as  directly  as  if 
the  question  had  been  put  to  him. 

The  Italian  smiled.  "  Mr.  Hazeldean  has  company  stay- 
ing with  him  ?" 

"  No  ;  that  is,  only  Barney — the  Captain.  There's  seldom 
much  company  before  the  shooting  season,"  added  Frank, 
with  a  slight  sigh  ;  "and  then,  you  know,  the  holidays  arc 
over.  For  my  part,  I  think  we  ought  to  break  up  a  month 
later." 

The  Doctor  seemed  re-assured  by  the  first  sentence  in 
Frank's  reply,  and,  seating  himself  at  the  table,  wrote  his 
answer — not  hastily,  as  we  English  write,  but  with  care  and 
precision,  like  one  accustomed  to  weigh  the  nature  of  words 
—in  that  stiff  Italian  hand,  which  allows  the  writer  so  much 
time  to  think  while  he  forms  his  letters.  He  did  not,  there- 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  81 

fore,  reply  at  once  to  Frank's  remark  about  the  holidays, 
but  was  silent  till  he  had  concluded  his  note,  read  it  three 
times  over,  sealed  it  by  the  taper  he  slowly  lighted,  and  then, 
giving  it  to  Frank,  he  said — 

"  For  your  sake,  young  gentleman,  I  regret  that  your 
holidays  are  so  early;  for  mine,  I  must  rejoice,  since  I 
accept  the  kind  invitation  you  have  rendered  doubly  grati- 
fying by  bringing  it  yourself." 

"Deuce  take  the  fellow  and  his  fine  speeches  !  One  don't 
know  which  way  to  look,"  thought  English  Frank. 

The  Italian  smiled  again,  as  if  this  time  he  had  read  the 
boy's  heart,  without  need  of  those  piercing  black  eyes,  and 
said,  less  ceremoniously  than  before,  "You  don't  care  much 
for  compliments,  young  gentleman  ?  " 

"No,  I  don't  indeed,"  said  Frank  heartily. 
"  So   much   the   better  for  you,    since  your  way  in  the 
world  is  made  ;  it  would  be  so  much  the  worse,  if  you  had 
to  make  it  !  " 

Frank  looked  puzzled  ;  the  thought  was  too  deep  for 
him — so  he  turned  to  the  pictures. 

"  Those  are  very  funny,"  said  he  ;  "  they  seem  capitally 
done.  Who  did  "em?" 

"  Signorino  Hazeldean,  you  are  giving  me  what  you 
refused  yourself." 

"  Eh  ? "  said  Frank  inquiringly. 

"Compliments  !" 

"  Oh — I — no  ;  but  they  are  well  done  ;  ar'n't  they,  sir  ?  " 

"  Not  particularly  ;  you  speak  to  the  artist." 

"  What !  you  painted  them  ? " 

"  Yes." 

"  And  the  pictures  in  the  hall  ?  " 

"  Those  too." 

"  Taken  from  nature,  eh"?  " 

"  Nature,"  said  the  Italian  sententiously,  perhaps  evasiv- 
ely, "lets  nothing  be  taken  from  her." 

"  Oh  !  "  said  Frank,  puzzled  again.  "  Well,  I  must  wish 
you  good  morning,  sir  ;  I  am  very  glad  you  are  coming." 

"Without  compliment  ?" 

"  Without  compliment." 

"A  rivedersi — good-by  for  the  present,  my  young  Signo- 
rino. This  way,"  observing  Frank  made  a  bolt  toward  the 
wrong  door. 

"  Can  I  offer  you  a  glass  of  wine  ! — it  is  pure,  of  our  own 
making." 


82  MY  NOVEL;    OR, 

"No,  thank  you,  indeed,  sir,"  cried  Frank,  suddenly  re- 
collecting his  father's  admonition.  "  Good-by,  don't  trouble 
yourself,  sir  ;  I  know  my  way  now." 

But  the  bland  Italian  followed  his  guest  to  the  wicket, 
where  Frank  had  left  the  pony.  The  young  gentleman, 
afraid  lest  so  courteous  a  host  should  hold  the  stirrup  for 
him,  twitched  off  the  bridle,  and  mounted  in  haste,  not  even 
staying  to  ask  if  the  Italian  could  put  him  in  the  way  to 
Rood  Hall,  of  which  way  he  was  profoundly  ignorant.  The 
Italian's  eye  followed  the  boy  as  he  rode  up  the  ascent  in 
the  lane,  and  the  Doctor  sighed  heavily.  "  The  wiser  we 
grow,"  said  he  to  himself,  "  the  more  we  regret  the  age  of 
our  follies  ;  it  is  better  to  gallop  with  a  light  heart  up  the 
the  stony  hill  than  sit  in  the  summer-house  and  cry  '  How 
true  ! '  to  the  stormy  truths  of  Machiavelli !  " 

With  that  he  turned  back  into  the  belvidere  ;  but  he 
could  not  resume  his  studies.  He  remained  some  minutes 
gazing  on  the  prospect,  till  the  prospect  reminded  him  of 
the  fields  which  Jackeymo  was  bent  on  his  hiring,  and  the 
fields  reminded  him  of  Leririy  Fairfield.  He  returned  to  the 
house,  and  in  a  few  moments  re-emerged  in  his  out-of-door 
trim,  with  cloak  and  umbrella,  re-lighted  his  pipe,  and 
strolled  toward  Hazeldean  village. 

Meanwhile  Frank,  after  cantering  on  for  some  distance, 
stopped  at  a  cottage,  and  there  learned  that  there  was  a 
short  cut  across  the  field  to  Rood  Hall,  by  which  he  could 
save  nearly  three  miles.  Frank,  however,  missed  the  short 
cut,  and  came  out  into  the  high  road  ;  a  turnpike  keeper,  after 
first  taking  his  toll,  put  him  back  again  into  the  short  cut  ; 
and  finally,  he  got  into  some  green  la.nes,  where  a  dilapidated 
finger-post  directed  him  to  Rood.  Late  at  noon,  having 
ridden  fifteen  miles  in  the  desire  to  reduce  ten  to  seven,  he 
came  suddenly  upon  a  wild  and  primitive  piece  of  ground, 
that  seemed  half  chase,  half  common,  with  crazy  tumble- 
down cottages  of  villanous  aspect  scattered  about  in  odd 
nooks  and  corners  ;  idle,  dirty  children  were  making  mud 
pies  on  the  road  ;  slovenly-looking  women  were  plaiting 
straw  at  the  thresholds  ;  a  large  but  forlorn  and  decayed 
church,  that  seemed  to  say  that  the  generation  which  saw 
it  built  was  more  pious  than  the  generation  which  now  re- 
sorted to  it,  stood  boldly  and  nakedly  out  by  the  roadside. 

"  Is  this  the  village  of  Rood  ?  "  asked  Frank  of  a  stout 
young  man  breaking  stones  on  the  road — sad  sign  that  no 
better  labor  could  be  found  for  him  ! 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  83 

The  man  sullenly  nodded,  and  continued  his  work. 

"  And  where's  the  Hall — Mr.  Leslie's  ? " 

The  man  looked  up  in  stolid  surprise,  and  this  time 
touched  his  hat. 

"  Be  you  going  there  ?  " 

"Yes,  if  I  can  find  out  where  it  is." 

"  I'll  show  your  honor,"  said  the  boor  alertly. 

Frank  reined  in  the  pony,  and  the  man  walked  by  his 
side. 

Frank  was  much  of  his  father's  son,  despite  the  difference 
of  age,  and  that  more  fastidious  change  of  manner  which 
characterizes  each  succeeding  race  in  the  progress  of  civili- 
zation. Despite  all  his  Eton  finery,  he  was  familiar  with 
peasants,  and  had  the  quick  eye  of  one  country-born  as  to 
country  matters. 

"  You  don't  seem  very  well  off  in  this  village,  my  man  ? " 
said  he,  knowingly. 

"  Noa  ;  there  be  a  deal  of  distress  here  in  the  winter 
time,  and  summer  too,  for  that  matter  ;  and  the  parish  ben't 
much  help  to  a  single  man." 

"  But,  surely,  the  farmers  want  work  here  as  well  as 
elsewhere  ? " 

"  'Deed,  and  there  ben't  much  farming  work  here — 
most  o'  the  parish  be  all  wild  ground  loike." 

"The  poor  have  a  right  of  common,  I  suppose,"  said 
Frank,  surveying  a  large  assortment  of  vagabond  birds  and 
quadrupeds. 

"  Yes  ;  neighbor  Timmins  keeps  his  geese  on  the  com- 
mon, and  some  has  a  cow — and  them  be  neighbor  Jowlas's 
pigs.  I  don't  know  if  there's  a  right,  loike  ;  but  the  folks 
at  the  Hall  does  all  they  can  to  help  us,  and  that  ben't 
much  ;  they  ben't  as  rich  as  some  folks  ;  but,"  added  the 
peasant  proudly,  "they  be  as  good  blood  as  any  in  the 
shire." 

"  I'm  glad  to  see  you  like  them,  at  all  events." 

"Oh  yes,  I  loikes  them  well  eno'  ;  mayhap  you  are  at 
school  with  the  young  gentleman  ?  " 

"Yes,"  said  Frank. 

"  Ah  !  I  heard  the  clergyman  say  as  how  Master  Ran- 
dal was  a  mighty  clever  lad,  and  would  get  rich  some  day. 
I'se  sure  I  wish  he  would,  for  a  poor  squire  makes  a  poor 
parish.  There's  the  Hall,  sir." 


84  MY  NOVEL;    OR, 


CHAPTER  III. 

FRANK  looked  right  abend,  and  saw  a  square  house 
that,  in  spite  of  modern  sash-windows,  was  evidently  of 
remote  antiquity  ;  a  high  conical  roof  ;  a  stack  of  tall  quaint 
chimney-pots  of  red  baked  clay  (like  those  at  Sutton  Place, 
in  Surrey)  dominating  over  isolated  vulgar  smoke-conductors, 
of  the  ignoble  fashion  of  present  times  ;  a  dilapidated  groin- 
work,  encasing  within  a  Tudor  arch  a  door  of  the  comfort- 
able date  of  George  III.,  and  the  peculiarly  dingy  and 
weather-stained  appearance  of  the  small  finely  finished 
bricks,  of  which  the  habitation  was  built — all  showed  the 
abode  of  former  generations  adapted  with  tasteless  irrever- 
ence to  the  habits  of  descendants  unenlightened  by  Pugin, 
or  indifferent  to  the  poetry  of  the  past.  The  house  had 
emerged  suddenly  upon  Frank  out  of  the  gloomy  waste 
land,  for  it  was  placed  in  a  hollow,  and  sheltered  from  sight 
by  a  disorderly  group  of  ragged,  dismal,  valetudinarian  fir- 
trees,  until  an  abrupt  turn  of  the  road  cleared  that  screen, 
and  left  the  desolate  abode  bare  to  the  discontented  eye. 
Frank  dismounted  ;  the  man  held  his  pony  ;  and  after 
smoothing  his  cravat,  the  smart  Etonian  sauntered  up  to 
the  door,  and  startled  the  solitude  of  the  place  with  a  loud 
peal  from  the  modern  brass  knocker — a  knock  which  in- 
stantly brought  forth  an  astonished  starling  who  had  built 
under  the  eaves  of  the  gable  roof,  and  called  up  a  cloud  of 
sparrows,  tomtits,  and  yellow-hammers,  who  had  been  re- 
galing themselves  amongst  the  litter  of  a  slovenly  farm-yard 
that  lay  in  full  sight  to  the  right  of  the  house,  fenced  off  by 
a  primitive,  paintless  wooden  rail.  In  process  of  time^a 
sow,  accompanied  by  a  thriving  and  inquisitive  family, 
strolled  up  to  the  gate  of  the  fence,  and,  leaning  her  nose 
on  the  lower  bar  of  the  gate,  contemplated  the  visitor  with 
much  curiosity  and  some  suspicion. 

While  Frank  is  still  without,  impatiently  swingeing  his 
white  trousers  with  his  whip,  we  will  steal  a  hurried  glance 
toward  the  respected  members  of  the  family  within.  Mr. 
Leslie,  \\\Q pater-familias,  is  in  a  little  room  called  his  "  study," 
to  which  he  regularly  retires  every  morning  after  breakfast, 
rarely  re-appearing  till  one  o'clock,  which  is  his  unfashion- 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  85 

able  hour  for  dinner.  In  what  mysterious  occupations  Mr. 
Leslie  passes  those  hours,  no  one  ever  formed  a  conjecture. 
At  the  present  moment  he  is  seated  before  a  little  rickety 
bureau,  one  leg  of  which  (being  shorter  than  the  other)  is 
propped  up  by  sundry  old  letters  and  scraps  of  newspapers  ; 
and  the  bureau  is  open,  and  reveals  a  great  number  of  pig- 
eon-holes and  divisions,  filled  with  various  odds  and  ends, 
the  collection  of  many  yeais.  In  some  of  these  compart- 
ments are  bundles  of  letters,  very  yellow,  and  tied  in  pack- 
ets with  faded  tape  ;  in  another,  all  by  itself,  is  a  fragment 
of  plum-pudding  stone,  which  Mr.  Leslie  has  picked  up  in 
his  walks,  and  considered  a  rare  mineral.  It  is  neatly 
labelled,  "Found  in  Hollow  Lane,  May  2ist,  1804,  by 
Maunder  Slugge  Leslie,  Esq."  The  next  division  holds 
several  bits  of  iron  in  the  shape  of  nails,  fragments  of 
horse-shoes,  etc.,  which  Mr.  Leslie  has  met  with  in  his  ram- 
bles, and  according  to  a  harmless  popular  superstition, 
deemed  it  highly  unlucky  not  to  pick  up,  and,  once  picked 
up,  no  less  unlucky  to  throw  away.  Item,  in  the  adjoining 
pigeon-hole,  a  goodly  collection  of  pebbles  with  holes  in 
them,  preserved  for  the  same  reason.  In  company  with 
a  crooked  sixpence  ;  item,  neatly  arranged  in  fanciful 
mosaics,  several  periwinkles,  Blackmoor's  teeth  (I  mean  the 
shell  so  called),  and  other  specimens  of  the  conchiferous 
ingenuity  of  Nature,  partly  inherited  from  some  ancestral 
spinster,  partly  amassed  by  Mr.  Leslie  himself  in  a  youth- 
ful excursion  to  the  sea-side.  There  were  the  farm-bailiff's 
accounts,  several  files  of  bills,  an  old  stirrup,  three  sets  of 
knee  and  shoe  buckles,  which  had  belonged  to  Mr.  Leslie's 
father,  a  few  seals  tied  together  by  a  shoe-string,  a  shagreen 
tooth-pick  case,  a  tortoise-shell  magnifying-glass  to  read 
with,  his  eldest  son's  first  copybooks,  his  second  son's  ditto, 
his  daughter's  ditto,  and  a  lock  of  his  wife's  hair  arranged 
in  a  true  lover's  knot,  framed  and  glazed.  There  were  also 
a  small  mouse-trap  ;  a  patent  cork-screw,  too  good  to  be 
used  in  common  ;  fragments  of  a  silver  tea-spoon,  that 
had,  by  natural  decay,  arrived  at  a  dissolution  of  its  parts,  a 
small  brown  Holland  bag,  containing  half-pence  of  various 
dates,  as  far  back  as  Queen  Anne,  accompanied  by  two 
French  sous,  and  a  German  silber  gros ; — the  which  miscel- 
lany Mr.  Leslie  magniloquently  called  "  his  coins,"  and  had 
left  in.  his  will  as  a  family  heir-loom.  There  were  many 
other  curiosities  of  a  congenial  nature  and  equal  value — 
qu<x  nunc  describere  longum  est.  Mr.  Leslie  was  engaged 


86  'MY  NOVEL;    OR, 

at  this  time  in  what  is  termed  "  putting  things  to  rights  " 
— an  occupation  he  performed  with  exemplary  care  once  a- 
week.  This  was  his  day  ;  and  he  had  just  counted  his  coins, 
and  was  slowly  tying  them  up  again  in  the  brown  Holland 
bag,  when  Frank's  knock  reached  his  ears. 

Mr.  Maunder  Slugge  Leslie  paused,  shook  his  head  as  if 
incredulously,  and  was  about  to  resume  his  occupation, 
when  he  was  seized  with  a  fit  of  yawning  which  prevented 
the  bag  being  tied  for  full  two  minutes. 

While  such  the  employment  of  the  study,  let  us  turn  to 
the  recreations  in  the  drawing-room,  or  rather  parlor.  A 
drawing-room  there  was  on  the  first  floor,  with  a  charming 
look-out,  not  on  the  dreary  fir-trees,  but  on  the  romantic 
undulating  forest-land  ;  but  the  drawing-room  had  not  been 
used  since  the  death  of  the  last  Mrs.  Leslie.  It  was  deemed 
too  good  to  sit  in,  except  when  there  was  company ;  there 
never  being  company,  it  was  never  sate  in.  Indeed,  now 
the  paper  was  falling  off  the  walls  with  the  damp,  and  the 
rats,  mice,  and  moths — those  "  edaces  rerum  " — had  eaten, 
between  them,  most  of  the  chair-bottoms  and  a  considerable 
part  of  the  floor.  Therefore,  the  parlor  was  the  sole  general 
sitting-room  ;  and  being  breakfasted  in,  dined  and  supped 
in,  and,  after  supper,  smoked  in  by  Mr.  Leslie  to  the  accom- 
paniment of  rum-and-water,  it  is  impossible  to  deny  that  it 
had  what  is  called  "  a  smell  " — a  comfortable,  wholesome 
family  smell — speaking  of  numbers,  meals,  and  miscellaneous 
social  habitation.  There  were  two  windows  :  one  looked  full 
on  the  fir-trees  ;  the  other  on  the  farm-yard,  with  the  pig-sty 
closing  the  view.  Near  the'  fir-tree  window  sate  Mrs.  Les- 
lie ;  before  her,  on  a  high  stool,  was  a  basket  of  the  children's 
clothes  that  wanted  mending.  A  work-table  of  rose-wood 
inlaid  with  brass,  which  had  been  a  wedding-present,  and 
was  a  costly  thing  originally,  but  in  that  peculiar  taste  which 
is  vulgarly  called  "  Bramagen,"  stood  at  hand  ;  the  brass 
had  started  in  several  places,  and  occasionally  made  great 
havoc  in  the  children's  fingers  and  in  Mrs.  Leslie's  gown  ;  in 
fact,  it  was  the  liveliest  piece  of  furniture  in  the  house, 
thanks  to  that  petulant  brass-work,  and  could  not  have  been 
more  mischievous  if  it  had  been  a  monkey.  Upon  the  work- 
table  lay  a  housewife  and  a  thimble,  and  scissors,  and  skeins 
of  worsted  and  thread,  and  little  scraps  of  linen  and  cloth 
for  patches.  But  Mrs.  Leslie  was  not  actually  working — 
she  was  preparing  to  work  ;  she  had  been  preparing  to  work 
for  the  last  hour  and  a  half.  Upon  her  lap  she  supported  a 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  87 

novel,  by  a  lady  who  wrote  much  for  a  former  generation, 
under  the  name  of  "Mrs.  Bridget  Blue  Mantle."  She  had 
a  small  needle  in  her  left  hand,  and  a  very  thick  piece  of 
thread  in  her  right ;  occasionally  she  applied  the  end  of  the 
said  thread  to  her  lips,  and  then — her  eyes  fixed  on  the 
novel — made  a  blind,  vacillating  attack  at  the  eye  of  the 
needle.  But  a  camel  would  have  gone  through  it  with  quite 
as  much  ease.  Nor  did  the  novel  alone  engage  Mrs.  Leslie's 
attention,  for  ever  and  anon  she  interrupted  herself  to  scold 
the  children,  to  inquire  "what  o'clock  it  was;"  to  observe 
that  "  Sarah  would  never  suit ;"  and  to  wonder  "why  Mr. 
Leslie  would  not  see  that  the  work-table  was  mended." 
Mrs.  Leslie  has  been  rather  a  pretty  woman.  In  spite  of  a 
dress  at  once  slatternly  and  economical,  she  has  still  the  air 
of  a  lady — rather  too  much  so,  the  hard  duties  of  her  situa- 
tion considered.  She  is  proud  of  the  antiquity  of  her  family 
on  both  sides  ;  her  mother  was  of  the  venerable  stock  of  the 
Daudles  of  Dandle  Place,  a  race  that  existed  before  the  Con- 
quest. Indeed,  one  has  only  to  read  our  earliest  chronicles, 
and  to  glance  over  some  of  those  long-winded  moralizing 
poems  which  delighted  the  thanes  and  ealdermen  of  old,  in 
order  to  see  that  the  Daudles  must  have  been  a  very  influen- 
tial family  before  William  the  First  turned  the  country  topsy- 
turvy. While  the  mother's  race  was  thus  indubitably  Saxon, 
the  father's  had  not  only  the  name  but  the  peculiar  idiosyn- 
crasy of  the  Normans,  and  went  far  to  establish  that  crotchet 
of  the  brilliant  author  of  Sibyl,  or  the  Two  Nations,  as  to  the 
continued  distinction  between  the  conquering  and  conquered 
populations.  Mrs.  Leslie's  father  boasted  the  name  of 
Montfydget ;  doubtless  of  the  same  kith  and  kin  as  those 
great  barons  Montfichet,  who  once  owned  such  broad  lands 
and  such  turbulent  castles.  A  high-nosed,  thin,  nervous, 
excitable  progeny,  those  same  Montfydgets,  as  the  most 
troublesome  Norman  could  pretend  to  be.  This  fusion  of 
race  was  notable  to  the  most  ordinary  physiognomist  in  the 
physique  and  in  the  morale  of  Mrs.  Leslie.  She  had  the  spec- 
ulative blue  eye  of  the  Saxon,  and  the  passionate  high  nose 
of  the  Norman  ;  she  had  the  musing  do-nothingness  of  the 
Dandles,  and  the  reckless  have-at-every-thingness  of  the 
Montfydgets.  At  Mrs.  Leslie's  feet,  a  little  girl  with  her 
hair  about  her  ears  (and  beautiful  hair  it  was  too)  was  amus- 
ing herself  with  a  broken-nosed  doll.  At  the  far  end  of  the 
room,  before  a  high  desk,  sate  Frank's  Eton  school-fellow, 
the  eldest  son.  A  minute  or  two  before  Frank's  alarum  had 


GS  My  NOVEL;    OR, 

disturbed  the  tranquillity  of  the  household,  he  had  raised 
his  eyes  from  the  books  on  the  desk  to  glance  at  a  very 
tattered  copy  of  the  Greek  Testament,  in  which  his  brother 
Oliver  had  found  a  difficulty  that  he  came  to  Randal  to 
solve.  As  the  young  Etonian's  face  was  turned  to  the  light, 
your  first  impression,  on  seeing  it,  would  have  been  melan- 
choly, but  respectful,  interest — for  the  face  had  already  lost 
the  joyous  character  of  youth— there  was  aivrinkle  between 
the  brows  ;  and  the  lines  that  speak  of  fatigue  were  already 
visible  under  the  eyes  and  about  the  mouth  ;  the  complexion 
was  sallow,  the  lips  were  pale.  Years  of  study  had  already 
sown  in  the  delicate  organization  the  seeds  of  many  an  in- 
firmity and  many  a  pain  ;  but  if  your  look  had  rested  long  on 
that  countenance,  gradually  your  compassion  might  have 
given  place  to  some  feeling  uneasy  and  sinister — a  feeling 
akin  to  fear.  There  was  in  the  whole  expression  so  much 
of  cold,  calm  force,  that  it  belied  the  debility  of  the  frame. 
You  saw  there  the  evidence  of  a  mind  that  was  cultivated, 
and  you  felt  that  in  that  cultivation  there  was  something 
formidable.  A  notable  contrast  to  this  countenance,  pre- 
maturely worn,  and  eminently  intelligent,  was  the  round 
healthy  face  of  Oliver,  with  slow  blue  eyes  fixed  hard  on  the 
penetrating  orbs  of  his  brother,  as  if  trying  with  might  and 
main  to  catch  from  them  a  gleam  of  that  knowledge  with 
which  they  shone  clear  and  frigid  as  a  star. 

At  Frank's  knock,  Oliver's  slow  blue  eyes  sparkled  into 
animation,  and  he  sprang  from  his  brother's  side.  The 
little  girl  flung  back  the  hair  from  her  face,  and  stared  at 
her  mother  with  a  look  which  spoke  wonder  and  affright. 

The  young  student  knit  his  brows,  and  then  turned 
wearily  back  to  the  books  on  his  desk. 

"  Dear  me,"  cried  Mrs.  Leslie,  "who  can  that  possibly 
be  ?  Oliver,  come  from  the  window,  sir,  this  instant ; 
you  will  be  seen  !  Juliet,  run — ring  the  bell — no,  go  to  the 
head  of  the  kitchen  stairs,  and  call  out  to  Jenny,  'Not  at 
home.'  Not  at  home  on  any  account,"  repeated  Mrs.  Leslie, 
nervously,  for  the  Montfydget  blood  was  now  in  full  flow. 

In  another  minute  or  so,  Frank's  loud,  boyish  voice  was 
distinctly  heard  at  the  outer  door. 

Randal  slightly  started. 

"  Frank  Hazeldean's  voice,"  said  he  ;  "  I  should  like  to 
see  him,  mother." 

"See  him,"  repeated  Mrs.  Leslie,  in  amaze  ;  "see  him! 
and  the  room  in  this  state  ! " 


VARIETIES  Iff  ENGLISH  LIFE.  89 

Randal  might  have  replied  that  the  room  was  in  no  worse 
state  than  visual  ;  but  he  said  nothing.  A  slight  flush  came 
and  went  over  his  pale  face  ;  and  then  he  leaned  his  cheek 
on  his  hand,  and  compressed  his  lips  firmly. 

The  outer  door  closed  with  a  sullen,  inhospitable  jar, 
and  a  slip-shod  female  servant  entered  with  a  card  between 
her  finger  and  thumb. 

"Who  is  that  for? — give  it  to  me,  Jenny,"  cried  Mrs. 
Leslie. 

But  Jenny  shook  her  head,  laid  the  card  on  the  desk  be- 
side Randal,  and  vanished  without  saying  a  word. 

"  Oh  look,  Randal,  look  up,"  cried  Oliver,  who  had  again 
rushed  to  the  window  ;  "  such  a  pretty  gray  pony  !  " 

Randal  did  look  up  ;  nay,  he  went  deliberately  to  the 
window,  and  gazed,  a  moment  on  the  high-mettled  pony, 
and  the  well-dressed,  spirited  rider.  In  that  moment 
changes  passed  over  Randal's  countenance  more  rapidly 
than  clouds  over  the  sky  in  a  gusty  day.  Now  envy  and  dis- 
content, with  the  curled  lip  and  the  gloomy  scowl  ;  now  hope 
and  proud  self-esteem,  with  the  clearing  brow  and  the  lofty 
smile  ;  and  then  again  all  became  cold,  firm,  and  close,  as 
he  walked  back  to  his  books,  seated  himself  resolutely,  and 
said,  half  aloud — 

"  Well,   KNOWLEDGE  IS  POWER." 


CHAPTER  IV. 

MRS.  LESLIE  came  up  in  fidget  and  in  fuss  ;  she  leaned 
over  Randal's  shoulder  and  read  the  card.  Written  in  pen 
and  ink,  with  an  attempt  at  imitation  of  printed  Roman 
character,  there  appeared  first  "  MR.  FRANK  HAZELDEAN  ; " 
but  just  over  these  letters,  and  scribbled  hastily  and  less 
legibly  in  pencil,  was — 

"  Dear  Leslie — sorry  you  were  out —  come  and  see  us — 
Do  !  " 

"You  will  go,  Randal  ?"  said  Mrs.  Leslie,  after  a  pause. 

"  I'm  not  sure." 

"  Yes,  you  can  go  ;  you  have  clothes  like  a  gentleman  ; 
you  can  go  anywhere,  not  like  those  children  ;"  and  Mrs. 
Leslie  glanced  almost  spitefully  at  poor  Oliver's  coarse 
threadbare  jacket,  and  little  Juliet's  torn  frock. 


90  MY  NOVEL  ;    OR, 

"  What  I  have  I  owe  at  present  to  Mr.  Egerton,  and  I 
should  consult  his  wishes  ;  he  is  not  on  good  terms  with 
these  Hazeideans. "  Then  turning  toward  his  brother,  who 
looked  mortified,  he  added,  with  a  strange  sort  of  haughty 
kindness,  "  What  I  may  have  hereafter,  Oliver,  I  shall  owe 
to  myself  ;  and  then  if  I  rise,  I  will  raise  my  family." 

"  Dear  Randal,"  said  Mrs.    Leslie,  fondly  kissing  him  on 
the  forehead,  "  what  a  good  heart  you  have  !  " 

"  No,  mother  ;  my  books  don't  tell  me  that  it  is  a  good 
heart  that  gets  on  in  the  world  ;  it  is  the  hard  head,"  replied 
Randal,  with  a  rude  and  scornful  candor.  "  But  I  can  read 
no  more  just  now  ;  come  out,  Oliver." 

So  saying,  he  slid  from  his  mother's  hand,  and  left  the 
room. 

When  Oliver  joined  him,  Randal  was  already  on  the 
common  ;  and,  without  seeming  to  notice  his  brother,  he 
continued  to  walk  quickly,  and  with  long  strides,  in  pro- 
found silence.  At  length  he  paused  under  the  shade  of  an 
old  oak,  that,  too  old  to  be  of  value  save  for  firewood,  had 
escaped  the  axe.  The  tree  stood  on  a  knoll,  and  the  spot 
commanded  a  view  of  the  decayed  house — the  dilapidated 
church — the  dreary  village. 

"  Oliver,"  said  Randall,  between  his  teeth,  so  that  his 
voice  had  the  sound  of  a  hiss,  "  it  was  under  this  tree  that 
I  first  resolved  to •" 

He  paused. 

"  What,  Randal  ?  " 

"  Read  hard  :  knowledge  is  power  !  " 

"  But  you  are  so  fond  of  reading." 

"  I  !  "  cried  Randal.  "  Do  you  think,  when  Wolsey  a.nd 
Thomas-a-Becket  became  priests,  they  were  fond  of  telling 
their  beads  and  pattering  aves  ?  I  fond  of  reading  !  " 

Oliver  stared  ;  the  historical  allusions  were  beyond  his 
comprehension. 

"You  know,"  continued  Randal,  "that  we  Leslies  were 
not  always  the  beggarly  poor  gentlemen  we  are  now.  You 
know  that  there  is  a  man  who  lives  in  Grosvenor  Square,- 
and  is  very  rich — very.  His  riches  come  to  him  from  a 
Leslie  ;  that  man  is  my  patron,  Oliver,  and  he — is  very  good 
to  me." 

Randal's  smile  was  withering1  as  he  spoke.  "Come  on," 
he  said,  after  a  pause — "come  on."  Again  the  walk  was 
quick,  and  the  brothers  were  silent. 

They  came  at  length  to  a  little  shallow  brook,  across 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  9i 

which  some  large  stones  had  been  placed  at  short  intervals, 
so  that  the  boys  walked  over  the  ford  dry-shod.  "  Will  you 
pull  down  that  bough,  Oliver  ? "  said  Randal,  abruptly, 
pointing  to  a  tree.  Oliver  obeyed  mechanically  ;  and  Ran- 
dal, stripping  the  leaves,  and  snapping  off  the  twigs,  left 
a  fork  at  the  end  ;  with  this  he  began  to  remove  the  step- 
ping-stones. 

"What  are  you  about,  Randal?"  asked  Oliver,  won- 
deringly. 

*'  We  are  on  the  other  side*  of  the  brook  now,  and  we 
shall  not  come  back  this  way.  We  don't  want  the  stepping- 
stones  any  more  ! — away  with  them  ! " 


CHAPTER  V. 

THE  morning  after  this  visit  of  Frank  Hazeldean's  to 
Rood  Hall,  the  Right  Honorable  Audley  Egerton,  member 
of  parliament,  privy  councillor,  and  minister  of  a  high  de- 
partment in  the  state — just  below  the  rank  of  the  cabinet — 
was  seated  in  his  library,  awaiting  the  delivery  of  the  post, 
before  he  walked  down  to  his  office.  In  the  meanwhile,  he 
sipped  his  tea,  and  glanced  over  the  newspapers  Avith  that 
quick  and  half-disdainful  eye  with  which  your  practical 
man  in  public  life  is  wont  to  regard  the  abuse  or  the  eulo- 
gium  of  the  Fourth  Estate. 

There  is  very  little  likeness  between  Mr.  Egerton  and 
his  half-brother  ;  none,  indeed,  except  that  they  are  both  of 
tall  stature,  and  strong,  sinewy,  English  build.  But  even 
in  this  last  they  do  not  resemble  each  other ;  for  the 
Squire's  athletic  shape  is  already  beginning  to  expand  into 
that  portly  embonpoint  which  seems  the  natural  development 
of  contented  men  as  they  approach  middle  life. — Audley, 
on  the  contrary,  is  inclined  to  be  spare  ;  and  his  figure, 
though  the  muscles  are  as  firm  as  iron,  has  enough  of  the 
slender  to  satisfy  metropolitan  ideas  of  elegance.  His 
dress,  his  look — his  tout  ensemble — are  those  of  the  London 
man.  In  the  first,  there  is  more  attention  to  fashion  than 
is  usual  amongst  the  busy  members  of  the  House  of  Com- 
mons ;  but  then  Audley  Egerton  has  always  been  something 
more  than  a  mere  busy  member  of  the  House  of  Commons. 
He  has  always  been  a  person  of  mark  in  the  best  society  ; 


92  MY  NOVEL;    OR, 

and  one  secret  of  his  success  in  life  has  been  his  high  repu- 
tation as  "  a  gentleman." 

As  he  now  bends  over  the  journals,  there  is  an  air  of 
distinction  in  the  turn  of  the  well-shaped  head,  with  the 
dark  brown  hair — dark  in  spite  of  a  reddish  tinge— cut 
close  behind,  and  worn  away  a  little  toward  the  crown,  so 
as  to  give  additional  height  to  a  commanding  forehead. 
His  profile  is  very  handsome,  and  of  that  kind  of  beauty 
which  imposes  on  men  if  it  pleases  women  ;  and  is,  there- 
fore, unlike  that  of  your  mere  pretty  fellows,  a  positive 
advantage  in  public  life.  It  is  a  profile  with  large  features 
clearly  cut,  masculine,  and  somewhat  severe.  The  expres- 
sion of  his  face  is  not- open,  like  the  Squire's  ;  nor  has  it  the 
cold  closeness  which  accompanies  the  intellectual  character 
of  young  Leslie's  ;  but  it  is  reserved  and  dignified,  and 
significant  of  self-control,  as  should  be  the  physiognomy  of 
a  man  accustomed  to  think  before  he  speaks.  When  you 
look  at  him,  you  are  not  surprised  to  learn  that  he  is  not  a 
florid  orator  nor  a  smart  debater — he  is  a  "weighty  speaker." 
He  is  fairly  read,  but  without  any  great  range  either  of 
ornamental  scholarship  or  constitutional  lore.  He  has  not 
much  humor  ;  but  he  has  that  kind  of  wit  which  is  essen- 
tial to  grave  and  serious  irony.  He  has  not  much  imagina- 
tion, nor  remarkable  subtlety  in  reasoning  ;  but  if  he  does 
not  dazzle,  he  does  not  bore :  he  is  too  much  of  the  man  of 
the  world  for  that.  lie  is  considered  to  have  sound  sense 
and  accurate  judgment.  Withal,  as  he  now  lays  aside  the 
journals,  and  his  face  relaxes  its  austercr  lines,  you  will  not 
be  astonished  to  hear  that  he  is  a  man  who  is  said  to  have 
been  greatly  beloved  by  women,  and  still  to  exercise  much 
influence  in  drawing-rooms  and  boudoirs.  At  least,  no  one 
was  surprised  when  the  great  heiress,  Clementina  Leslie, 
kinswoman  and  ward  to  Lord  Lansmere — a  young  lad}*  who 
had  refused  three  earls  and  the  heir-apparent  to  a  dukedom 
— was  declared  by  her  dearest  friends  to.  be  dying  of  love 
for  Audley  Egerton.  It  had  been  the  natural  wish  of  the 
Lansrneres  that  this  lady  should  marry  their  son,  Lord 
L'Estrange.  But  that  young  gentlemah,  whose  opinions 
on  matrimony  partook  of  the  eccentricity  of  his  general 
character,  could  never  be  induced  to  propose,  and  had, 
according  to  the  on-dits  of  town,  been  the  principal  party 
to  make  up  the  match  between  Clementina  and  his  friend 
Audley  ;  for  the  match  required  making-up,  despite  the 
predilections  of  the  young  heiress.  Mr.  Egerton  had  had 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  93 

scruples  of  delicacy.  He  avowed,  for  the  first  time,  that 
his  fortune  was  much  less  than  had  been  generally  sup- 
posed, and  he  did  not  like  the  idea  of  owing  all  to  a  wife, 
however  highly  he  might  esteem  and  admire  her.  Now, 
Lord  L'Estrange  (not  long  after  the  election  at  Lansmere, 
which  had  given  to  Audley  his  first  scat  in  parliament)  had 
suddenly  exchanged  from  the  battalion  of  the  Guards  to 
which  he  belonged,  and  .which  was  detained  at  home,  into  a 
cavalry  regiment  on  active  service  in  the  Peninsula.  Never- 
theless, even  abroad,  and  amidst  the  distractions  of  war,  his 
interest  in  all  that  could  forward  Egerton's  career  was 
unabated  ;  and,  by  letters  to  his  father,  and  to  his  cousin 
Clementina,  he  assisted  in  the  negotiations  for  the  mar- 
riage between  Miss  Leslie  and  his  friend  ;  and,  before  the 
year  in  which  Audley  was  returned  for  Lansmere  had 
expired,  the  young  senator  received 'the  hand  of  the  great 
heiress.  The  settlement  of  her  fortune,  which  was  chiefly 
in  the  funds,  had  been  unusually  advantageous  to  the  hus- 
band ;  for  though  the  capital  was  tied  up  so  long  as  both 
survived — for  the  benefit  of  any  children  they  might  have — 
yet,  in  the  event  of  one  of  the  parties  dying  without  issue 
by  the  marriage,  the  whole  passed  without  limitation  to  the 
survivor.  Miss  Leslie,  in  spite  of  all  remonstrance  from 
her  own  legal  adviser,  had  settled  this  clause  with  Eger- 
ton's confidential  solicitor,  one  Mr.  Levy,  of  whom  we  shall 
see  more  hereafter  ;  and  Egerton  was  to  be  kept  in  ignorance 
of  it  till  after  the  marriage.  If  in  this  Miss  Leslie  showed 
a  generous  trust  in  Mr.  Egerton,  she  still  inflicted  no  posi- 
tive wrong  on . ,  her  relations,  for  she  had  none  sufficiently 
near  to  .her  to.  warrant  their  claim  to  the  succession.  Her 
nearest  kinsman,  and  therefore  her  natural  heir,  was  Har- 
Icy  L'Estrange  ;  and  if  he  was  contented,  no  one  had  a 
right  to  complain.  The  tie  of  blood  between  herself  and 
tiie  Leslies  of  Rood  Hall  was,  as  we  shall  see  presently, 
extremely  distant. 

It  was  not  till  after  his  marriage  that  Mr.  Egerton  took 
an  active  part  in  the  business  of  the  House  of  Commons. 
Me  was  then  at  the  most  advantageous  starting-point  for  the 
career  of  ambition.  His  words  on  the  state  of  the  country 
took  importance  from  his  stake  in  it.  His  talents  from  ac- 
cessories in  the  opulence  of  Grosvenor  Square,  the  dignity 
of  a  princely  establishment,  the  respectability  of  one  firmly 
settled  in  life,  the  reputation  of  a  fortune  in  reality  very 
large,  and  which  was  magnified  by  popular  report  into  the 


94  MY  NOVEL:    OA\ 

revenues  of  a  Croesus.  Audley  Egerton  succeeded  in  Par- 
liament beyond  the  early  expectations  formed  of  him.  He 
took,  from  the  first,  that  station  in  the  House  which  it  re- 
quires tact  to  establish,  and  great  knowledge  of  the  world 
to  free  from  the  charge  of  impracticability  and  crotchet, 
but  which,  once  established,  is  peculiarly  imposing  from 
the  rarity  of  its  independence  ;  that  is  to  say,  the  station  of 
the  moderate  man,  who  belongs  sufficiently  to  a  party  to 
obtain  its  support,  but  is  yet  sufficiently  disengaged  from 
a  party  to  make  his  vote  and  word,  on  certain  questions, 
matter  of  anxiety  and  speculation. 

Professing  Toryism  (the  word  Conservative,  which 
would  have  suited  him  better,  was  not  then  known),  he 
separated  himself  from  the  country  party,  and  always 
avowed  great  respect  for  the  opinions  of  the  large  towns. 
The  epithet  given  to  the  views  of  Audley  Egerton  was  "en- 
lightened." Never  too  much  in  advance  of  the  passion  of 
the  day,  yet  never  behind  its  movement,  he  had  that  shrewd 
calculation  of  odds  which  a  consummate  mastery  of  the  world 
sometimes  bestows  on  politicians, — perceived  the  chances 
for  and  against  a  certain  question  being  carried  within  a 
certain  time,  and  nicked  the  question  between  wind  and 
water.  He  was  so  good  a  barometer  of  that  changeful 
weather  called  Public  Opinion,  that  he  might  have  had 
a  hand  in  the  Times  newspaper.  He  soon  quarrelled, 
and  purposely,  with  his  Lansmere  constituents  ;  nor  had 
he  ever  revisited  that  borough, — perhaps  because  it  was  as- 
sociated with  unpleasant  reminiscences  in  the  shape  of  the 
Squire's  epistolary  trimmer,  and  in  that  of  his  own  effigies 
Avhich  his  agricultural  constituents  had  burned  in  the  corn- 
market.  But  the  speeches  that  produced  such  indignation 
at  Lansmere  had  delighted  one  of  the  greatest  of  our  com- 
mercial towns,  which  at  the  next  general  election  honored 
him  with  its  representation.  In  those  days,  before  the 
Reform  Bill,  great  commercial  towns  chose  men  of  high 
mark  for  their  members  ;  and  a  proud  station  it  was  for 
him  who  was  delegated  to  speak  the  voice  of  the  princely 
merchants  of  England. 

Mrs.  Egerton  survived  her  marriage  but  a  few  years  ; 
she  left  no  children  ;  two  had  been  born,  but  died  in  their 
first  infancy.  The  property  of  the  wife,  therefore,  passed 
without  control  or  limit  to  the  husband. 

Whatever  might  have  been  the  grief  of  the  widower,  he 
disdained  to  betray  it  to  the  world.  Indeed,  Audley  Eger- 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  95 

ton  was  a  man  who  had  early  taught  himself  to  conceal 
emotion.  He  buried  himself  in  the  country,  none  knew 
where,  for  some  months.  When  he  returned,  there  was  a 
deep  wrinkle  on  his  brow  ;  but  no  change  in  his  habits  and 
avocations,  except  that  shortly  afterward  he  accepted  office, 
and  thus  became  more  busy  than  ever. 

Mr.  Egerton  had  always  been  lavish  and  magnificent  in 
money  matters.  A  rich  man  in  public  life  has  many  claims 
on  his  fortune,  and  no  one  yielded  to  those  claims  with  an 
air  so  regal  as  Audley  Egerton.  But  amongst  his  many 
liberal  actions  there  was  none  which  seemed  more  worthy 
of  paneygric  than  the  generous  favor  he  extendad  to  the 
son  of  his  wife's  poor  and  distant  kinsfolk,  the  Leslies  of 
Rood  Hall. 

Some  four  generations  back,  there  had  lived  a  certain 
Squire  Leslie,  a  man  of  large  acres  and  active  mind.  He 
had  cause  to  be  displeased  with  his  eldest  son,  and  though 
he  did  not  disinherit  him,  he  left  half  his  property  to  a 
younger. 

The  younger  had  capacity  and  spirit,  which  justified 
the  parental  provision.  He  increased  his  fortune,  lifted 
himself  into  notice  and  consideration  by  public  services 
and  a  noble  alliance.  His  descendants  followed  his  ex- 
ample, and  took  rank  among  the  first  commoners  in  Eng- 
land, till  the  last  male,  dying,  left  his  sole  heiress  and 
representative  in  one  daughter,  Clementina,  afterward 
married  to  Mr.  Egerton. 

Meanwhile  the  elder  son  of  the  forementioned  squire 
had  muddled  and  sotted  away  much  of  his  share  in  the 
Leslie  property,  and  by  low  habits  and  mean  society,  low- 
ered in  repute  his  representation  of  the  name. 

His  successors  imitated  him,  till  nothing  was  left  to 
Randal's  father,  Mr.  Maunder  Slugge  Leslie,  but  the  de- 
cayed house,  which  was  what  the  Germans  call  the  stamm 
schloss  or  "  stem  hall  "  of  the  race,  and  the  wretched  lands 
immediately  around  it. 

Still,  though  all  intercourse  between  the  two  branches 
of  the  family  had  ceased,  the  younger  had  always  felt  a  re- 
spect for  the  elder,  as  the  head  of  the  house.  And  it  was 
supposed  that,  on  her  death-bed,  Mrs.  Egerton  had  recom- 
mended her  impoverished  namesakes  and  kindred  to  the 
care  of  her  husband  ;  for,  when  he  returned  to  town,  after 
Mrs.  Egerton's  death,  Audley  had  sent  to  Mr.  Maunder 
Slugge  Leslie  the  sum  of  .£5,000,  which  he  said  his  wife, 


g6  MY  NOVEL;    OR, 

leaving  no  written  will,  had  orally  bequeathed  as  a  legacy 
to  that  gentleman  ;  and  he  requested  permission  to  charge 
himself  with  the  education  of  the  eldest  son. 

Mr.  Maunder  Slugge  Leslie  might  have  done  great 
things  for  his  little  property  with  those  ^5,000,  or  even 
(kept  in  the  Three  per  Cents)  the  interest  would  have 
afforded  a  material  addition  to  his  comforts.  But  a  neigh- 
boring »solici  tor,  having  caught  scent  of  the  legacy,  hunted 
it  down  into  his  own  hands,  on  pretence  of  having  found  a 
capital  investment  in  a  canal.  And  when  the  solicitor  had 
got  possession  of  the  ^5,000,  he  went  off  with  them  to 
America. 

Meanwhile  Randal,  placed  by  Mr.  Egerton  at  an  ex- 
cellent preparatory  school,  at  first  gave  no  signs  of  industry 
or  talent  ;  but  just  before  he  left  it,  there  came  to  the  school, 
as  classical  tutor,  an  ambitious  young  Oxford  man  ;  and 
his  zeal — for  he  was  a  capital  teacher— produced  a  great 
effect  generally  on  the  pupils,  and  especially  on  Randal 
Leslie.  He  talked  to  them  much  in  private  on  the  ad- 
vantages of  learning,  and  shortly  afterward  he  exhibited 
those  advantages  in  his  own  person  ;  for,  having  edited  a 
Greek  play  with  much  subtle  scholarship,  his  college, 
which  some  slight  irregularities  of  his  had  displeased, 
recalled  him  to  its  venerable  bosom  by  the  presentation  of 
a  fellowship.  After  this  he  took  orders,  became  a  college 
tutor,  distinguished  himself  yet  more  by  a  treatise  on  the 
Greek  accent,  got  a  capital  living,  and  was  considered  on 
the  high  road"  to  a  bishopric.  This  young  man,  then, 
communicated  to  Randal  the  thirst  for  knowledge  ;  and 
when  the  boy  went  afterward  to  Eton,  he  applied  with 
such  earnestness  and  resolve,  that  his  fame  soon  reached 
the  ears  of  Audley  ;  and  that  person,  who  had  the  sym- 
pathy for  talent,  and  yet  more  for  purpose,  which  often 
characterizes  ambitious  men,  went  to  Eton  to  see  him. 
From  that  time  Audley  evinced  great  and  almost  fatherly 
interest  in  the  brilliant  Etonian  ;  and  Randal  always  spent 
with  him  some  days  in  each  vacation. 

I  have  said  that  Egerton's  conduct  with  respect  to  this 
boy,  was  more  praiseworthy  than  most  of  those  generous 
actions  for  which  he  was  renowned,  since  to  this  the  world 
gave  no  applause.  What  a  man  does  within  the  range 
of  his  family  connections  does  not  carry  with  it  that  'eclat 
which  invests  a  munificence  exhibited  on  public  occasions. 
Either  people  care  nothing  about  it,  or  tacitly  suppose  it 


VARIETIES  IN   ENGLISH  LIFE.  97 

to  be  but  his  duty.  It  was  true,  too,  as  the  Squire  had 
observed,  that  Randal  Leslie  was  even  less  distantly  re- 
lated to  the  Hazeldeans  than  to  Mrs,  Egerton,  since 
Randal's  grandfather  had  actually  married  a  Miss  Hazel- 
dean  (the  highest  worldly  connection  that  branch  of  the 
family  had  formed  since  the  great  split  I  have  commemo- 
rated). But  Audley  Egerton  never  appeared  aware  of  that 
fact.  As  he  was  not  himself  descended  from  the  Hazel- 
deans,  he  did  not  trouble  himself  about  their  genealogy  ; 
and  he  took  care  to  impress  it  upon  the  Leslies  that  his 
generosity  on  their  behalf  was  solely  to  be  ascribed  to  his 
respect  for  his  wife's  memory  and  kindred.  Stillthe  Squire 
had  felt  as  if  his  "  distant  brother"  implied  a  rebuke  on  his 
own  neglect  of  these  poor  Leslies,  by  the  liberality  Audley 
evinced  toward  them  ;  and  this  had  made  him  doubly  sore 
when  the  name  of  Randal  Leslie  was  mentioned.  But  the 
fact  really  was,  that  the  Leslies  of  Rood  had  so  shrunk 
out  of  all  notice  that  the  Squire  had  actually  forgotten 
their  existence,  until  Randal  became  thus  indebted  to  his 
brother  ;  and  then  he  felt  a  pang  of  remorse  that  any  one 
save  himself,  the  head  of  the  Hazeldeans,  should  lend  a 
helping  hand  to  the  grandson  of  a  Hazeldean. 

But  having  thus,  somewhat  too  tediously,  explained  the 
position  of  Audley  Egerton,  whether  in  the  world  or  in  re- 
lation to  his  young  protege,  I  mav  now  permit  him  to  re- 
ceive and  to  read  his  letters. 


CHAPTER  VI. 

MR.  EGERTON  glanced  over  the  pile  of  letters  placed 
beside  him,  and  first  he  tore  up  some,  scarcely  read,  and 
threw  them  into  the  waste-basket.  Public  men  have  such 
odd,  out-of-the-way  letters,  that  their  waste-baskets  are 
never  empty  :  letters  from  amateur  financiers  proposing 
new  ways  to  pay  off  the  National  Debt  ;  letters  from 
America  (never  free),  asking  for  autographs  ;  letters  from 
fond  mothers  in  country  villages,  recommending  some 
miracle  of  a  son  for  a  place  in  the  King's  service  ;  letters 
from  freethinkers  in  reproof  of  bigotry  :  letters  from 
bigots  in  reproof  of  freethinkers ;  letters  signed  Brutus 
Redivivus,  containing  the  agreeable  information  that  the 


9«  My  NOVEL;    OR, 

writer  has  a  dagger  for  tyrants,  if  the  Danish  claims  are 
not  forthwith  adjusted  ;  letters  signed  Matilda  or  Caroline, 
stating  that  Caroline  or  Matilda  has  seen  the  public  man's 
portrait  at  the  Exhibition,  and  that  a  heart  sensible  to  its 
attractions  may  be  found  at  No.  — ,  Piccadilly  ;  letters  from 
beggars,  impostors,  monomaniacs,  speculators,  jobbers — all 
food  for  the  waste-basket. 

From  the  correspondence  thus  winnowed,  Mr.  Egerton 
first  selected  those  on  business,  which  he  put  methodically 
together  in  one  division  of  his  pocket-book  :  and  secondly, 
those  of  a  private  nature,  which  he  as  carefully  put  into 
another.  Of  these  last  there  were  but  three — one  from  his 
steward,  one  from  Harvey  L'Estrange,  one  from  Randal 
Leslie.  It  was  his  custom  to  answer  his  correspondence  at 
his  office  ;  and  to  his  office,  a  few  minutes  afterward,  he 
slowly  took  his  way.  Many  a  passenger  turned  back  to  look 
again  at  the  firm  figure,  which,  despite  the  hot  summer  day, 
was  buttoned  up  to  the  throat  ;  and  the  black  frock-coat 
thus  worn  well  became  .  the  erect  air,  and  the  deep,  full 
chest  of  the  handsome  senator.  When  he,  entered  Parlia- 
ment Street,  Audley  Egerton  was  joined  by  one  of  his 
colleagues,  also  on  his  way  to  the  cares  of  office. 

After  a  few  observations  on  the  last  debate,  this  gentle- 
man said — 

"  By  the  w-ay,  can  you  dine  with  me  next  Saturday,  to 
meet  Lansmere  ?  He  comes  up  to  town  to  vote  for  us  on 
Monday." 

"  I  had  asked  some  people  to  dine  with  me,"  answered 
Egerton,  "  but  I  will  put  them  off.  I  see  Lord  Lansmere 
too  seldom  to  miss  any  occasion  to  meet  a  man  whom  I  re- 
spect so  much." 

"So  seldom  !  True,  he  is  very  little  in  town  ;  but  why 
don't  you  go  and  see  him  in  the  country?  Good  shooting 
— pleasant,  old-fashioned  house." 

"  My  dear  Westbourne,  his  house  is  'minium  vicina  Cre- 
mona,'  close  to  a  borough  in  which  I  have  been  burned  in 
effigy." 

"Ha — ha — yes  — I  remember  you  first  came  into  Parlia- 
ment for  that  snug  little  place  ;  but  Lansmere  himself  never 
found  fault  with  your  votes,  did  he  ?  " 

"  He  behaved  very  handsomely,  and  said  he  had  not  pre- 
sumed to  consider  me  his  mouth-piece  ;  and  then,  too,  I  am 
so  intimate  with  L'Estrange." 

"  Is  that  queer  fellow  ever  coming  back  to  England  ?" 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  99 

''He  comes,  generally,  every  year,  for  a  few  days,  just 
to  see  his  father  and  mother,  and  then  returns  to  the 
Continent." 

"  I  never  met  him." 

"  He  comes  in  September  or  October,  when  you,  of 
course,  are  not  in  town,  and  it  is  in  town  that  the  Lans- 
meres  meet  him." 

"  Why  does  he  not  go  to  them  ?  " 

"A  man  in  England  but  once  a  year,  and  for  a  few  days, 
has  so  much  to  do  in  London,  I  suppose  ?  " 

"  Is  he  as  amusing  as  ever  ? " 

Egerton  nodded. 

"  So  distinguished  as  he  might  be ! "  remarked  Lord 
Westbourne. 

"  So  distinguished  as  he  is  ! "  said  Egerton  formally  ; 
"  an  officer  selected  for  praise,  even  in  such  fields  as  Quatre 
Bras  and  Waterloo  ;  a  scholar,  too,  of  the  finest  taste  ;  and 
as  an  accomplished  gentleman,  matchless  !  " 

"  I  like  to  hear  one  man  praise  another  so  warmly  in 
these  ill-natured  days,"  answered  Lord  Westbourne.  "  But 
still,  though  L'Estrange  is  doubtless  all  you  say,  don't  you 
think  he  rather  wastes  his  life — living  abroad  ? " 

"And  trying  to  be  happy,  Westbourne?  Are  you  sure 
it  is  not  we  who  waste  our  lives  ?  but  I  can't  stay  to  hear 
your  answer.  Here  we  are  at  the  door  of  my  prison." 

"On  Saturday,  then?" 

"  On  Saturday.     Good-day." 

For  the  next  hour,  or  more,  Mr.  Egerton  was  engaged 
on  the  affairs  of  the  state.  He  then  snatched  an  interval 
of  leisure  (while  awaiting  a  report,  which  he  had  instructed 
a  clerk  to  make  him),  in  order  to  reply  to  his  letters.  Those 
on  public  business  were  soon  despatched  ;  and  throwing  his 
replies  aside,  to  be  sealed  by  a  subordinate  hand,  he  drew 
out  the  letters  which  he  had  put  apart  as  private. 

He  attended  first  to  that  of  his  steward  :  the  steward's 
letter  was  long,  the  reply  was  contained  in  three  lines.  Pitt 
himself  was  scarcely  more  negligent  of  his  private  interests 
and  concerns  than  Audley  Egerton — yet,  withal,  Audley 
Egerton  was  said  by  his  enemies  to  be  an  egotist. 

The  next  letter  he  wrote  was  to  Randal,  and  that,  though 
longer,  was  far  from  prolix  :  it  ran  thus — 

"  Dear  Mr.  Leslie, — I  appreciate  your  delicacy  in  con- 
sulting me  whether  you  should  accept  Frank  Hazeldean's 


ioo  MY  NOVEL;    OR, 

invitation  to  call  at  the  Hall.  Since  you  are  asked,  I  can 
see  no  objection  to  it.  I  should  be  sorry  if  you  appeared  to 
force  yourself  there  ;  and  for  the  rest,  as  a  general  rule,  I 
think  a  young  man  who  has  his  own  way  to  make  in  life 
had  better  avoid  all  intimacy  with  those  of  his  own  age  who 
have  no  kindred  objects  nor  congenial  pursuits. 

"As  soon  as  this  visit  is  paid,  I  wish  you  to  come  to  Lon- 
don. The  report  1  receive  of  your  progress  at  Eton  renders 
it  unnecessary,  in  my  judgment,  that  you  should  return 
there.  If  your  father  has  no  objection,  I  propose  that  you 
should  go  to  Oxford  at  the  ensuing  term.  Meanwhile,  I 
have  engaged  a  gentleman,  who  is  a  fellow  of  Baliol,  to  read 
with  you.  He  is  of  opinion,  judging  only  by  your  high  re- 
pute at  Eton,  that  you  may  at  once  obtain  a'scholarship  in 
that  college.  If  you  do  so,  I  shall  look  upon  your  career 
in  life  as  assured. 

"Your  affectionate  friend,  and  sincere  well-wisher, 

"A.  E." 

The  reader  will  remark  that,  in  this  letter,  there  is  a  cer- 
tain tone  of  formality.  Mr.  Egerton  does  not  call  his 
protege  "  Dear  Randal,"  as  would  seem  natural,  but  coldly 
and  stiffly,  "Dear  Mr.  Leslie."  He  hints,  also,  that  the  boy 
has  his  own  way  to  make  in  life.  Is  this  meant  to  guard 
against  too  sanguine  notions  of  inheritance,  which  his  gen- 
erosity may  have  excited  ? 

The  letter  to  Lord  L'Estrange  was  of  a  very  different 
kind  from  the  others.  It  was  long,  and  full  of  such  little 
scraps  of  news  and  gossip  as  may  interest  friends  in  a  for- 
eign land  ;  it  was  written  gayly,  and  as  with  a  wish  to  cheer 
his  friend  ;  you  could  see  that  it  was  a  reply  to  a  melan- 
choly letter ;  and  in  the  whole  tone  and  spirit  there  was  an 
affection,  even  to  tenderness,  of  which  those  who  most  liked 
Audley  Egerton  would  have  scarcely  supposed  him  capable. 
Yet,  notwithstanding,  there  was  a  kind  of  constraint  in  the 
letter,  which  perhaps  only  the  fine  tact  of  a  woman  would 
detect.  It  had  not  the  abandon,  that  hearty  self-outpouring, 
which  you  might  expect  would  characterize  the  letters  of 
two  such  friends,  who  had  been  boys  at  school  together,  and 
which  did  breathe  indeed  in  all  the  abrupt  rambling  sen- 
tences of  his  correspondent.  But  where  was  the  evidence 
of  the  constraint  ?  Egerton  is  off-hand  enough  where  his 
pen  runs  glibly  through  paragraphs  that  relate  to  others ; 
it  is  simply  that  he  says  nothing  about  himself — that  he 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE,  10* 

avoids  all  reference  to  the  inner  world  of  sentiment  and 
feeling.  But  perhaps,  after  all,  the  man  has  no  sentiment 
and  feeling  !  How  can  you  expect  that  a  steady  personage 
in  practical  life,  whose  mornings  are  spent  in  Downing 
Street,  and  whose  nights  are  consumed  in  watching  Govern- 
ment bills  through  a  committee,  can  write  in  the  same 
style  as  an  idle  dreamer  amidst  the  pines  of  Ravenna,  or  on 
the  banks  of  Como  ? 

Audley  had  just  finished  this  epistle,  such  as  it  was, 
when  the  attendant  in  waiting  announced  the  arrival  of  a 
deputation  from  a  provincial  trading  town,  the  members  of 
which  deputation  he  had  appointed  to  meet  at  two  o'clock. 
There  was  no  office  in  London  at  which  deputations  were 
kept  waiting  less  than  at  that  over  which  Mr.  Egerton 
presided. 

The  deputation  entered — some  score  or  so  of  middle-aged, 
comfortable-looking  persons,  who,  nevertheless,  had  their 
grievance — and  considered  their  own  interests,  and  those  of 
the  country,  menaced  by  a  certain  clause  in  a  bill  brought 
in  by  Mr.  Egerton. 

The  Mayor  of  the  town  was  the  chief  spokesman,  and 
he  spoke  well — but  in  a  style  to  which  the  dignified  official 
was  not  accustomed.  It  was  a  slap-dash  style — unceremo- 
nious, free,  and  easy — an  American  style.  And,  indeed, 
there  was  something  altogether  in  the  appearance  and  bear- 
ing of  the  Mayor  which  savored  of  residence  in  the  Great 
Republic.  He  was  a  very  handsome  man,  but  with  a  look 
sharp  and  domineering — the  look  of  a  man  who  did  not  care 
a  straw  for  president  or  monarch,  and  who  enjoyed  the  lib- 
erty to  speak  his  mind  and  "  wallop  his  own  nigger  !  " 

His  fellow-burghers  evidently  regarded  him  with  great 
respect  ;  and  Mr.  Egerton  had  penetration  enough  to  per- 
ceive that  Mr.  Mayor  must  be  a  rich  man,  as  well  as  an 
eloquent  one,  to  have  overcome  those  impressions  of  sore- 
ness or  jealousy  which  his  tone  was  calculated  to  create  to 
the  self-love  of  his  equals. 

Mr.  Egerton  was  far  too  wise  to  be  easily  offended  by 
mere  manner  ;  and,  though  he  stared  somewhat  haughtily 
when  he  found  his  observations  actually  pooh-poohed,  he 
was  not  above  being  convinced.  There  was  much  sense 
and  much  justice  in  Mr.  Mayor's  arguments,  and  the  states- 
man civilly  promised  to  take  them  into  full  considera- 
tion. 

He  then  bowed  out  the  deputation  ;  but  scarcely  had  the 


102  MY  NOVEL;    OR, 

door  closed  before  it  opened  again,  and  Mr.  Mayor  pre- 
sented himself  alone,  saying  aloud  to  his  companions  in  the 
passage,  "  I  forgot  something  I  had  to  say  to  Mr.  Egerton 
— wait  below  for  me." 

"  Well,  Mr.  Mayor,"  said  Audley,  pointing  to  a  seat,  "  what 
else  would  you  suggest  ? " 

The  Mayor  looked  round  to  see  that  the  door  was 
closed  ;  and  then,  drawing  his  chair  close  to  Mr.  Egerton's, 
laid  his  forefinger  on  that  gentleman's  arm,  and  said,  "  I 
think  I  speak  to  a  man  of  the  world,  sir  ?  " 

Mr.  Egerton  bowed,  and  made  no  reply  by  word,  but 
he  gently  removed  his  arm  from  the  touch  of  the  fore- 
finger. 

MR.  MAYOR. — You  observe,  sir,  that  I  did  not  ask  the 
members  whom  we  return  to  Parliament  to  accompany 
us.  Do  better  without  'em.  You  know  they  are  both  in 
Opposition — out-and-outers. 

MR.  EGERTON. — It  is  a  misfortune  which  the  Govern- 
ment cannot  remember,  when  the  question  is  whether  the 
trade  of  the  town  itself  is  to  be  served  or  injured. 

MR.  MAYOR. — Well,  I  guess  ycm  speak  handsome,  sir. 
But  you'd  be  glad  to  have  two  members  to  support  Minis- 
ters after  the  next  election. 

MR.  EGERTON  (smiling). — Unquestionably,  Mr.  Mayor. 

MR.  MAYOR. — And  I  can  do  it,  Mr.  Egerton.  I  may  say 
I  have  the  town  in  my  pocket  ;  so  I  ought — I  spend  a  great 
deal  of  money  in  it.  Now,  you  see,  Mr.  Egerton,  I  have 
passed  a  part  of  my  life  in  a  land  of  liberty — the  United 
States — and  I  come  to  the  point  when  I  speak  to  a  man  of 
the  world.  I'm  a  man  of  the  world  myself,  sir.  And  so, 
if  the  Government  will  do  something  for  me,  why,  I'll  do 
something  for  the  Government.  Two  votes  for  a  free  and 
independent  town  like  ours — that's  something,  isn't  it  ? 

MR.  EGERTON  (taken  by  surprise). — Really,  I — 

MR.  MAYOR  (advancing  his  chair  still  nearer,  and  inter- 
rupting the  official). — No  nonsense,  you  see,  on  one  side  or 
the  other.  The  fact  is,  that  I've  taken  it  into  my  head  that 
I  should  like  to  be  knighted.  You  may  well  look  surprised, 
Mr.  Egerton — trumpery  thing  enough,  I  dare  say  ;  still, 
every  man  has  his  weakness,  and  I  should  like  to  be  Sir 
Richard.  Well,  if  you  can  get  me  made  Sir  Richard,  you 
may  just  name  your  two  members  for  the  next  election 
— that  is,  if  they  belong  to  your  own  set,  enlightened  men, 
up  to  the  times.  That's  speaking  fair  and  manful,  isn't  it  ? 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  103 

MR.  EGERTON  (drawing  himself  up). — I  am  at  a  loss  to 
guess  why  you  should  select  me,  sir,  for  this  very  extraor- 
dinary proposition. 

MR.  MAYOR  (nodding  good-humoredly).' — Why,  you  see, 
I  don't  go  along  with  the  Government  ;  you're  the  best  of 
the  bunch.  And  may  be  you'd  like  to  strengthen  your  own 
party.  This  is  quite  between  you  and  me,  you  understand  ; 
honor's  a  jewel ! 

MR.  EGERTON  (with  great  gravity). — Sir,  I  am  obliged  by 
your  good  opinion  ;  but  I  agree  with  my  colleagues  in 
all  the  great  questions  that  affect  the  government  of  the 
country,  and 

MR.  MAYOR  (interrupting  him). — Ah,  of  course,  you  must 
say  so  ;  very  right.  But  I  guess  things  would  go  different- 
ly if  you  were  Prime  Minister.  However,  I  have  another 
reason  for  speaking  to  you  about'  my  little  job.  You  see 
you  were  member  for  Lansmere  once,  and  I  think  you  only 
came  in  by  a  majority  of  two,  eh  ? 

MR.  EGERTON. — I  know  nothing  of  the  particulars  of  that 
election  ;  I  was  not  present. 

MR.  MAYOR. — No  ;  but  luckily  for  you,  two  relations  of 
mine  were,  and  they  voted  for  you.  Two  votes,  and  you 
came  in  by  two.  Since  then,  you  have  got  into  very  snug 
quarters  here,  and  I  think  we  have  a  claim  on  you 

MR.  EGERTON. — Sir,  I  acknowledge  no  such  claim  ;  I  was 
and  am  a  stranger  to  Lansmere  ;  and,  if  the  electors  did  me 
the  honor  to  return  me  to  Parliament,  it  was  in  compli- 
ment rather  to 

MR.  MAYOR  (again  interrupting  the  official). — Rather  to 
Lord  Lansmere,  you  were  going  to  say  ;  unconstitutional 
doctrine  that,  I  fancy.  Peer  of  the  realm.  But  never  mind, 
I  know  the  world  ;  and  I'd  ask  Lord  Lansmere  to  do  my 
affair  for  me,  only  he  is  a  pompous  sort  of  man  ;  might  be 
qualmish  :  antiquated  notions.  Not  up  to  snuff  like  you 
and  me. 

MR.  EGERTON  (in  great  disgust,  and  settling  his  papers 
before  him). — Sir,  it  is  not  in  my  department  to  recommend 
to  his  Majesty  candidates  for  the  honor  of  knighthood,  and 
it  is  still  less  in  my  department  to  make  bargains  for  seats 
in  Parliament. 

MR.  MAYOR. — Oh,  if  that's  the  case  you'll  excuse  me  ;  I 
don't  know  much  of  the  etiquette  in  these  matters.  But  I 
thought  that,  if  I  put  two  seats  in  your  hands,  for  your  own 
friends,  you  might  contrive  to  take  the  affair  into  your  de- 


104  MY  NOVEL;    OR, 

partment,  whatever  it  was.  But,  since  you  say  you  agree 
with  your  colleagues,  perhaps  it  comes  to  the  same  thing. 
Now,  you  must  not  suppose  I  want  to  sell  the  town,  and 
that  I  can  change  and  chop  my  politics  for  my  own  pur- 
pose. No  such  thing  !  I  don't  like  the  sitting  members  ; 
I'm  all  for  progressing,  but  they  go  too  much  ahead  for  me  ; 
and,  since  the  Government  is  disposed  to  move  a  little,  why, 
I'd  as  lief  support  them  as  not.  But,  in  common  grati- 
tude, you  see  (added  the  Mayor,  coaxingly),  I  ought  to  be 
knighted  !  I  can  keep  up  the  dignity,  and  do  credit  to  his 
Majesty. 

MR.  EGERTON  (without  looking  up  from  his  papers). — I 
can  only  refer  you,  sir,  to  the  proper  quarter. 

MR.  MAYOR  (impatiently). — Proper  quarter  !  Well,  since 
there  is  so  much  humbug  in  this  old  country  of  ours,  that 
one  must  go  through  all  the  forms  and  get  at  the  job  regu- 
larly, just  tell  me  whom  I  ought  to  go  to. 

MR.  EGERTON  (beginning  to  be  amused  as  well  as  indig- 
nant).— If  you  want  a  knighthood,  Mr.  Mayor,  you  must 
ask  the  Prime  Minister  ;  if  you  want  to  give  the  Govern- 
ment information  relative  to  seats  in  Parliament,  you  must 
introduce  yourself  to  Mr. ,  the  Secretary  of  the  Treas- 
ury. 

MR.  MAYOR. — And  if  I  go  to  the  last  chap,  what  do  you 
think  he'll  say  ? 

MR.  EGERTON  (the  amusement  prepondering  over  the  in- 
dignation).— He  will  say,  I  suppose,  that  you  must  not  put 
the  thing  in  the  light  in  which  you  have  put  it  to  me  ;  that 
the  Government  will  be  very  proud  to  have  the  confidence  of 
yourself  and  your  brother  electors  ;  and  that  a  gentleman 
like  you,  in  the  proud  position  of  Mayor,  may  well  hope  to 
be  knighted  on  some  fitting  occasion,  but  that  you  must  not 
talk  about  the  knighthood  just  at  present,  and  must  confine 
yourself  to  converting  the  unfortunate  political  opinions  of 
the  town. 

MR.  MAYOR. — Well,  I  guess  that  chap  there  would  want 
to  do  me  !  Not  quite  so  green,  Mr.  Egerton.  Perhaps  I 
had  better  go  at  once  to  the  fountain  head.  How  do  you 
think  the  Premier  would  take  it  ? 

MR.  EGERTON  (the  indignation  preponderating  over  the 
amusement). — Probably  just  as  I  am  about  to  do. 

Mr.  Egerton  rang  the  bell  ;  the  attendant  appeared. 

"Show  Mr.  Mayor  the  way  out,"  said  the  Minister. 

The  Mayor  turned  round  sharply,  and  his  face  was  pur- 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  105 

pie.  He  walked  straight  to  the  door  :  but  suffering  the  at- 
tendant to  precede  him  along  the  corridor,  he  came  back 
with  a  rapid  stride,  and  clenching  his  hands,  and  with  a 
voice  thick  with  passion,  cried,  "  Some  day  or  other  I  will 
make  you  smart  for  this,  as  sure  as  my  name's  Dick 
Avenel !  " 

"  Avenel ! "    repeated  Egerton,  recoiling — "  Avenel !  " 

But  the  Mayor  was  gone. 

Audley  fell  into  a  deep  and  musing  reverie,  which 
seemed  gloomy,  and  lasted  till  the  attendant  announced 
that  the  horses  were  at  the  door. 

He  then  looked  up,  still  abstractedly,  and  saw  his  letter 
to  Harley  L'Estrange  open  on  the  table.  He  drew  it  to- 
ward him,  and  wrote,  "  A  man  has  just  left  me,  who  calls 
himself  Aven — "  In  the  middle  of  the  name  his  pen  stopped. 
"  No,  no,  muttered  the  writer,  "  what  folly  to  re-open  the 
old  wounds  there"  and  he  carefully  erased  the  words. 

Audley  Egerion  did  not  ride  in  the  Park  that  day,  as 
was  his  wont,  but  dismissed  his  groom  ;  and,  turning  his 
horse's  head  toward  Westminster  Bridge,  took  his  solitary 
way  into  the  country.  He  rode  at  first  slowly,  as  if  in 
thought ;  then  fast,  as  if  trying  to  escape  from  thought.  He 
was  later  than  usual  at  the  House  that  evening,  and  he 
looked  pale  and  fatigued.  But  he  had  to  speak,  and  he 
spoke  well. 


CHAPTER  VII. 

IN  spite  of  all  his  Machiavellian  wisdom,  Dr.  Ricca- 
bocca  had  been  foiled  in  his  attempt  to  seduce  Leonard 
Fairfield  into  his  service,  even  though  he  succeeded  in  par- 
tially winning  over  the  widow  to  his  views.  For  to  her  he 
represented  the  worldly  advantages  of  the  thing.  Lenny 
would  learn  to  be  fit  for  more  than  a  day-laborer  ;  he  would 
learn  gardening  in  all  its  branches — rise  some  day  to  be  a 
head  gardener.  "And,"  said  Riccabocca,  UI  will  take  care 
of  his  book-learning,  and  teach  him  whatever  he  has  a  head 
for." 

"  He  has  a  head  for  everything,"  said  the  widow. 

"  Then,"  said  the  wist;  man,  "  everything  shall  go  into  it." 

The  widow  was  certainly  dazzled  ;  for,  as  we  have  seen, 
she  highly  prized  scholarly  distinction,  and  she  knew  that 

5* 


106  MY  NOVEL  ;    OK, 

the  Parson  looked  upon  Riccabocca  as  a  wondrous  learned 
man.  But  still  Riccabocca  was  said  to  be  a  Papist,  and  sus- 
pected to  be  a  conjurer.  Her  scruples  on  both  these  points 
the  Italian,  who  was  an  adept  in  the  art  of  talking  over  the 
fair  sex,  would  no  doubt  have  dissipated,  if  there  had  been 
any  use  in  it ;  but  Lenny  put  a  dead  stop  to  all  negotiations. 
He  had  taken  a  mortal  dislike  to  Riccabocca:  he  was  very 
much  frightened  by  him — and  the  spectacles,  the  pipe,  the 
cloak,  the  long  hair,  and  the  red  umbrella  ;  and  said  so 
sturdily,  in  reply  to  every  overture — "  Please,  sir,  I'd  rather 
not ;  I'd  rather  stay  along  with  mother,"—  that  Riccabocca 
was  forced  to  suspend  all  further  experiments  in  his  Machia- 
vellian diplomacy.  He  was  not  at  all  cast  down,  however, 
by  his  first  failure  ;  on  the  contrary,  he  was  one  of  those 
men  whom  opposition  stimulates.  And  what  before  had 
been  but  a  suggestion  of  prudence,  became  an  object  of  de- 
sire. Plenty  of  other  lads  might  no  doubt  be  had,  on  as 
reasonable  terms  as  Lenny  Fairfield  ;  but  the  moment  Len- 
ny presumed  to  baffle  the  Italian's  designs  upon  him,  the 
special  acquisition  of  Lenny  became  of  paramount  impor- 
tance in  the  eyes  of  Riccabocca. 

Jackeymo,  however,  lost  all  his  interest  in  the  traps, 
snares,  and  gins  which  his  master  proposed  to  lay  for 
Leonard  Fairfield,  in  the  more  immediate  surprise  that 
awaited  him  on  learning  that  Dr.  Riccabocca  had  accepted 
an  invitation  to  pass  a  few  days  at  the  Hall. 

"There  will  be  no  one  there  but  the  family,"  said 
Riccabocca.  "  Poor  Giacomo,  a  little  chat  in  the  servants' 
hall  will  do  you  good ;  and  the  Squire's  beef  is  more 
nourishing,  after  all,  than  the  stickle-backs  and  minnows. 
It  will  lengthen  your  life." 

"The  Padrone  jests,"  said  Jackeymo,  statelily;  "as  if 
any  one  could  starve  in  his  service." 

"  Um,"  said  Riccabocca.  "At  least,  faithful  friend,  you 
have  tried  that  experiment  as  far  as  human  nature  will 
permit  ;"  and  he  extended  his  hand  to  his  fellowT-exile  with 
that  familiarity  which  exists  between  servant  and  master 
in  the  usages  of  the  Continent.  Jackeymo  bent  low,  and  a 
tear  fell  upon  the  hand  he  kissed. 

"Cospetto!"  said  Dr.  Riccabocca,  "  a  thousand  mock 
pearls  do  not  make  up  the  cost  of  a  single  true  one  !  The 
tears  of  women — we  know  their  worth  ;  but  the  tear  of  an 

honest  man Fie,  Giacomo  ! — at  least  I  can  never  repay 

you  this  !  Go  and  see  to  our  wardrobe." 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  107 

So  far  as  his  master's  wardrobe  was  concerned,  that 
order  was  pleasing  to  Jackeymo  ;  for  the  Doctor  had  in 
his  drawers  suits  which  Jackeymo  pronounced  to  be  as 
good  as  new,  though  many  a  long  year  had  passed  since 
they  left  the  tailor's  hands.  But  when  Jackeymo  came  to 
examine  the  state  of  his  own  clothing  department,  his  face 
grew  considerably  longer.  It  was  not  that  he  was  without 
other  clothes  than  those  on  his  back — quantity  was  there, 
but  the  quality !  Mournfully  he  gazed  on  two  suits  com- 
plete in  the  three  separate  members  of  which  man's  rai- 
ments are  composed  :  the  one  suit  extended  at  length  upon 
his  bed,  like  a  veteran  stretched  by  pious  hands  after 
death  ;  the  other  brought  piecemeal  to  the  invidious  light 
— the  torso  placed  upon  a  chair,  the  limbs  dangling  down 
from  Jackeymo's  melancholy  arm.  No  bodies  long  exposed 
at  the  Morgue  could  evince  less  sign  of  resuscitation  than 
those  respectable  defuncts  !  For,  indeed,  Jackeymo  had 
been  less  thrifty  of  his  apparel — more  prof usus  sni — than  his 
master.  In  the  earliest  days  of  their  exile,  he  preserved 
the  decorous  habit  of  dressing  for  dinner — it  was  a  respect 
due  to  the  Padrone — and  that  habit  had  lasted  till  the  two 
habits  on  which  it  necessarily  depended  had  evinced  the 
first  symptoms  of  decay  ;  then  the  evening  clothes  had  been 
taken  into  morning  wear,  in  which  hard  service  they  had 
breathed  their  last. 

The  Doctor,  notwithstanding  his  general  philosophical 
abstraction  from  such  household  details,  had  more  than 
once  said,  rather  in  pity  to  Jackeymo  than  with  an  eye  to 
that  respectability  which  the  costume  of  the  servant  reflects 
on  the  dignity  of  the  master,  "  Giacomo,  thou  wantest 
clothes  ;  fit  thyself  out  of  mine  !  " 

And  Jackeymo  had  bowed  his  gratitude,  as  if  the  dona- 
tion had  been  accepted  ;  but  the  fact  was,  that  that  same 
fitting-out  was  easier  said  than  done.  For  though — thanks 
to  an  existence  mainly  upon  stickle-backs  and  minnows — 
both  Jackeymo  and  Riccabocca  had  arrived  at  that  state 
which  the  longevity  of  misers  proves  to  be  most  healthful 
to  the  human  frame — viz.  :  skin  and  bone — yet  the  bones 
contained  in  the  skin  of  Riccabocca  all  took  longitudinal 
directions  ;  while  those  in  the  skin  of  Jackeymo  spread 
out  latitudinally.  And  you  might  as  well  have  made  the 
bark  of  a  Lombardy  poplar  serve  for  the  trunk  of  some 
dwarfed  and  pollarded  oak — in  whose  hollow  the  Babes  of 
the  Wood  could  have  slept  at  their  ease — as  have  fitted  out 


io8  MY  NOVEL;    OR, 

Jackeymo  from  the  garb  of.  Riccabocca.  Moreover,  if  the 
skill  of  the  tailor  could  have  accomplished  that  undertaking, 
the  faithful  Jackeymo  would  never  have  had  the  heart  to 
avail  himself  of  the  generosity  of  his  master.  He  had  a  sort 
of  religious  sentiment,  too,  about  those  vestments  of  the 
Padrone.  The  ancients,  we  know,  when  escaping  from 
shipwreck,  suspended  in  the  votive  temple  the  garments 
in  which  they  had  struggled  through  the  wave.  Jackeymo 
looked  on  those  relics  of  the  past  with  a  kindred  supersti- 
tion. "  This  coat  the  Padrone  wore  on  such  an  occasion. 
I  remember  the  very  evening  the  Padrone  last  put  on 
those  pantaloons  !  "  And  coat  and  pantaloons  were  ten- 
derly dusted,  and  carefully  restored  to  their  sacred  rest. 

But  now,  after  all,  what  was  to  be  done  ?  Jackeymo 
was  much  too  proud  to  exhibit  his  person  to  the  eyes  of 
the  Squire's  butler,  in  habiliments  discreditable  to  himself 
and  the  Padrone.  In  the  midst  of  his  perplexity  the  bell 
rang,  and  he  went  down  into  the  parlor. 

Riccabocca  was  standing  on  the  hearth,  under  his  sym- 
bolical representation  of  the  "  Patriae  Exul." 

"  Giacomo,"  quoth  he,  "  I  have  been  thinking  that  thou 
hast  never  done  what  I  told  thee,  and  fitted  thyself  out 
from  my  superfluities.  But  we  are  going  now  into  the 
great  world  ;  visiting  once  begun,  Heaven  knows  where 
it  may  stop  !  Go  to  the  nearest  town,  and  get  thyself 
clothes.  Things  are  dear  in  England.  Will  this  suffice  ? " 
And  Riccabocca  extended  a  ^5  note. 

Jackeymo,  we  have  seen,  was  more  familiar  with  his 
master  than  we  formal  English  permit  our  domestics  to 
be  with  us.  But  in  his  familiarity  he  was  usually  respect- 
ful. This  time,  however,  respect  deserted  him. 

"The  Padrone  is  mad  !"  he  exclaimed  ;  "he  would  fling 
away  his  whole  fortune  if  I  would  let  him.  Five  pounds 
English,  or  a  hundred  and  twenty-six  pounds  Milanese  !  * 
Santa  Maria  !  Unnatural  father  !  And  what  is  to  become 
of  the  poor  Signorina  ?  Is  this  the  way  you  are  to  marry 
her  in  the  foreign  land  ?  " 

"Giacomo,"  said  Riccabocca,  bowing  his  head  to  the 
storm,  "the  Signorina  to-morrow;  to-day  the  honor  of  the 
house.  Thy  small-clothes,  Giacomo.  Miserable  man,  thy 
small-clothes  ! " 

"It  is  just,"  said  Jackeymo,  recovering  himself,  and  with 
humility  ;  "  and  the  Padrone  does  right  to  blame  me,,  but 

*  By  the  pounds  Milanese,  Giacomo  means  the   Milanese  lira. 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  109 

not  in  so  cruel  a  way.  It  is  just — the  Padrone  lodges  and 
boards  me,  and  gives  me  handsome  wages,  and  he  has  a 
right  to  expect  that  I  should  not  go  in  this  figure." 

"  For  the  board  and  the  lodgment,  good,"  said  Ricca- 
bocca.  "  For  the  handsome  wages,  they  are  the  visions  of 
thy  fancy ! " 

"They  are  no  such  things,"  said  Jackeymo  ;  "they  are 
only  in  arrear.  As  if  the  Padrone  could  not  pay  them  some 
day  or  other — as  if  I  was  demeaning  myself  by  serving  a 
master  who  did  not  intend  to  pay  his  servants  !  And  can't  I 
wait  ?  Have  I  not  my  savings  too  ?  But  be  cheered,  be 
cheered  ;  you  shall  be  contented  with  me.  I  have  two  beau- 
tiful suits  still.  I  was  arranging  them  when  you  rang  for 
me.  You  shall  see,  you  shall  see." 

And  Jackeymo  hurried  from  the  room,  hurried  back  into 
his  own  chamber,  unlocked  a  little  trunk  which  he  kept 
at  his  bed  head,  tossed  out  a  variety  of  small  articles,  and 
from  the  deepest  depth  extracted  a  leather  purse.  He 
emptied  the  contents  on  the  bed.  They  were  chiefly  Italian 
coins,  some  five-franc  pieces,  a  silver  medallion,  enclosing 
a  little  image  of  his  patron  saint — San  Giacomo — one  solid 
English  guinea,  and  somewhat  more  than  a  pound's  worth 
in  English  silver.  Jackeymo  put  back  the  foreign  coins, 
saying,  prudently,  "One  will  lose  on  them  here  :  "  he  seized 
the  English  coins,  and  counted  them  out.  "But  are  you 
enough,  you  rascals  !  "  quoth  he,  angrily,  given  them  a  good 
shake.  His  eye  caught  sight  of  the  medallion — he  paused  ; 
and  after  eyeing  the  tiny  representation  of  the  saint  with 
great  deliberation,  he  added  in  a  sentence  which  he  must 
have  picked  up  from  the  proverbial  aphorisms  of  his 
master — 

"  What's  the  difference  between  the  enemy  who  does  not 
hurt  me,  and  the  friend  who  does  not  serve  me  ?  Monsignore 
San  Giacomo,  my  patron  saint,  you  are  of  very  little  use  to 
me  in  the  leather  bag.  But  if  you  help  me  to  get  into  a 
new  pair  of  small-clothes  on  this  important  occasion,  you 
will  be  a  friend  indeed.  Alia  bisogna,  Mon^ignore."  Then, 
gravely  kissing  the  medallion,  he  thrust  it  into  one  pocket, 
the  coins  into  the  other,  made  up  a  bundle  of  the  two  de- 
funct suits,  and  muttering  to  himself,  "  Beast,  miser  that  I 
am,  to  disgrace  the  Padrone,  with  all  these  savings  in  his 
service  ! ''  ran  down  stairs  into  his  pantry,  caught  up  his  hat 
and  stick,  and  in  a  few  moments  more  was  seen  trudging  off 
to  the  neighboring  town  of  L . 


no  MY  NOVEL;    OK, 

Apparently  the  poor  Italian  succeeded,  for  he  came  back 
that  evening,  in  time  to  prepare  the  thin  gruel  which  made 
his  master's  supper,  with  a  suit  of  black — a  little  threadbare, 
but  still  highly  respectable — two  shirt  fronts,  and  two  white 
cravats.  But,  out  of  all  this  finery,  Jackeymo  held  the 
small-clothes  in  especial  veneration  ;  for,  as  they  had  cost 
exactly  what  the  medallion  had  sold  for,  so  it  seemed  to  him 
that  San  Giacomo  had  heard  his  prayer  in  that  quarter  to 
which  he  had  more  exclusively  directed  the  saint's  attention. 
The  other  habiliments  came  to  him  in  the  merely  human 
process  of  sale  and  barter  ;  the  small-clothes  were  the  per- 
sonal gratuity  of  San  Giacomo  ! 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

LIFE  has  been  subjected  to  many  ingenious  comparisons  ; 
and  if  we  do  not  understand  it  any  better,  it  is  not  for  want 
of  what  is  called  "reasoning  by  illustration."  Amongst 
other  resemblances,  there  are  moments  when,  to  a  quiet 
contemplator,  it  suggests  the  image  of  one  of  those  rotatory 
entertainments  commonly  seen  in  fairs  and  known  by  the 
name  of  "whirligigs  or  roundabouts,"  in  which  each  par- 
ticipator of  the  pastime,  seated  on  his  hobby,  is  always 
apparently  in  the  act  of  pursuing  some  one  before  him,  while 
he  is  pursued  by  some  one  behind.  Men,  and  women  too, 
are  naturally  animals  of  chase  ;  the  greatest  still  find  some- 
thing to  follow,  and  there  is  no  one  too  humble  not  to  be  an 
object  of  prey  to  another.  Thus,  confining  our  view  to  the 
village  of  Hazeldean,  we  behold  in  this  whirligig  Dr.  Ric- 
cabocca  spurring  his  hobby  after  Lenny  Fairfield  ;  and  Miss 
Jemima,  on  her  decorous  side-saddle,  whipping  after  Dr. 
Riccabocca.  Why,  with  so  long  and  intimate  a  conviction 
of  the  villany  of  our  sex,  Miss  Jemima  should  resolve  upon 
giving  the  male  animal  one  more  chance  of  redeeming  itself 
in  her  eyes,  I  leave  to  the  explanation  of  those  gentlemen 
who  profess  to  find  "their  only  books  in  woman's  looks." 
Perhaps  it  might  be  from  the  over-tenderness  and  clemency 
of  Miss  Jemima's  nature  ;  perhaps  it  might  be  that,  as  yet, 
she  had  only  experienced  the  villany  of  man  born  and  reared 
in  these  cold  northern  climates  ;  and  in  the  land  of  Petrarch 
and  Romeo,  of  the  citron  and  myrtle,  there  was  reason  to 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  in 

expect  that  the  native  monster  would  be  more  amenable  to 
gentle  influences,  less  obstinately  hardened  in  his  iniquities. 
Without  entering  further  into  these  hypotheses,  it  is  sufficient 
to  say,  that,  on  Signor  Riccabocca's  appearance  in  the 
drawing-room  at  Hazeldean,  Miss  Jemima  felt  more  than 
ever  rejoiced  that  she  had  relaxed  in  his  favor  her  general 
hostility  to  men.  In  truth,  though  Frank  saw  something 
quizzical  in  the  old-fashioned  and  outlandish  cut  of  the 
Italian's  sober  dress  ;  in  his  long  hair,  and  the  chapeatt  bras, 
over  which  he  bowed  so  gracefully  and  then  pressed  it,  as 
if  to  his  heart,  before  tucking  it  under  his  arm,  after  the 
fashion  in  which  the  gizzard  reposes  under  the  wing  of  a 
roasted  pullet ;  yet  it  was  impossible  that  even  Frank  could 
deny  to  Riccabocca  that  praise  which  is  due  to  the  air  and 
manner  of  an  unmistakable  gentleman.  And  certainly  as, 
after  dinner,  conversation  grew  more  familiar,  and  the  Par- 
son and  Mrs.  Dale,  who  had  been  invited  to  meet  their 
friend,  did  their  best  to  draw  him  out,  his  talk,  though 
sometimes  a  little  too  wise  for  his  listeners,  became  eminently 
animated  and  agreeable.  It  was  the  conversation  of  a  man 
who,  besides  the  knowledge  which  is  acquired  from  books 
and  life,  had  studied  the  art  which  becomes  a  gentleman — 
that  of  pleasing  in  polite  society. 

The  result  was  that  all  were  charmed  with  him,  and 
that  even  Captain  Barnabas  postponed  the  whist-table  for 
a  full  hour  after  the  usual  time.  The  Doctor  did  not  play 
— he  thus  became  the  property  of  the  two  ladies,  Miss  Jemi- 
ma and  Mrs.  Dale. 

Seated  between  the  two,  in  the  place  rightly  appertain- 
ing to  Flimsey,  who  this  time  was  fairly  dislodged,  to  her 
great  wonder  and  discontent,  the  Doctor  was  the  emblem  of 
true  Domestic  Felicity,  placed  between  Friendship  and 
Love. 

Friendship,  as  became  her,  worked  quietly  at  the  em- 
broidered pocket-handkerchief,  and  left  Love  to  more  ani- 
mated operations.  "  You  must  be  very  lonely  at  the  Casino," 
said  Love,  in  a  sympathizing  tone. 

"Madam,"  replied  Riccabocca,  gallantly,  "I  shall  think 
so  when  I  leave  you." 

Friendship  cast  a  sly  glance  at  Love — Love  blushed,  or 
looked  down  on  the  carpet, — which  comes  to  the  same  thing. 
"Yet,"  began  Love  again — "yet  solitude  to  a  feeling 
heart —  , 

Riccabocca  thought  of  the  note  of  invitation,  and  invol- 


ii2  MY  NOVEL;    OR, 

untarily  buttoned  his  coat,  as  if  to  protect  the  individual 
organ  thus  alarmingly  referred  to. 

"Solitude,  to  a  feeling  heart,  has  its  charms.  It  is  so 
hard  even  for  us  poor  ignorant  women  to  find  a  congenial 
companion — but  i^r you!  "  Love  stopped  short,  as  if  it  had 
said  too  much,  and  smelt  confusedly  at  its  bouquet. 

Dr.  Riccabocca  cautiously  lowered  his  spectacles,  and 
darted  one  glance,  which,  with  the  rapidity  and  comprehen- 
siveness of  lightning,  seemed  to  envelop  and  take  in,  as  it 
were,  the  whole  inventory  of  Miss  Jemima's  personal  attrac- 
tions. Now,  Miss  Jemima,  as  I  have  before  observed,  had 
a  mild  and  pensive  expression  of  countenance,  and  she 
would  have  been  positively  pretty  had  the  mildness  looked 
a  little  more  alert,  and  the  pensiveness  somewhat  less  lack- 
adaisical. In  fact,  though  Miss  Jemima  was  constitutionally 
mild,  she  was  not  de  naturd  pensive  ;  she  had  too  much  of 
the  Hazeldean  blood  in  her  veins  for  that  sullen  and  viscid 
humor  called  melancholy,  and  therefore  this  assumption  of 
pensiveness  really  spoiled  her  character  of  features,  which 
only  wanted  to  be  lighted  up  by  a  cheerful  smile  to  be  ex- 
tremely prepossessing.  The  same  remark  might  apply  to 
the  figure,  which — thanks  to  the  same  pensiveness — lost  all 
the  undulating  grace  which  movement  and  animation  be- 
stow on  the  fluent  curves  of  the  feminine  form.  The  figure 
was  a  good  figure,  examined  in  detail — a  little  thin,  perhaps, 
but  by  no  means  emaciated — with  just  and  elegant  propor- 
tions, and  naturally  light  and  flexible.  But  that  same  un- 
fortunate pensiveness  gave  to  the  whole  a  character  of  inert- 
ness and  languor  ;  and  when  Miss  Jemima  reclined  on  the 
sofa,  so  complete  seemed  the  relaxation  of  nerve  and  muscle 
that  you  would  have  thought  she  had  lost  the  use  of  her 
limbs.  Over  her  face  and  form,  thus  defrauded  of  the 
charms  Providence  had  bestowed  on  them,  Dr.  Riccabocca's 
eye  glanced  rapidly  ;  and  then  moving  nearer  to  Mrs.  Dale 
— "  Defend  me  "  (he  stopped  a  moment,  and  added) — "from 
the  charge  of  not  being  able  to  appreciate  congenial  com- 
panionship." 

"Oh,  I  did  not  say  that !  "  cried  Miss  Jemima. 

"Pardon  me,"  said  the  Italian,  "if  I  am  so  dull  as  to 
misunderstand  you.  One  may  well  lose  one's  head,  at  least, 
in  such  a  neighborhood  as  this."  He  rose  as  he  spoke,  and 
bent  over  Frank's  shoulder  to  examine  some  Views  of  Italy, 
which  Miss  Jemima  (with  what,  if  wholly  unselfish,  would 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  113 

have  been  an  attention  truly  delicate)  had  extracted  from 
the  library  in  order  to  gratify  the  guest. 

"Most  interesting  creature,  indeed,"  sighed  Miss  Jemi- 
ma, "but  too — too  flattering." 

"Tell  me,"  said  Mrs.  Dale,  gravely,  "do  you  think,  love, 
that  you  could  put  off  the  end  of  the  world  a  little  longer, 
or  must  we  make  haste  in  order  to  be  in  time  ?" 

"  How  wicked  you  are! "  said  Miss  Jemima,  turning  aside. 

Some  few  minutes  afterward,  Mrs.  Dale  contrived  it  so 
that  Dr.  Riccabocca  and  herself  were  in  a  further  corner 
of  the  room,  looking  at  a  picture  said  to  be  by  Wouver- 
mans. 

MRS.  DALE. — She  is  very  amiable,  Jemima,  is  she  not  ? 

RICCABOCCA. — Exceedingly  so.     Very  fine  battle-piece  ! 

MRS.  DALE. — So  kind-hearted. 

RICCABOCCA. — All  ladies  are.  How  naturally  that  war- 
rior makes  his  desperate  cut  at  the  runaway  ! 

MRS.  DALE. — She  is  not  what  is  called  regularly  hand- 
some, but  she  has  something  very  winning. 

RICCABOCCA  (with  a  smile). — So  winning,  that  it  is  strange 
she  is  not  won.  That  gray  mare  in  the  foreground  stands 
out  very  boldly ! 

MRS.  DALE  (distrusting  the  smile  of  Riccabocca,  and 
throwing  in  a  more  effective  grape  charge). — Not  won  yet; 
and  it  is  strange  !  she  will  have  a  very  pretty  fortune. 

RICCABOCCA. — Ah  ! 

MRS.  DALE. — Six  thousand  pounds,  I  dare  say — certainly 
four. 

RICCABOCCA  (suppressing  a  sigh,  and  with  his  wonted 
address). — If  Mrs.  Dale  were  still  single,  she  would  never 
need  a  friend  to  say  what  her  portion  might  be  ;  but  Miss 
Jemima  is  so  good  that  I  am  quite  sure  it  is  not  Miss  Jemi- 
ma's fault  that  she  is  still — Miss  Jemima  ! 

The  foreigner  slipped  away  as  he  spoke,  and  sate  himself 
down  beside  the  whist-players. 

Mrs.  Dale  was  disappointed,  but  certainly  not  offended. 
— "It  would  be  such  a  good  thing  for  both,"  muttered  she, 
almost  audibly. 

"Giacomo,"  said  Riccabocca,  as  he  was  undressing  that 
night  in  the  large,  comfortable,  well-carpeted  English  bed- 
room, with  that  great  English  four-posted  bed  in  the  recess 
which  seems  made  to  shame  folks  out  of  single-blessedness 
— "  Giacomo,  I  have  had  this  evening  the  offer  of  probably 
six  thousand  pounds — certainly  of  four  thousand.  " 


ii4  MY  NOVEL;    OR, 

"  Cosa  meravigliosa !  "  exclaimed  Jackeymo — "miracu- 
lous thing!"  and  he  crossed  himself  with  great  fervor. 
"Six  thousand  pounds  English  !  why,  that  must  be  a  hun- 
dred thousand — blockhead  that  I  am! — more  than  a  hun- 
dred and  fifty  thousand  pounds  Milanese  !  "  And  Jackeymo, 
who  was  considerably  enlivened  by  the  Squire's  ale,  com- 
menced a  series  of  gesticulations  and  capers,  in  the  midst 
of  which  he  stopped  and  cried,  "  But  not  for  nothing?" 

"  Nothing  !  no." 

"  These  mercenary  English  ! — the  Government  wants  to 
bribe  you." 

"  That's  not  it." 

"The  priests  want  you  to  turn  heretic." 

"  Worse  than  that,"  said  the  philosopher. 

"  Worse  than  that  !     O  Padrone  !  for  shame  !  " 

"  Don't  be  a  fool,  but  pull  off  my  pantaloons — they  want 
me  never  to  wear  these  again  !  " 

"  Never  to  wear  what  ?  "  exclaimed  Jackeymo,  staring 
outright  at  his  master's  long  legs  in  their  linen  drawers — 
"  never  to  wear ' 

"The  breeches,"  said  Riccabocca,  laconically.. 

"  The  barbarians  !  "  faltered  Jackeymo. 

"  My  nightcap  ! — and  never  to  have  any  comfort  in  this," 
said  Riccabocca,  drawing  on  the  cotton  head-gear;  "and 
never  to  have  any  sound  sleep  in  that,"  pointing  to  the  four- 
posted  bed.  "And  to  be  a  bondsman  and  a  slave,"  con- 
tinued Riccabocca,  waxing  wroth  ;  "  and  to  be  wheedled 
and  purred  at,  and  pawed,  and  clawed,  and  scolded,  and 
fondled,  and  blinded,  and  deafened,  and  bridled,  and  saddled 
— bedevilled  and — married  ! " 

"  Married  !  "  said  Jackeymo,  more  dispassionately — 
"  that's  -very  bad,  certainly ;  but  more  than  a  hundred 
and  fifty  thousand  lire,  and  perhaps  a  pretty  young  lady, 
and " 

"  Pretty  young  lady  !  "  growled  Riccabocca,  jumping 
into  bed  and  drawing  the  clothes  fiercely  over  him.  "  Put 
out  the  candle,  and  get  along  with  you — do,  you  villanous 
old  incendiary  ! " 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  115 


CHAPTER  IX. 

IT  was  not  many  days  since  the  resurrection  of  those 
ill-omened  stocks,  and  it  was  evident  already,  to  an  ordinary 
observer,  that  something  wrong  had  got  into  the  village. 
The  peasants  wore  a  sullen  expression  of  countenance  ; 
when  the  Squire  passed,  they  took  off  their  hats  with  more 
than  ordinary  formality,  but  they  did  not  return  the  same 
broad  smile  to  his  quick,  hearty  "  Good  day,  my  man."  The 
women  peered  at  him  from  the  threshold  of  the  case- 
ment, but  did  not,  as  was  their  wont  (at  least  the  wont  of 
the  prettiest),  take  occasion  to  come  out  to  catch  his  pass- 
ing compliment  on  their  own  good  looks,  or  their  tidy 
cottages.  And  the  children,  who  used  to  play  after  work  on 
the  side  of  the  old  stocks,  now  shunned  the  place,  and, 
indeed,  seemed  to  cease  play  altogether. 

On  the  other  hand,  no  man  likes  to  build,  or  rebuild,  a 
great  public  work  for  nothing.  Now  that  the  Squire  had 
resuscitated  the  stocks,  and  made  them  so  exceedingly 
handsome,  it  was  natural  that  he  should  wish  to  put  some- 
body into  them.  Moreover,  his  pride  and  self-esteem  had 
been  wounded  by  the  Parson's  opposition  ;  and  it  would  be 
a  justification  to  his  own  forethought,  and  a  triumph  over 
the  Parson's  understanding,  if  he  could  satisfactorily  and 
practically  establish  a  proof  that  the  stocks  had  not  been 
repaired  before  they  were  wanted. 

Therefore,  unconsciously  to  himself,  there  was  some- 
thing about  the  Squire  more  burly,  and  authoritative,  and 
menacing  than  heretofore.  Old  Gaffer  Salomons  observed, 
that  "  they  had  better  moind  well  what  they  were  about, 
for  that  the  Squire  had  a  wicked  look  in  the  tail  of  his  eye 
—just  as  the  dun  bull  had  afore  it  tossed  neighbor  Barnes's 
little  boy." 

For  two  or  three  days  these  mute  signs  of  something 
brewing  in  the  atmosphere  had  been  rather  noticeable  than 
noticed,  without  any  positive  overt  act  of  tyranny  on  the 
one  hand,  or  rebellion  on  the  other.  But  on  the  very 
Saturday  night  in  which  Dr.  Riccabocca  was  installed  in  the 
four-posted  bed  in  the  chintz  chamber,  the  threatened  re- 
volution commenced.  In  the  dead  of  that  night,  personal 


n6  MY  NOVEL;    OR, 

outrage  was  committed  on  the  stocks.  And  on  the  Sunday 
morning,  Mr.  Stirn,  who  was  the  earliest  riser  in  the  parish, 
perceived,  in  going  to  the  farm-yard,  that  the  knob  of  the 
column  that  flanked  the  board  had  been  feloniously  broken 
off  ;  that  the  four  holes  were  bunged  up  with  mud ;  and 
that  some  Jacobinical  villain  had  carved  on  the  very  centre 
of  the  flourish  or  scroll-work,  "  Dam  the  stoks  !  "  Mr.  Stirn 
was  much  too  vigilant  a  right-hand  man,  much  too  zealous 
a  friend  of  law  and  order,  not  to  regard  such  proceedings 
with  horror  and  alarm.  And  when  the  Squire  came  into  his 
dressing-room  at  half-past  seven,  his  butler  (who  fulfilled 
also  the  duties  of  valet)  informed  him,  with  a  mysterious 
air,  that  Mr.  Stirn  had  something  "  very  partikler  to  com- 
municate, about  a  most  howdacious  midnight  'spiracy  and 
'sault." 

The  Squire  stared,  and  bade  Mr.  Stirn  be  admitted. 

"  Well  ?  "  cried  the  Squire,  suspending  the  operation  of 
stropping  his  razor. 

Mr.  Stirn  groaned. 

"  Well,  man,  what  now  ?  " 

<l  I  never  knowed  such  a  thing  in  this  here  parish  'afore," 
began  Mr.  Stirn,  "  and  I  can  only  'count  for  it-by  s'posing 
that  them  foreign  Papishers  have  been  semminating " 

"  Been  what  ? " 

"  Semminating " 

"  Disseminating,  you  blockhead — disseminating  what  ?" 

"  Damn  the  stocks,"  began  Mr.  Stirn,  plunging  right  in 
medias  res,  and  by  a  fine  use  of  one  of  the  noblest  figures  in 
rhetoric. 

"  Mr.  Stirn  !"  cried  the  Squire,  reddening,  "did  you  say, 
'  Damn  the  stocks  ? ' — damn  my  new  handsome  pair  of 
stocks  !  " 

"Lord  forbid,  sir;  that's  what  they  say  ;  that's  what  they 
have  digged  on  it  with  knives  and  daggers,  and  they  have 
stuffed  mud  in  its  four  holes,  and  broken  the  capital  of  the 
elewation." 

The  Squire  took  the  napkin  off  his  shoulder,  laid  down 
strop  and  razor  ;  he  seated  himself  in  his  arm-chair  majesti- 
cally, crossed  his  legs,  and,  in  a  voice  that  affected  tranquil- 
lity, said — 

"  Compose  yourself,  Stirn  ;  you  have  a  deposition  to 
make,  touching  an  assault  upon — can  I  trust  my  senses  ? — 
upon  my  new  stocks.  Compose  yourself — becalm.  NOW! 
What  the  devil  is  come  to  the  parish  ? " 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  117 

"Ah,  sir,  what  indeed?"  replied  Mr.  Stirn ;  and  then 
laying  the  fore-finger  of  the  right  hand  on  the  palm  of  the 
left,  he  narrated  the  case. 

"  And  whom  do  you  suspect  ?  Be  calm  now  ;  don't 
speak  in  a  passion.  You  are  a  witness,  sir — a  dispassionate, 
unprejudiced  witness.  Zounds  and  fury!  this  is  the  most 
insolent,  unprovoked,  diabolical — but  whom  do  you  sus- 
pect, I  say  ? " 

Stirn  twirled  his  hat,  elevated  his  eyebrows,  jerked  his 
thumb  over  his  shoulder,  and  whispered — "  I  hear  as  how 
the  two  Papishers  slept  at  your  honor's  last  night." 

"What,  dolt!  do  you  suppose  Dr.  Rickeybockey  got 
out  of  his  warm  bed  to  bung  tip  the  holes  in  my  new 
stocks  ? " 

"Noa;  he's  too  cunning  to  do  it  himself,  but  he  may 
have  been  semminating.  He's  mighty  thick  with  Parson 
Dale,  and  your  honor  knows  as  how  the  Parson  set  his  face 
ag'in  the  stocks.  Wait  a  bit,  sir — don't  fly  at  me  yet. 
There  be  a  boy  in  this  here  parish — 

"  A  boy — ah,  fool,  now  you  are  nearer  the  mark.  The 
Parson  write  '  Damn  the  stocks,'  indeed  !  What  boy  do 
you  mean  ?  " 

"And  that  boy  be  cockered  up  much  by  Mr.  Dale  ;  and 
the  Papisher  went  and  sat  with  him  and  his  mother  a  whole 
hour  t'other  day  ;  and  that  boy  is  as  deep  as  a  well  ;  and  I 
seed  him  lurking  about  the  place,  and  hiding  hisself  under 
the  tree  the  day  the  stocks  was  put  up — and  that  'ere  boy  is 
Lenny  Fairfield." 

"Whew,"  said  the  Squire,  whistling,  "you  have  not  your 
usual  senses  about  you  to-day,  man.  Lenny  Fairfield — 
pattern  boy  of  the  village.  If  old  your  tongue.  I  dare  say 
it  is  not  done  by  any  one  in  the  parish,  after  all ;  some 
good-for-nothing  vagrant — that  cursed  tinker,  who  goes 
about  with  a  very  vicious  donkey — donkey  that  I  caught 
picking  thistles  out  of  the  very  eyes  of  the  old  stocks  ! 
Shows  how  the  tinker  brings  up  his  donkeys !  Well,  keep 
a  sharp  look-out.  To-day  is  Sunday  ;  worst  day  of  the 
week,  I'm  sorry  and  ashamed  to  say,  for  rows  and  depreda- 
tions. Between  the  services,  and  after  evening  church, 
there  are  always  idle  fellows  from  all  the  neighboring  coun- 
try about,  as  you  know  too  well.  Depend  on  it,  the  real 
culprits  will  be  found  gathering  round  the  stocks,  and  will 
betray  themselves  ;  have  your  eyes,  ears,  and  wits  about 
you,  and  I've  no  doubt  we  shall  come  to  the  rights  of  the 


Ii8  My  NOVEL;    OR, 

matter  before  the  day's  out.  And  if  we  do,"  added  the 
Squire,  "we'll  make  an  example  of  the  ruffian  !  " 

"In  course,"  said  Stirn  ;  "and  if  we  don't  find  him,  we 
must  make  an  example  all  the  same.  That's  what  it  is,  sir. 
That's  why  the  stocks  ben't  respected  ;  they  has  not  had  an 
example  yet — we  want  an  example." 

"  On  my  word,  I  believe  that's  very  true  ;  and  we'll  clap 
in  the  first  idle  fellow  you  catch  in  anything  wrong,  and 
keep  him  there  for  two  hours  at  least." 

"  With  the  biggest  pleasure,  your  honor — that's  what 
it  is." 

And  Mr.  Stirn,  having  now  got  what  he  considered  a 
complete  and  unconditional  authority  over  all  the  legs  and 
wrists  of  Hazeldean  parish,  quoad  the  stocks,  took  his  de- 
parture. 


CHAPTER   X. 

"  RANDAL,"  said  Mrs.  Leslie,  on  this  memorable  Sunday 
— "  Randal,  do  you  think  of  going  to  Mr.  Hazeldean's  ?" 

"Yes,  ma'am,"  answered  Randal.  "Mr.  Egerton  does 
not  object  to  it ;  and  as  I  do  not  return  to  Eton,  I  may  have 
no  other  opportunity  of  seeing  Frank  for  some  time.  I 
ought  not  to  fail  in  respect  to  Mr.  Egerton's  natural  heir." 

"  Gracious  me  ! "  cried  Mrs.  Leslie,  who,  like  many  wo- 
men of  her  cast  and  kind,  had  a  sort  of  worldliness  in  her 
notions,  which  she  never  evinced  in  her  conduct — "gracious 
me  ! — natural  heir  to  the  old  Leslie  property ! " 

"  He  is  Mr.  Egerton's  nephew,  and,"  added  Randal,  in- 
genuously letting  out  his  thoughts,  "  I  am  no  relation  to 
Mr.  Egerton  at  all." 

"  But,"  said  poor  Mrs.  Leslie,  with  tears  in  her  eyes,  "  it 
would  be  a  shame  in  the  man,  after  paying  your  schooling 
and  sending  you  to  Oxford,  and  having  you  to  stay  with 
him  in  the  holidays,  if  he  did  not  mean  anything  by  it." 

"  Anything,  mother — yes — but  not  the  thing  you  sup- 
pose. No  matter.  It  is  enough  that  he  has  armed  me  for 
life,  and  I  shall  use  the  weapons  as  seems  to  me  best." 

Here  the  dialogue  was  suspended  by  the  entrance  of  the 
other  members  of  the  family,  dressed  for  church. 

"  It  can't  be  time  for  church  !  No  !  it  can't !  "  exclaimed 
Mrs.  Leslie.  She  was  never  in  time  for  anything. 


VARIETIES  IN   ENGLISH  LIFE. 


119 


"  Last  bell  ringing,"  said  Mr.  Leslie,  who,  though  a  slow 
man,  was  methodical  and  punctual.  Mrs.  Leslie  made  a 
frantic  rush  at  the  door,  the  Montfydget  blood  being  now  in 
ablaze — dashed  up  the  stairs — burst  into  her  room,  tore  her 
best  bonnet  from  the  peg,  snatched  her  newest  shawl  from 
the  drawers,  crushed  the  bonnet  on  her  head,  flung  the 
shawl  on  her  shoulders,  thrust  a  desperate  pin  into  its  folds, 
in  order  to  conceal  a  buttonless  yawn  in  the  body  of  her 
gown,  and  then  flew  back  like  a  whirlwind.  Meanwhile 
the  family  were  already  out  of  doors,  in  waiting  ;  and  just 
as  the  bell  ceased,  the  procession  moved  from  the  shabby 
house  to  the  dilapidated  church. 

The  church  was  a  large  one,  but  the  congregation  was 
small,  and  so  was  the  income  of  the  Parson.  It  was  a  lay 
rectory,  and  the  great  tithes  had  belonged  to  the  Leslies, 
but  they  had  been  long  since  sold.  The  vicarage,  still  in 
their  gift,  might  be  worth  a  little  more  than  ,£100  a  year. 
The  present  incumbent  had  nothing  else  to  live  upon.  He 
was  a  good  man,  and  not  originally  a  stupid  one  ;  but 
penury  and  the  anxious  cares  for  wife  and  family,  combined 
with  what  may  be  called  solitary  confinement  for  the  cultiva- 
ted mind,  when,  amidst  the  two-legged  creatures  round,  it 
sees  no  other  cultivated  mind  with  which  it  can  exchange 
one  extra-parochial  thought — had  lulled  him  into  a  lazy 
mournfulness,  which  at  times  was  very  like  imbecility.  His 
income  allowed  him  to  do  no  good  to  the  parish,  whether 
in  work,  trade,  or  charity  ;  and  thus  he  had  no  moral  weight 
with  the  parishioners  beyond  the  example  of  his  sinless 
life,  and  such  negative  effect  as  might  be  produced  by  his 
slumberous  exhortations.  Therefore  his  parishioners  trou- 
bled him  very  little  ;  and  but  for  the  influence  which,  in 
hours  of  Montfydget  activity,  Mrs.  Leslie  exercised  over 
the  most  tractable — that  is,  the  children  and  the  aged — not 
half  a  dozen  persons  would  have  known  or  cared  wrhether 
he  shut  up  his  church  or  not. 

But  our  family  were  seated  in  state  in  their  old  seignorial 
pew,  and  Mr.  Dumdrum,  with  a  nasal  twang,  went  lugubri- 
ously through  the  prayers  ;  and  the  old  people  who  could 
sin  no  more,  and  the  children  who  had  not  yet  learned  to 
sin,  croaked  forth  responses  that  might  have  come  from  the 
choral  frogs  in  Aristophanes.  And  there  was  a  long  sermon 
a  propos  to  nothing  which  could  possibly  interest  the  con- 
gregation—being, in  fact,  some  controversial  homily,  which 
Mr.  Dumdrum  had  composed  and  preached  ye'ars  before. 


120  MY  NOVEL:    OR, 

And  when  this  discourse  was  over  there  was  a  loud  universal 
grunt,  as  if  of  relief  and  thanksgiving,  and  a  great  clatter 
of  shoes — and  the  old  hobbled,  and  the  young  scrambled, 
to  the  church  door. 

Immediately  after  church,  the  Leslie  family  dined  ;  and, 
as  soon  as  dinner  was  over,  Randal  set  out  on  his  foot 
journey  to  Hazeldean  Hall. 

Delicate  and  even  feeble  though  his  frame,  he  had  the 
energy  and  quickness  of  movement  which  belongs  to  nerv- 
ous temperaments  ;  and  he  tasked  the  slow  stride  of  a 
peasant,  whom  he  took  to  serve  him  as  a  guide  for  the  first 
two  or  three  miles.  Though  Randal  had  not  the  gracious, 
open  manner  with  the  poor  which  Frank  inherited  from  his 
father,  he  was  still  (despite  many  a  secret  hypocritical  vice 
at  war  with  the  character  of  a  gentleman)  gentleman  enough 
to  have  no  churlish  pride  to  his  inferiors.  He  talked  little 
but  he  suffered  his  guide  to  talk  ;  and  the  boor,  who  was> 
the  same  whom  Frank  had  accosted,  indulged  in  eulogistic 
comments  on  that  young  gentleman's  pony,  from  which  he 
diverged  into~some  compliments  on  the  young  gentleman 
himself.  Randal  drew  his  hat  over  his  brows.  There  is  a 
wonderful  tact  and  fine  breeding  in  your  agricultural  peas- 
ant ;  and  though  Tom  Stowell  wTas  but  a  brutish  specimen 
of  the  class,  he  suddenly  perceived  that  he  was  giving  pain. 
He  paused,  scratched  his  head,  and  glancing  affectionately 
toward  his  companion,  exclaimed — 

"But  I  shall  live  to  see  you  on  a  handsomer  beastis  than 
that  little  pony,  Master  Randal ;  and  sure  I  ought,  for  you 
be  as  good  a  gentleman  as  any  in  the  land." 

"Thank  you,"  said  Randal.  "  But  I  like  walking  better 
than  riding — I  am  more  used  to  it." 

"  Well,  and  you  walk  bra'ly — there  ben't  a  better  walker 
in  the  country.  And  very  pleasant  it  is  walking  ;  and  'tis  a 
pretty  country  afore  you,  all  the  way  to  the  Hall." 

Randal  strode  on,  as  if  impatient  of  these  attempts  to 
.flatter  or  to  soothe  ;  and,  coming  at  length  into  a  broader 
land,  said — "I  think  I  can  find  my  way  now.  Many  thanks 
to  you,  Tom  ; "  and  he  forced  a  shilling  into  Tom's  horny 
palm.  The  man  took  it  reluctantly,  and  a  tear  started  to  his 
eye.  He  felt  more  grateful  for  that  shilling  than  he  had  for 
Frank's  liberal  half-crown  ;  and  he  thought  of  the  poor 
fallen  family,  and  forgot  his  own  dire  wrestle  with  the  wolf 
at  his  door. 

He  stayed  lingering  in  the  lane  till  the  figure  of  Randal 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  121 

was  out  of  sight,  and  then  returned  slowly.  Young  Leslie 
continued  to  walk  on  at  a  quick  pace.  With  all  his  intel- 
lectual culture,  and  his  restless  aspiration?,  his  breast 
afforded  him  no  thought  so  generous,  no  sentiment  so 
poetic,  as  those  with  which  the  unlettered  clown  crept 
slouchingly  homeward. 

As  Randal  gained  a  point  where  several  lanes  met  on  a 
broad  piece  of  waste  land,  be  began  to  feel  tired,  and  his 
step  slackened.  Just  then  a  gig  emerged  from  one  of  these 
by-roads,  and  took  the  same  direction  as  the  pedestrian. 
The  road  was  rough  and  hilly,  and  the  driver  proceeded  at  a 
foot's  pace  ;  so  that  the  gig  and  the  pedestrian  went  pretty 
well  abreast. 

"You  seem  tired,  sir,"  said  the  driver,  a  stout  young 
farmer  of  the  higher  class  of  tenants — and  he  looked  down 
compassionately  on  the  boy's  pale  countenance  and  weary 
stride, — "  Perhaps  we  are  going  the  same  way,  and  I  can 
gift  you  a  lift  J " 

It  was  Randal's  habitual  policy  to  make  use  of  every  ad- 
vantage proffered  to  him,  and  he  accepted  the  proposal 
frankly  enough  to  please  the  honest  farmer. 

"  A  nice  day,  sir,"  said  the  latter,  as  Randal  sat  by  his 
side.  "  Have  you  come  far?" 

"  From  Rood  Hall." 

''Oh,  you  be  young  Squire  Leslie,"  said  the  farmer, 
more  respectfully,  and  lifting  his  hat. 

"  Yes,  my  name  is  Leslie.     You  know  Rood,  then  1 " 

"  I  was  brought  up  on  your  father's  land,  sir.  You  may 
have  heard  of  Farmer  Bruce  ? " 

RANDAL. — I  remember,  when  I  was  a  little  boy,  a  Mr. 
Bruce  who  rented,  I  believe,  the  best  part  of  our  land,  and 
who  used  to  bring  us  cakes  when  he  called  to  see  my  father. 
He  is  a  relation  of  yours  ?  " 

FARMER  BRUCE. — He  was  my  uncle.  He  is  dead  now, 
poor  man. 

RANDAL. — Dead  !  I  am  grieved  to  hear  it.  He  was  very 
kind  to  us  children.  But  it  is  long  since  he  left  my  father's 
farm. 

FARMER  BRUCE  (apologetically). — I  am  sure  he  was  very 
sorry  to  go.  But,  you  see,  he  had  an  unexpected  legacy 

RANDAL. — And  retired  from  business  1 

FARMER  BRUCE. — No.      But,    having   capital,   he  could 
afford  to  pay  a  good  rent  for  a  real  good  farm, 
6 


122  MY  NOVEL;    OR, 

RANDAL  (bitterly). — All  capital  seems  to-  fly  from  the 
lands  of  Rood.  And  whose  farm  did  he  take? 

FARMER  BRUCE. — He  took  Hawleigh,  under  Squire 
Hazeldean.  I  rent  it  now.  We've  laid  out  a  power  o' 
money  on  it.  But  I  don't  complain.  It  pays  well. 

RANDAL. — Would  the  money  have  paid  as  well,  sunk  on 
my  father's  land  .' 

FARMER  BRUCE. — Perhaps  it  might,  in  the  long  run. 
But  then,  sir,  we  wanted  new  premises — barns  and  cattle- 
sheds,  and  a  deal  more — which  the  landlord  should  do  ;  but 
it  is  not  every  landlord  as  can  afford  that.  Squire  Hazel- 
dean's  a  rich  man. 

RANDAL. — Ay ! 

The  road  now  became  pretty  good,  and  the  farmer  put 
his  horse  into  a  brisk  trot. 

"  But  which  way  be  you  going,  sir?  I  don't  care  for  a 
few  miles  more  or  less,  if  I  can  be  of  service." 

"  I  am  going  to  Hazeldean,"  said  Randal,  rousing  him- 
self from  a  reverie.  "  Don't  let  me  take  you  out  of  your  way." 

"  Oh,  Hawleigh.  Farm  is  on  the  other  side  of  the  village, 
so  it  be  quite  my  way,  sir." 

The  farmer,  then,  who  was  really  a  smart  young  fellow 
— one  of  that  race  which  the  application  of  capital  to  land 
has  produced,  and  which,  in  point  of  education  and  refine- 
ment, are  at  least  on  a  par  with  the  squires  of  a  former  ge- 
neration—began to  talk  about  his  handsome  horse,  about 
horses  in  general,  about  hunting  and  coursing  ;  he  handled 
all  these  subjects  with  spirit,  yet  with  modesty.'  Randal 
pulled  his  hat  still  lower  down  over  his  brows,  and  did  not 
interrupt  him  till  they  passed  the  Casino,  when,  struck  by 
the  classic  air  of  the  place,  and  catching  a  scent  from  the 
orange-trees,  the  boy  asked  abruptly — "  Whose  house  is 
that  ? " 

"Oh,  it  belongs  to  Squire  Hazeldean,  but  it  is  let  or  lent 
to  a  foreign  Mounseer.  They  say  he  is  quite  the  gentle- 
man, but  uncommonly  poor." 

"  Poor,"  said  Randal,  turning  back  to  gaze  on  the  trim 
garden,  the  neat  terrace,  the  pretty  belvidere,  and  (the  door 
of  the  house  being  open)  catching  a  glimpse  of  the  painted 
hall  within — "  poor  ?  the  place  seems  well  kept.  What  do 
you  call  poor,  Mr.  Bruce?" 

The  farmer  laughed.  "  Well,  that's  a  home  question, 
sir.  But  I  believe  the  Mounseer  is  as  poor  as  a  man  can 
be  who  makes  no  debts  and  does  not  actually  starve." 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  123 

"  As  poor  as  my  father  ? "  asked  Randal,  openly  and 
abruptly. 

"  Lord,  sir  !  your  father  be  a  very  rich  man  compared  to 
him." 

Randal  continued  to  gaze,  and  his  mind's  eye  conjured 
up  the  contrast  of  his  slovenly  shabby  home,  with  all  its 
neglected  appurtenances  !  No  trim  garden  at  Rood  Hall, 
no  scent  from  odorous  orange-blossoms  Here  poverty  at 
least  was  elegant — there,  how  squalid  !  He  did  not  com- 
prehend at  how  cheap  a  rate  the  luxury  of  the  Beautiful 
can  be  effected.  They  now  approached  the  extremity  of 
the  Squire's  park  pales  ;  and  Randal,  seeing  a  little  gate, 
bade  the  farmer  stop  his  gig,  and  descended.  The  boy 
plunged  amidst  the  thick  oak-groves  ;  the  farmer  went  his 
way  blithely,  and  his  mellow  merry  whistle  came  to  Ran- 
dal's moody  ear  as  he  glided  quick  under  the  shadow  of  the 
trees. 

He  arrived  at  the  Hall,  to  find  that  all  the  family  were 
at  church  ;  and,  according  to  the  patriarchal  custom,  the 
church-going  family  embraced  nearly  all  the  servants.  It 
was  therefore  an  old  invalid  housemaid  who  opened  the 
door  to  him.  She  was  rather  deaf,  and  seemed  so  stupid 
that  Randal  dit  not  ask  leave  to  enter  and  wait  for  Frank's 
return.  He  therefore  said  briefly  that  he  would  just  stroll 
on  the  lawn,  and  call  again  when  church  was  over. 

The  old  woman  stared,  and  strove  to  hear  him  ;  mean- 
while Randal  turned  round  abruptly,  and  sauntered  toward 
the  garden  side  of  the  handsome  old  house. 

There  was  enough  to  attract  any  eye  in  the  smooth 
greensward  of  the  spacious  lawn — in  the  numerous  parterres 
of  variegated  flowers — in  the  venerable  grandeur  of  the  two 
mighty  cedars,  which  threw  their  still  shadows  over  the 
grass — and  in  the  picturesque  building,  with  its  projecting 
mullions  and  heavy  gables;  yet  I  fear  that  it  was  with  no 
poet's  nor  painter's  eye  that  this  young  old  man  gazed  on 
the  scene  before  him. 

He  beheld  the  evidence  of  wealth — and  the  envy  ol 
wealth  jaundiced  his  soul. 

Folding  his  arms  on  his  breast,  he  stood  awhile,  looking 
all  around  him,  with  closed  lips  and  lowering  brow  ;  then 
he  walked  slowly  on,  his  eyes  fixed  on  the  ground,  and 
muttered  to  himself — 

"  The  heir  to  this  property  is  little  better  than  a  dunce  ; 
and  they  tell  me  I  have  talents  and  learning,  and  I  have 


124  MY  NOVEL;    OR, 

taken  to  my  heart  the  maxim,  '  Knowledge  is  power.'  And 
yet,  with  all  my  struggles,  will  knowledge  ever  place  me  on 
the  same  level  as  that  on  which  this  dunce  is  born  ?  I  don't 
wonder  that  the  poor  should  hate  the  rich.  But  of  all  the 
poor,  who  should  hate  the  rich  like  the  pauper  gentleman  ? 
I  suppose  Audley  Egerton  means  me  to  come  into  Parlia- 
ment, and  be  a  Tory  like  himself!  What!  keep  things  as 
they  are  !  No  ;  for  me  not  even  Democracy,  unless  there 
first  come  Revolution.  I  understand  the  cry  of  a  Marat — 
'More  blood!'  Marat  had  lived  as  a  poor  man,  and  cul- 
tivated science — in -the  sight  of  a  prince's  palace." 

He  turned  sharply  round,  and  glared  vindictively  on  the 
poor  old  Hall,  which,  though  a  very  comfortable  habitation, 
was  certainly  no  palace  ;  and,  with  his  arm  still  folded  on 
his  breast,  he  \valked  backward,  as  if  not  to  lose  the  view, 
nor  the  chain  of  ideas  it  conjured  up. 

"But,"  he  continued  to  soliloquize — "but  of  revolution 
there  is  no  chance.  Yet  the  same  wit  and  will  that  would 
thrive  in  revolutions  should  thrive  in  this  common-place 
life.  Knowledge  is  power.  Well,  then,  shall  I  have  no 
power  to  oust  this  blockhead  ?  Oust  him — what  from  ? 
His  father's  halls  ?  Well,  but  if  he  were  dead,  who  would 
be  the  heir  of  Hazeldean  ?  Have  I  not  heard  my  mother 
say  that  I  am  as  near  in  blood  to  this  Squire  as  any  one,  if 
he  had  no  children  ?  Oh,  but  the  boy's  life  is  worth  ten  of 
mine  !  Oust  him  from  what  ?  At  least  from  the  thoughts 
of  his  Uncle  Egerton — an  uncle  who  has  never  even  seen 
him  !  That,  at  least,  is  more  feasible.  '  Make  my  way  in 
life,'  sayest  thou,  Audley  Egerton.  Ay — and  to  the  fortune 
thou  hast  robbed  from  my  ancestors.  Simulation — simula- 
tion. Lord  Bacon  allows  simulation.  Lord  Bacon  prac- 
tised it — and " 

Here  the  soliloquy  came  to  a  sudden  end  ;  for  as,  rapt 
in  his  thoughts,  the  boy  had  continued  to  walk  backward, 
he  had  come  to  the  verge,  where  the  lawn  slided  off  into 
the  ditch  of  the  ha-ha  ;  and,  just  as  he  was  fortifying  him- 
self by  the  precept  and  practice  of  my  Lord  Bacon,  the 
ground  went  from  under  him,  and — slap  into  the  ditch 
went  Randal  Leslie ! 

It  so  happened  that  the  Squire,  whose  active  genius 
was  always  at  some  repair  or  improvement,  had  been  but 
a  few  days  before  widening  and  sloping  off  the  ditch  just 
in  that  part,  so  that  the  earth  was  fresh  and  damp,  and 
not  yet  either  turfed  or  flattened  down.  Thus  when  Ran- 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  125 

dal,  recovering  his  first  surprise  and  shock,  rose  to  his  feet, 
he  found  his  clothes  covered  with  mud  ;  while  the  rude- 
ness of  the  fall  was  evinced  by  the  fantastic  and  extraor- 
dinary appearance  of  his  hat,  which,  hollowed  here,  bulg- 
ing there,  and  crushed  out  of  all  recognition  generally, 
was  as  little  like  the  hat  of  a  decorous,  hard-reading  young 
gentleman — prot/gJ  of  the  dignified  Mr.  Audley  Egerton 
— as  any  hat  picked  out  of  a  kennel  after  some  drunken 
brawl  possibly  could  be. 

Randal  was  dizzy,  and  stunned,  and  bruised,  and  it  was 
some  moments  before  he  took  heed  of  his  raiment.  When 
he  did  so,  his  spleen  was  greatly  aggravated.  He  was  still 
boy  enough  not  to  like  the  idea  of  presenting  himself  to 
the  unknown  Squire,  and  the  dandy  Frank,  in  such  a  trim  ; 
he  resolved  incontinently  to  regain  the  lane  and  turn 
home,  without  accomplishing  the  object  of  his  journey  ; 
and  seeing  the  footpath  right  before  him,  which  led  to  a 
gate  that  he  conceived  would  admit  him  into  the  highway 
sooner  than  the  path  by  which  he  had  came,  he  took  it  at 
once. 

It  is  surprising  how  little  we  human  creatures  heed  the 
warnings  of  our  good  genius.  I  have  no  doubt  that  some 
benignant  power  had  precipitated  Randal  Leslie  into  the 
ditch,  as  a  significant  hint  of  the  fate  of  all  who  choose 
what  is,  now-a-days,  by  no  means  an  uncommon  step  in 
the  march  of  intellect — viz.,  the  walking  backward,  in 
order  to  gratify  a  vindictive  view  of  one's  neighbor's  pro- 
perty !  I  suspect  that,  before  this  century  is  out,  many  a 
fine  fellow  will  thus  have  found  his  ha-ha,  and  scrambled 
out  of  the  ditch  with  a  much  shabbier  coat  than  he  had  on 
when  he  fell  into  it.  But  Randal  did  not  thank  his  good 
genius  for  giving  him  a  premonitory  tumble  ; — and  I  never 
yet  knew  a  man  who  did ! 


CHAPTER  XL 

THE  Squire  was  greatly  ruffled  at  breakfast  that  morn- 
ing. He  was  too  much  of  an  Englishman  to  bear  insult 
patiently,  and  he  considered  that  he  had  been  personally 
insulted  in  the  outrage  offered  to  his  recent  donation  to 
the  parish.  His  feelings,  too,  were  hurt  as  well  as  his 


126  MY  NOVEL;    Off, 

pride.  There  was  something  so  ungrateful  in  the  whole 
thing,  just  after  he  had  taken  so  much  pains,  not  only  in 
the  resuscitation,  but  the  embellishment  of  the  stocks.  It 
was  not,  however,  so  rare  an  occurrence  for  the  Squire  to 
be  ruffled,  as  to  create  any  remark.  Riccabocca,  indeed, 
as  a  stranger,  and  Mrs.  Hazeldean,  as  a  wife,  had  the  quick 
tact  to  perceive  that  the  host  was  glum  and  the  husband 
snappish  ;  but  the  one  was  too  discreet,  and  the  other  too 
sensible,  to  chafe  the  new  sore,  whatever  it  might  be  ;  and 
shortly  after  breakfast  the  Squire  retired  into  his  study, 
and  absented  himself  from  morning  service. 

In  his  delightful  Life  of  Oliver  Goldsmith,  Mr.  Forster 
takes  care  to  touch  our  hearts  by  introducing  his  hero's 
excuse  for  not  entering  the  priesthood  :  "  He  did  not  feel 
himself  good  enough."  Thy  Vicar  of  Wakefield,  poor 
Goldsmith,  was  an  excellent  substitute  for  thee  ;  and  Dr. 
Primrose  at  least  will  be  good  enough  for  the  world  until 
Miss  Jemima's  fears  are  realized.  Now,  Squire  Hazeldean 
had  a  tenderness  of  conscience  much  less  reasonable  than 
Goldsmith's.  There  were  occasionally  days  in  which  he 
did  not  feel  good  enough — I  don't  say  for  a  priest,  but 
even  for  one  of  the  congregation — "  days  in  which,"  said  the 
Squire  in  his  own  blunt  way,  "as  I  have  never  in  my  life  met 
a  worse  devil  than  a  devil  of  a  temper,  I'll  not  carry  mine 
into  the  family  pew.  He  shan't  be  growling  out  hypocritical 
responses  from  my  poor  grandmother's  prayer-book."  So 
the  Squire  and  his  demon  stayed  at  home.  But  the  demon 
was  generally  cast  out  before  the  day  was  over  ;  and,  on 
this  occasion,  when  the  bell  rang  for  afternoon  service,  it 
may  be  presumed  that  the  Squire  had  reasoned  or  fretted 
himself  into  a  proper  state  of  mind  ;  for  he  was  then  seen 
sallying  forth  from  the  porch  of  his  hall,  arm-in-arm  with 
his  wife,  and  at  the  head  of  his  household.  The  second 
service  was  (as  is  commonly  the  case  in  rural  districts) 
more  numerously  attended  than  the  first  one  ;  and  it  was 
our  Parson's  wont  to  devote  to  this  service  his  most  effec- 
tive discourse. 

Parson  Dale,  though  a  very  fair  scholar,  had  neither 
the  deep  theology  nor  the  archaeological  learning  that  dis- 
tinguishes the  rising  generation  of  the  clergy.  I  must 
doubt  if  he  could  have  passed  what  would  now  be  called  a 
creditable  examination  in  the  Fathers  ;  and  as  for  all  the 
nice  formalities  in  the  Rubric,  he  would  never  have  been 
the  man  to  divide  a  congregation  or  puzzle  a  bishop. 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  127 

Neither  was  Parson  Dale  very  erudite  in  ecclesiastical 
architecture  ;  lie  did  not  much  care  whether  all  the  details 
in  the  church  were  purely  Gothic  or  not ;  crockets  and 
finiais,  round  arch  and  pointed  arch,  were  matters,  I  fear, 
on  which  he  had  never  troubled  his  head.  But  one  secret 
Parson  Dale  did  possess,  which  is  perhaps  of  equal  import- 
ance with  those  subtler  mysteries — he  knew  how  to  fill  his 
church  !  Even  at  morning  service  no  pews  were  empty, 
and  at  evening  service  the  church  overflowed. 

Parson  Dale,  too,  may  be  considered,  now-a-days,  to 
hold  but  a  mean  idea  of  the  spiritual  authority  of  the 
Church.  He  had  never  been  known  to  dispute  on  its 
exact  bearing  with  the  State — whether  it  was  incorporated 
with  the  State,  or  above  the  State  whether  it  was  antece- 
dent to  the  Papacy  or  formed  from  the  Papacy,  etc.,  etc. 
According  to  his  favorite  maxim,  Quieta  nan  movere  (not  to 
disturb  things  that  are  quiet),  I  have  no  doubt  that  he 
would  have  thought  that  the  less  discussion  is  provoked 
upon  such  matters  the  better  for  both  Church  and  laity. 
Nor  had  he  ever  been  known  to  regret  the  disuse  of  the 
ancient  custom  of  excommunication,  nor  any  other  diminu- 
tion of  the  powers  of  the  priesthood,  whether  minatory  or 
militant  ;  yet,  for  all  this.  Parson  Dale  had  a  great  notion 
of  the  sacred  privilege  of  a  minister  of  the  gospel — to  ad- 
vise— to  deter — to  persuade — to  reprove.  And  it  was  for 
the  evening  service  that  he  prepared  those  sermons,  which 
may  be  called  "  sermons  that  preach  at  you."  He  preferred 
the  evening  for  that  salutary  discipline,  not  only  because 
the  congregation  was  more  numerous,  but  also  because, 
being  a  shrewd  man  in  his  own  innocent  way,  he  knew  that 
people  bear  better  to  be  preached  at  after  dinner  than  be- 
fore ;  that  you  arrive  more  insinuatingly  at  the  heart  when 
the  stomach  is  at  peace.  There  was  a  genial  kindness  in 
Parson  Dale's  way  of  preaching  at  you.  It  was  done  in  so 
imperceptible  fatherly  a  manner,  that  you  never  felt  of- 
fended. He  did  it,  too,  with  so  much  art  that  nobody  but 
your  own  guilty  self  knew  that  you  were  the  sinner  he  was 
exhorting.  Yet  he  did  not  spare  rich  nor  poor  ;  he  preached 
at  the  Squire,  and  that  great  fat  farmer,  Mr.  Bullock, 
the  churchwarden,  as  boldly  as  at  Hodge  the  ploughman 
and  Scrub  the  hedger.  As  for  Mr.  Stirn,  he  had  preached 
at  him  more  often  than  at  any  one  in  the  parish  ;  but  Stirn, 
though  he  had  the  sense  to  know  it,  never  had  the  grace  to 
reform.  There  was,  too,  in  Parson  Dale's  sermons  some- 


128  MY  NOVEL;    OK, 

thing  of  that  boldness  of  illustration  which  would  have  been 
scholarly  if  he  had  not  made  it  familiar,  and  which  is  found 
in  the  discourses  of  our  elder  divines.  Like  them,  he  did 
not  scruple,  now  and  then,  to  introduce  an  anecdote  from 
history,  or  borrow  an  allusion  from  some  non-scriptural 
author,  in  order  to  enliven  the  attention  of  his  audience,  or 
render  an  argument  more  plain.  And  the  good  man  had 
an  object  in  this,  a  little  distinct  from,  though  wholly  sub- 
ordinate to,  the  main  purpose  of  his  discourse.  He  was  a 
friend  to  knowledge— but  to  knowledge  accompanied  by 
religion  ;  and  sometimes  his  references  to  sources  not 
within  the  ordinary  reading  of  his  congregation  would 
spirit  up  some  farmer's  son,  with  an  evening's  leisure  on 
his  hands,  to  ask  the  Parson  for  farther  explanation,  and  so 
to  be  lured  on  to  a  little  solid  or  graceful  instruction,  under 
a  safe  guide. 

Now,  on  the  present  occasion,  the  Parson,  who  had 
always  his  eye  and  heart  on  his  flock,  and  who  had  seen 
with  great  grief  the  realization  of  his  fears  at  the  revival 
of  the  stocks  ;  seen  that  a  spirit  of  discontent  was  already 
at  work  amongst  the  peasants,  and  that  magisterial  and 
inquisitorial  designs  were  darkening  the  natural  benevo- 
lence of  the  Squire  ;  seen,  in  short,  the  signs  of  a  breach 
between  classes,  and  the  precursors  of  the  ever-inflammable 
feud  between  the  rich  and  the  poor,  meditated  nothing 
less  than  a  great  Political  Sermon — a  sermon  that  should 
extract  from  the  roots  of  social  truths  a  healing  virtue  for 
the  wound  that  lay  sore,  but  latent,  in  the  breast  of  his 
parish  of  Hazeldean. 

And  thus  ran — 

THE  POLITICAL  SERMON  OF  PARSON  DALE. 


CHAPTER  XII. 
"  For  every  man  shall  bear  his  own  burden." — GAL.,  vi.,  5. 

"  BRETHREN,  every  man  has  his  burden.  If  God  de- 
signed our  lives  to  end  at  the  grave,  may  we  not  believe 
that  he  would  have  freed  an  existence  so  brief  from  the 
cares  and  sorrows  to  which,  since  the  beginning  of  the 
world,  mankind  has  been  subjected  ?  Suppose  that  I  am 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  129 

a  kind  father,  and  have  a  child  whom  I  dearly  love,  but  I 
know  by  a  Divine  revelation  that  he  will  die  at  the  age 
of  eight  years,  surely  I  should  not  vex  his  infancy  by 
needless  preparations  for  the  duties  of  life.  If  I  am  a  rich 
man,  I  should  not  send  him  from  the  caresses  of  his  mother 
to  the  stern  discipline  of  school.  If  I  am  a  poor  man,  I 
should  not  take  him  with  me  to  hedge  and  dig,  to  scorch  in 
the  sun,  to  freeze  in  the  winter's  cold  ;  why  inflict  hard- 
ships on  his  childhood  for  the  purpose  of  fitting  him  for 
manhood,  when  I  know  that  he  is  doomed  not  to  grow  into 
man  ?  But  if,  on  the  other  hand,  I  believe  my  child  is  re- 
served for  a  more  durable  existence,  then  should  I  not,  out 
of  the  very  love  I  bear  to  him,  prepare  his  childhood  for 
the  struggle  of  life,  according  to  that  station  in  which  he 
is  born,  giving  many  a  toil,  many  a  pain,  to  the  infant,  in 
order  to  rear  and  strengthen  him  for  his  duties  as  man  ? 
So  it  is  with  our  Father  that  is  in  heaven.  Viewing  this 
life  as  our  infancy,  and  the  next  as  our  spiritual  maturity, 
where,  '  in  the  ages  to  come,  he  ma}'  show  the  exceeding 
riches  of  his  grace,'  it  is  in  his  tenderness,  as  in  his  wisdom, 
to  permit  the  toil  and  the  pain  which,  in  tasking  the  powers 
and  developing  the  virtues  of  the  soul,  prepare  it  for  '  the 
earnest  of  our  inheritance.'  Hence  it  is  that  every  man  has 
his  burden.  Brethren,  if  you  believe  that  God  is  good,  yea, 
but  as  tender  as  a  human  father,  you  will  know  that  your 
troubles  in  life  are  a  proof  that  you  are  reared  for  an  eter- 
nity. But  each  man  thinks  his  own  burden  the  hardest  to 
bear  ;  the  poor  man  groans  under  his  poverty,  the  rich  man 
under  the  cares  that  multiply  with  wealth.  For,  so  far  from 
wealth  freeing  us  from  trouble,  all  the  wise  men  who  have 
written  in  all  the  ages  have  repeated,  with  one  voice,  the 
words  of  the  wisest :  '  When  goods  increase,  they  are  in- 
creased that  eat  them  ;  and  what  good  is  there  to  the 
owners  thereof,  saving  the  beholding  them  with  their  eyes  ?  ' 
And  this  is  literally  true,  my  brethren  ;  for,  let  a  man  be 
as  rich  as  was  the  great  King  Solomon  himself,  unless  he 
lock  up  all  his  gold  in  a  chest,  it  must  go  abroad  to  be 
divided  amongst  others ;  yea,  though,  like  Solomon,  he 
make  him  great  works — though  he  build  houses  and  plant 
vineyards,  and  make  him  gardens  and  orchards,  still  the 
gold  that  he  spends  feeds  but  the  mouths  he  employs  ;  and 
Solomon  himself  could  not  eat  with  a  better  relish  than  the 
poorest  mason  who  builded  the  house,  or  the  humblest 
laborer  who  planted  the  vineyard.  Therefore,  '  when 
6* 


1 30  MY  NOVEL;    OR, 

goods  increase,  they  are  increased  that  eat  them.'  And 
this,  my  brethren,  may  teach  us  toleration  and  compassion 
for  the  rich.  We  share  their  riches,  whether  they  will  or 
not ;  we  do  not  share  their  cares.  The  profane  history  of 
our  own  country  tells  us  that  a  princess,  destined  to  be  the 
greatest  queen  that  ever  sat  on  this  throne,  envied  the  milk- 
maid singing  ;  and  a  profane  poet,  whose  wisdom  was  only 
less  than  that  of  the  inspired  writers,  represents  the  man 
who  by  force  and  wit  had  risen  to  be  a  king,  sighing  for 
the  sleep  vouchsafed  to  the  meanest  of  his  subjects — all 
bearing  out  the  words  of  the  son  of  David  :  '  The  sleep  of 
the  laboring  man  is  sweet,  whether  he  eat  little  or  much  ; 
but  the  abundance  of  the  rich  will  not  suffer  him  to  sleep.' 

"  Amongst  my  brethren  now  present,  there  is  doubtless 
some  one  who  has  been  poor,  and  by  honest  industry  has 
made  himself  comparatively  rich.  Let  his  heart  answer  me 
while  I  speak  ;  are  not  the  chief  cares  that  now  disturb  him 
to  be  found  in  the  goods  he  hath  acquired  ? — has  he  not 
both  vexations  to  his  spirit  and  trials  to  his  virtue,  which 
he  knew  not  when  he  went  forth  to  his  labor,  and  took  no 
heed  of  the  morrow  ?  But  it  is  right,  my  brethren,  that  to 
every  station  there  should  be  its  care — to  every  man  his 
burden ;  for  if  the  poor  did  not  sometimes  so  far  feel 
poverty  to  be  a  burden  as  to  desire  to  better  their  condi- 
tion, and  (to  use  the  language  of  the  world)  '  seek  to  rise  in 
life,'  their  most  valuable  energies  would  never  be  aroused  ; 
and  we  should  not  witness  that  spectacle,  which  is  so 
common  in  the  land  we  live  in — namely,  the  successful 
struggle  of  manly  labor  against  adverse  fortune — a  struggle 
in  which  the  triumph  of  one  gives  hope  to  the  thousands. 
It  is  said  that  necessity  is  the  mother  of  invention  ;  and  the 
social  blessings  which  are  now  as  common  to  us  as  air  and 
sunshine,  have  come  from  that  law  of  our  nature  which 
makes  us  aspire  toward  indefinite  improvement,  enriches 
each  successive  generation  by  the  labors  of  the  last,  and 
and  in  free  countries  often  lifts  the  child  of  the  laborer  to  a 
place  amongst  the  rulers  of  the  land.  Nay,  if  necessity  is 
the  mother  of  invention,  poverty  is  the  creator  of  the  arts. 
If  there  had  been  no  poverty,  and  no  sense  of  poverty, 
where  would  have  been  that  which  we  call  the  wealth  of  a 
country  ?  Subtract  from  civilization  all  that  has  been  pro- 
duced by  the  poor,  and  what  remains  ? — the  state  of  the 
savage.  Where  you  now  see  laborer  and  prince,  you  would 
see  equality  indeed — the  equality  of  wild  men.  No  ;  not 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  131 

even  equality  there  !  For  there  brute  force  becomes  lord- 
ship— and  woe  to  the  weak  !  Where  you  now  see  some  in 
frieze,  some  in  purple,  you  would  see  nakedness  in  all. 
Where  stand  the  palace  and  the  cot,  you  would  behold  but 
mud  huts  and  caves.  As  far  as  the  peasant  excels  the  king 
among  savages,  so  far  does  the  society  exalted  and  enriched 
by  the  struggles  of  labor  excel  the  state  in  which  Poverty 
feels  no  disparity,  and  Toil  sighs  for  no  ease.  On  the  other 
hand,  if  the  rich  were  perfectly  contented  with  their  wealth, 
their  hearts  would  become  hardened  in  the  sensual  enjoy- 
ments it  procures.  It  is  that  feeling,  by  Divine  Wisdom 
implanted  in  the  soul,  that  there  is  vanity  and  vexation  of 
spirit  in  the  things  of  Mammon,  which  still  leaves  the  rich 
man  sensitive  to  the  instincts  of  heaven,  and  teaches  him  to 
seek  for  happiness  in  those  beneficent  virtues  which  distri- 
bute his  wealth  to  the  profit  of  others.  If  you  could  ex- 
clude the  air  from  the  rays  of  the  fire,  the  fire  itself  would 
soon  languish  and  die  in  the  midst  of  its  fuel  ;  and  so  a 
man's  joy  in  his  wealth  is  kept  alive  by  the  air  which  it 
warms  ;  and  if  pent  within  itself — is  extinguished. 

"  And  this,  my  brethren,  leads  me  to  another  view  of  the 
vast  subject  opened  to  us  by  the  words  of  the  apostle — 
'  Every  man  shall  bear  his  own  burden.'  The  worldly  con- 
ditions of  life  are  unequal.  Why  are  they  unequal  ?  O 
my  brethren,  do  you  not  perceive  ?  Think  you  that,  if  it 
had  been  better  for  our  spiritual  probation  that  there  should 
be  neither  great  nor  lowly,  rich  nor  poor,  Providence  would 
not  so  have  ordered  the  dispensations  of  the  world,  and  so, 
by  its  mysterious  but  merciful  agencies,  have  influenced  the 
framework  and  foundations  of  society  ?  But  if  from  the 
remotest  period  of  human  annals,  and  in  all  the  numberless 
experiments  of  government  which  the  wit  of  man  has  de- 
vised, still  this  inequality  is  ever  found  to  exist,  may  we  not 
suspect  that  there  is  something  in  the  very  principles  of  our 
nature  to  which  that  inequality  is  necessary  and  essential  ? 
Ask  why  this  inequality?  Why? — as  well  ask  why  life  is 
the  sphere  of  duty  and  the  nursery  of  virtues  !  For  if  all 
men  were  equal,  if  there  were  no  suffering  and  no  ease,  no 
poverty  and  no  wealth,  would  you  not  sweep  with  one  blow 
the  half,  at  least,  of  human  virtues  from  the  world  ?  If 
there  were  no  penury  and  no  pain,  what  would  become  of 
fortitude  ? — what  of  patience  ? — what  of  resignation  ?  If 
there  were  no  greatness  and  no  wealth,  what  would  become 
ot  benevolence,  of  charity,  of  the  blessed  human  pity,  of 


!33  MY  NOVEL;    OR, 

temperance  in  the  midst  of  luxury,  of  justice  in  the  exercise 
of  power  ?  Carry  the  question  further  ;  grant  all  conditions 
the  same — no  reverse,  no  rise,  and  no  fall — nothing  to  hope 
for,  nothing  to  fear — what  a  moral  death  you  would  at  once 
inflict  upon  all  the  energies  of  the  soul,  and  what  a  link  be- 
tween the  Heart  of  man  and  the  Providence  of  God  would 
be  snapped  asunder  !  If  we  could  annihilate  evil,  we  should 
annihilate  hope  ;  and  hope,  my  brethren,  is  the  avenue  to 
faith.  If  there  be  '  a  time  to  weep  and  a  time  to  laugh,'  it 
is  that  he  who  mourns  may  turn  to  eternity  for  comfort, 
and  he  who  rejoices  may  bless  God  for  the  happy  hour. 
Ah  !  my  brethren,  were  it  possible  to  annihilate  the  in- 
equalities of  human  life,  it  would  be  the  banishment  of  our 
worthiest  virtues,  the  torpor  of  our  spiritual  nature,  the 
palsy  of  our  mental  faculties.  The  moral  world,  like  the 
world  without  us,  derives  its  health  and  its  beauty  from 
diversity  and  contrast. 

"  '  Every  man  shall  bear  his  own  burden.'  True  ;  but 
now  turn  to  an  earlier  verse  in  the  same  chapter, — '  Bear 
ye  one  another's  burdens,  and  so  fulfil  the  law  of  Christ.' 
Yes  ;  while  heaven  ordains  to  each  his  peculiar  suffering, 
it  connects  the  family  of  man  into  one  household,  by  that 
feeling  which,  more  perhaps  than  any  other,  distinguishes 
us  from  the  brute  creation — I  mean  the  feeling  to  which 
we  give  the  name  of  sympathy — the  feeling  for  each  other  ! 
The  flock  heedeth  not  the  sheep  that  creeps  into  the  shade 
to  die  ;  but  man  has  sorrow  and  joy  not  in  himself  alone, 
but  in  the  joy  and  sorrow  of  those  around  him.  He  who 
feels  only  for  himself  abjures  his  very  nature  as  man  ;  for 
do  we  not  say  of  one  who  has  no  tenderness  for  mankind 
that  he  is  inhuman  ?  and  do  we  not  call  him  who  sorrows 
with  the  sorrowful,  humane  ? 

"  Now,  brethren,  that  which  especially  marked  the  divine 
mission  of  our  Lord,  is  the  direct  appeal  to  this  sympathy 
which  distinguishes  us  from  the  brute.  He  seizes,  not  upon 
some  faculty  of  genius  given  but  to  few,  bilt  upon  that 
ready  impulse  of  heart  which  is  given  to  us  all ;  and  in  say- 
ing; 'Love  one  another,'  'Bear  ye  one  another's  burdens,' 
he  elevates  the  most  delightful  of  our  emotions  into  the 
most  sacred  of  His  laws.  The  lawyer  asks  our  Lord,  'Who 
is  my  neighbor?'  Our  lord  replies  by  the  parable  of  the 
good  Samaritan.  The  priest  and  the  Levite  saw  the 
wounded  man  that  fell  among  the  thieves,  and  passed  by 
on  the  other  side.  That  priest  might  have  been  austere  in 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  133 

his  doctrine,  that  Levite  might  have  been  learned  in  the 
law  ;  but  neither  to  the  learning  of  the  Levite,  nor  to  the 
doctrine  of  the  priest,  does  our  Savior  even  deign  to  allude. 
He  cites  but  the  action  of  the  Samaritan,  and  saith  to  the 
lawyer,  '  Which  now  of  these  three,  thinkest  thou,  was 
neighbor  unto  him  that  fell  among  the  thieves  ?  And  he 
said,  He  that  showed  mercy  unto  him.  Then  said  Jesus 
unto  him,  Go,  and  do  thou  likewise.' 

"  O  shallowness  of  human  judgments  !  It  was  enough 
to  be  born  a  Samaritan  in  order  to  be  rejected  by  the  priest, 
and  despised  by  the  Levite.  Yet  now,  what  to  us  the  priest 
and  the  Levite — of  God's  chosen  race  though  they  were  ? 
They  passed  from  the  hearts  of  men  when  they  passed  the 
sufferer  by  the  wayside  ;  while  this  loathed  Samaritan,  half 
thrust  fiom  the  pale  of  the  Hebrew,  becomes  of  our  family, 
of  our  kindred  ;  a  brother  amongst  the  brotherhood  of 
Love,  so  long  as  Mercy  and  affliction  shall  meet  in  the  com- 
mon thoroughfare  of  Life  ! 

"  '  Bear  ye  one  another's  burdens,  and  so  fulfil  the  law 
of  Christ.'  Think  not,  O  my  brethren,  that  this  applies 
only  to  almsgiving — to  that  relief  of  distress  which  is  com- 
monly called  charity — to  the  obvious  duty  of  devoting, 
from  our  superfluities,  something  that  we  scarcely  miss,  to 
the  wants  of  a  starving  brother.  No.  I  appeal  to  the 
poorest  amongst  ye,  if  the  worst  burdens  are  those  of  the 
body — if  the  kind  word  and  the  tender  thought  have  not 
often  lightened  your  hearts  more  than  bread  bestowed  with 
a  grudge,  and  charity  that  humbles  you  by  a  frown.  Sympa- 
thy is  a  beneficence  at  the  command  of  us  all, — yea,  of  the 
pauper  as  of  the  king  ;  and  sympathy  is  Christ's  wealth. 
Sympathy  is  brotherhood.  The  rich  are  told  to  have  char- 
ity for  the  poor,  and  the  poor  are  enjoined  to  respect  their 
superiors.  Good  ;  I  say  not  to  the  contrary.  But  I  say 
also  to  the  poor,  ' In  your  turn  have  charity  for  the  rich  ;  '  and 
I  say  to  the  rich,  '  In  your  turn  respect  the  poor.' 

"  '  Bear  ye  one  another's  burdens,  and  so  fulfil  the  law 
of  Christ.'  Thou,  O  poor  man,  envy  not  nor  grudge  thy 
brother  his  larger  portion  of  worldly  goods.  Believe  that 
he  hath  his  sorrows  and  crosses  like  thyself,  and  perhaps,  as 
more  delicately  nurtured,  he  feels  them  more  ;  nay,  hath  he 
not  temptations  so  great  that  our  Lord  hath  exclaimed — 
'  How  hardly  shall  they  that  have  riches  enter  into  the 
kingdom  of  heaven  ! '  And  what  are  temptations  but  trials? 
— what  are  trials  but  perils  and  sorrows  ?  Think  not  that 


134  MY  NOVEL;    Of!, 

you  can  bestow  no  charity  on  the  rich  man,  even  while  you 
take  your  sustenance  from  his  hands.  A  heathen  writer, 
often  cited  by  the  earliest  preachers  of  the  gospel,  hath 
truly  said — 'Wherever  there  is  room  for  a  man,  there  is 
place  for  a  benefit.' 

"  And  I  ask  any  rich  brother  amongst  you,  when  he  hath 
gone  forth  to  survey  his  barns  and  his  granaries,  his  gar- 
dens and  his  orchards,  if  suddenly,  in  the  vain  pride  of  his 
heart,  he  sees  the  scowl  on  the  brow  of  the  laborer — if  he 
deems  himself  hated  in  the  midst  of  his  wealth — if  he  feels 
that  his  least  faults  are  treasured  up  against  him  with  the 
hardness  of  malice,  and  his  plainest  benefits  received  with 
the  ingratitude  of  envy — I  ask,  I  say,  any  rich  man,  whether 
straightway  all  pleasure  in  his  worldly  possessions  does  not 
fade  from  his  heart,  and  whether  he  does  not  feel  what  a 
wealth  of  gladness  it  is  in  the  power  of  the  poor  man  to  be- 
stow !  For  all  these  things  of  Mammon  pass  away  ;  but 
there  is  in  the  smile  of  him  whom  we  have  served,  a  some- 
thing that  we  may  take  with  us  into  heaven.  If,  then,  ye  bear 
one  another's  burdens,  they  who  are  poor  will  have  mercy 
on  the  errors,  and  compassion  for  the  griefs,  of  the  rich. 
To  all  men  it  was  said, — yes,  to  Lazarus  as  to  Dives, — 
'Judge  not,  that  ye  be  not  judged.'  But  think  not,  O  rich 
man,  that  we  preach  only  to  the  poor.  If  it  be  their  duty 
not  to  grudge  thee  thy  substance,  it  is  thine  to  do  all  that 
may  sweeten  their  labor.  Remember  that  when  our  Lord 
said,  '  How  hardly  shall  they  that  have  riches  enter  into  the 
kingdom  of  heaven,'  he  replied  also  to  them  who  asked, 
'  Who  then  shall  be  saved  ? '  '  The  things  which  are  impos- 
sible with  men  are  possible  with  God  ; '  that  is,  man  left  to 
his  own  temptations  would  fail ;  but,  strengthened  by  God, 
he  shall  be  saved.  If  thy  riches  are  the  tests  of  thy  trial, 
so  may  they  also  be  the  instruments  of  thy  virtues.  Prove 
by  thy  riches  that  thou  art  compassionate  and  tender,  tem- 
perate and  benign  ;  and  thy  riches  themselves  may  become 
the  evidence  at  once  of  thy  faith  and  of  thy  works. 

"  We  have  constantly  on  our  lips  the  simple  precept, 
'  Do  unto  others  as  you  would  be  done  by.'  Why  do  we 
fail  so  often  in  the  practice?  Because  we  neglect  to  cul- 
tivate that  SYMPATHY  which  nature  implants  as  an  instinct, 
and  the  Savior  exalts  as  acommand.  If  thou  wouldst  do 
unto  thy  neighbor  as  thou  wouldst  be  done  by,  ponder  well 
how  thy  neighbor  will  regard  the  action  thou  art  about  to  do 
to  him.  Put  thyself  into  his  place.  If  thou  art  strong  and  he 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  135 

is  weak,  descend  from  thy  strength  and  enter  into  his  weak- 
ness ;  lay  aside  thy  burden  for  the  while,  and  buckle  on  his 
own  ;  let  thy  sight  see  as  through  his  eyes — thy  heart  beat 
as  in  his  bosom.  Do  this,  and  thou  wilt  often  confess  that 
what  had  seemed  just  to  thy  power  will  seem  harsh  to  his 
weakness.  For  'as  a  zealous  man  hath  not  done  his  duty 
when  he  calls  his  brother  drunkard  and  beast,'*  even  so 
an  administrator  of  the  law  mistakes  his  object  if  he  writes 
on  the  grand  column  of  society  only  warnings  that  irritate 
the  bold  and  terrify  the  timid  ;  and  a  man  will  be  no  more 
in  love  with  law  than  with  virtue,  '  if  he  be  forced  to  it  with 
rudeness  and  incivilities.'f  If,  then,  ye  would  bear  the 
burden  of  the  lowly,  O  ye  great,  feel  not  only  for  them  but 
with  !  Watch  that  your  pride  does  not  chafe  them — your 
power  does  not  wantonly  gall.  Your  worldly  inferior  is  of 
the  class  from  which  the  Apostles  were  chosen — amidst 
which  the  Lord  of  Creation  descended  from  a  throne  above 
the  seraphs." 

The  Parson  here  paused  a  moment,  and  his  eye  glanced 
toward  the  pew  near  the  pulpit,  where  sat  the  magnate  of 
Hazeldean.  The  Squire  was  leaning  his  chin  thoughtfully 
on  his  hand,  his  brow  inclined  downward,  and  the  natural 
glow  of  his  complexion  much  heightened. 

"But," — resumed  the  Parson  softly,  without  turning  to 
his  book,  and  rather  as  if  prompted  by  the  suggestion  of  the 
moment — "  but  he  who  has  cultivated  sympathy  commits 
not  these  errors,  or,  if  committing  them,  hastens  to  retract. 
So  natural  is  sympathy  to  the  good  man,  that  he  obeys  it 
mechanically  when  he  suffers  his  heart  to  be  the  monitor 
of  his  conscience.  In  this  sympathy  behold  the  bond  be- 
tween rich  and  poor !  By  this  sympathy,  whatever  our 
varying  worldly  lots,  they  become  what  they  were  meant  to 
be — exercises  for  the  virtues  more  peculiar  to  each  ;  and. 
thus,  if  in  the  body  each  man  bear.his  own  burden,  yet  in 
the  fellowship  of  the  soul  all  have  common  relief  in  bearing 
the  burdens  of  each  other. 

"  This  is  the  law  of  Christ— fulfil  it,  O  my  flock  ! " 

Here  the  parson  closed  his  sermon,  and  the  congrega- 
tion bowed  their  heads. 

*  JEREMY  TAYLOR—  Of  Christian  Prudence.     Part  II.  t  Ibid. 


136  MY  NOVEL;    OR, 


BOOK  THIRD. 


INITIAL  CHAPTER 

SHOWING   HOW   MY    NOVEL   CAME    TO   BE    CALLED    "  MY    NOVEL." 

"  I  AM  not  displeased  with  your  novel,  so  far  as  it  has 
gone,"  said  my  father,  graciously ;  "  though  as  for  the  Ser- 
mon  " 

Here  I  trembled  !  but  the  ladies,  Heaven  bless  them  ! 
had  taken  Parson  Dale  under  their  special  protection  ;  and, 
observing  that  my  father  was  puckering  up  his  brows  crit- 
ically, they  rushed  boldly  forward  in  defence  of  The  Ser- 
mon, and  Mr.  Caxton  was  forced  to  beat  a  retreat.  How- 
ever, like  a  skilful  general,  he  renewed  the  assault  upon 
outposts  less  gallantly  guarded.  But  as  it  is  not  my  busi- 
ness to  betray  my  weak  points,  I  leave  it  to  the  ingenuity 
of  cavillers  to  discover  the  places  at  which  the  author  of 
Human  Error  directed  his  great  guns. 

"  But,"  said  the  Captain  "you  are  a  lad  of  too  much 
spirit,  Pisistratus,  to  keep  us  always  in  the  obscure  country 
quarters  of  Hazeldean — you  will  march  us  out  into  open 
service  before  you  have  done  with  ifs  ? " 

PISISTRATUS  (magisterially,  for  he  has  been  somewhat 
nettled  by  Mr.  Caxton's  remarks — and  he  puts  on  an  air 
of  dignity  in  order  to  awe  away  minor  assailants). — Yes, 
Captain  Roland — not  yet  awhile,  but  all  in  good  time.  I 
have  not  stinted  myself  in  canvas,  and  behind  my  foreground 
of  the  Hall  and  the  Parsonage  I  propose,  hereafter,  to  open 
some  lengthened  perspective  of  the  varieties  of  English 
life " 

MR.  CAXTON. — Hum  ! 

BLANCHE  (putting  her  hand  on  my  father's  lip). — We  shall 
know  better  the  design,  perhaps,  when  we  know  the  title. 
Pray,  Mr.  Author,  what  is  the  title  ? 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  137 

MY  MOTHER  (with  more  animation  than  usual). — Ay, 
Sisty — the  title  ! 

PISISTRATUS  (startled). — The  title  !  By  the  soul  of  Cer- 
vantes !  I  have  never  yet  thought  of  a  title  ! 

CAPTAIN  ROLAND  (solemnly). — There  is  a  great  deal 
in  a  good  title.  As  a  novel-reader,  I  know  that  by  experi- 
ence. 

MR.  SQUILLS. — Certainly  ;  there  is  not  a  catchpenny  in 
the  world  but  what  goes  down,  if  the  title  be  apt  and  seduc- 
ive.  Witness  "Old  Parr's  Life  Pills."  Sell  by  the  thou- 
sand, sir,  when  my  "Pills  for  Weak  Stomachs,"  which  I  be- 
lieve to  be  just  the  same  compound,  never  paid  for  the 
advertising. 

MR.  CAXTON. — Parr's  Life  Pills  !  a  fine  stroke  of  Genius ! 
It  is  not  every  one  who  has  a  weak  stomach,  or  time  to  at- 
tend to  it,  if  he  have.  But  who  would  not  swallow  a  pill  to 
live  to  a  hundred  and  fifty-two  ? 

PISISTRATUS  (stirring  the  fire  in  great  exitement.) — My 
title  !  my  title  ! — what  shall  be  my  title  ? 

MR.  CAXTON  (thrusting  his  hand  into  his  waistcoat,  and 
in  his  most  didactic  of  tones). — From  a  remote  period,  the 
choice  of  a  title  has  perplexed  the  scribbling  portion  of 
mankind.  We  may  guess  how  their  invention  has  been 
racked  by  the  strange  contortions  it  has  produced.  To  begin 
with  the  Hebrews,  "The  Lips  of  the  Sleeping"  (Labia  Dor- 
mientiuni) — what  book  do  you  suppose  that  title  to  desig- 
nate ? — A  Catalogue  of  Rabbinical  Writers  !  Again,  imagine 
some  young  lady  of  old  captivated  by  the  sentimental  title 
of  "  The  Pomegranate  with  its  Flower,"  and  opening  on  a 
Treatise  on  the  Jewish  Ceremonials  !  Let  us  turn  to  the 
Romans.  Aulus  Gellius  commences  his  pleasant  gossiping 
"Noctes"  with  a  list  of  the  titles  in  fashion  in  his  day. 
For  instance,  "  The  Muses"  and  "  The  Veil"  "  The  Cornuco- 
pia" "  The  Beehive"  and  "  Tlie  Meadow*"  Some  titles,  indeed, 
were  more  truculent,  and  promised  food  to  those  who  love 
to  sup  upon  horrors — such  as  "  The  Torch"  "  TJie  Poniard" 
"  The  Stiletto " 

PISISTRATUS  (impatiently). — Yes,  sir ;  but  to  come  to  My 
Novel. 

MR.  CAXTON  (unheeding  the  interniption). — You  see  you 
have  a  fine  choice  here,  and  of  a  nature  pleasing  and  not 
unfamiliar,  to  a  classical  reader ;  or  you  may  borrow  a  hint 
from  the  early  Dramatic  Writers. 

PISISTRATUS  (more  hopefully). — Ay !  there  is  something 


138  MY  NOVEL;    OR, 

in  the  Drama  akin  to  the  Novel.  Now,  perhaps,  I  may 
catch  an  idea. 

MR.  CAXTON. — For  instance,  the  author  of  the  Curiosities 
of  Literature  (from  whom,  by  the  way,  I  am  plagiarizing 
much  of  the  information  I  bestow  upon  you)  tells  us  of  a 
Spanish  gentleman  who  wrote  a  Comedy,  by  which  he  in- 
tended to  serve  what  he  took  for  Moral  Philosophy. 

PISISTRATUS  (eagerly.) — Well,  sir? 

MR.  CAXTON. — And  called  it  "The  Pain  of  the  Sleep  of 
the  World." 

PISISTRATUS. — Very  comic  indeed,  sir. 

MR.  CAXTON. — Grave  things  were  then  called  Comedies, 
as  old  things  are  now  called  Novels.  Then  there  are  all  the 
titles  of  early  Romance  itself  at  your  disposal — "Theagines 
and  Chariclea,"  or  "  The  Ass"  of  Longus,  or  "The  Golden 
Ass  "  of  Apuleius  ;  or  the  titles  of  Gothic  Romance,  such  as 
"The  most  elegant,  delicious,  mellifluous,  and  delightful 
History  of  Perceforest,  King  of  Great  Britain." — And  there- 
with my  father  ran  over  a  list  of  names  as  long  as  the  Direc- 
tory, and  about  as  amusing. 

"  Well,  to  my  taste,"  said  my  mother,  "  the  novels  I  used 
to  read  when  a  girl  (for  I  have  not  read  many  since,  I  am 
ashamed  to  say,) — 

MR.  CAXTON. — No,  you  need  not  be  at  all  ashamed  of  it, 
Kitty. 

MY  MOTHER  (proceeding). — Were  much  more  inviting 
than  any  you  mention,  Austin. 

THE  CAPTAIN. — True. 

MR.  SQUILLS. — Certainly.  Nothing  like  them  nowa- 
days ! 

MY  MOTHER. — "Says  she  to  her  Neighbor,  What?" 

THE  CAPTAIN. — "The  Unknown,  or  the  Northern  Gal- 
lery   " 

MR.  SQUILLS. — "  There  is  a  Secret ;  find  it  out!  " 

PISISTRATUS  (pushed  to  the  verge  of  human  endurance, 
and  upsetting  tongs,  poker,  and  lire-shovel). — What  non- 
sense you  are  talking,  all  of  you  !  For  heaven's  sake,  con- 
sider what  an  important  matter  we  are  called  upon  to  decide. 
It  is  not  now  the  titles  of  those  very  respectable  works 
which  issued  from  the  Minerva  Press  that  I  ask  you  to  re- 
member— it  is  to  invent  a  title  for  mine — My  Novel ! 

MR.  CAXTON  (clapping  his  hands  gently). — Excellent — 
capital !  Nothing  can  be  better  ;  simple,  natural,  pertinent, 
concise 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  139 

PISISTRATUS. — What  is  it,  sir — what  is  it  ?  Have  you 
really  thought  of  a  title  to  My  Novel  ? 

MR.  CAXTON. — You  have  hit  it  yourself — "My  Novel." 
It  is  your  Novel— people  will  know  it  is  your  Novel.  Turn 
and  twist  the  English  language  as  you  will — be  as  allegori- 
cal as  Hebrew,  Greek,  Roman — Fabulist  or  Puritan — still, 
after  all,  it  is  your  Novel,  and  nothing  more  nor  less  than 
your  Novel. 

PISISTRATUS  (thoughtfully,  and  sounding  the  words  vari- 
ous ways). — "  My  Novel " — um — um  !  "  My  Novel !  "  rather 
bold— and  curt,  eh  ? 

MR.  CAXTON. — Add  what  you  say  you  intend  to  depict — 
Varieties  in  English  Life. 

MY  MOTHER. — "My  Novel;  or,  Varieties  in  English  Life" 
—I  don't  think  it  sounds  amiss.  What  say  you,  Roland  ? 
Would  it  attract  you  in  a  catalogue  ? 

My  uncle  hesitates,  when  Mr.  Caxton  exclaims  imperi- 
ously— "The  thing  is  settled  !  Don't  disturb  Camarina." 

SQUILLS. — If  it  be  not  too  great  a  liberty,  pray  who  or 
what  is  Camarina  ? 

MR.  CAXTON. — Camarina,  Mr.  Squills,  was  a  lake,  apt  to 
be  low,  and  then  liable  to  be  muddy  !  and  "  Don't  disturb 
Camarina,"  was  a  Greek  proverb  derived  from  an  Oracle  of 
Apollo  ;  and  from  that  Greek  proverb,  no  doubt,  comes  the 
origin  of  the  injunction,  "  Quieta  non  movere"  which  became 
the  favorite  maxim  of  Sir  Robert  Walpole  and  Parson  Dale. 
The  Greek  line,  Mr.  Squills  (here  my  father's  memory  began 
to  warm),  is  preserved  by  STEPHANUS  BYZANTINUS,  de 
UrbibiiS) 

"  Mr)  Ktvei  Kajuapivuv,  CLKIVTJTOS  yap  d/u.eiVcov." 

ZENOBIUS  explains  it  in  his  proverbs  ;  SUIDAS  repeats  ZENO- 
BIUS  :  LUCIAN  alludes  to  it ;  so  does  VIRGIL  in  the  Third 
Book  of  the  ^ENEID  ;  and  SILIUS  ITALICUS  imitates  Virgil — 

"  Et  cui  non  licitum  fatis  Camarina  moveri." 

Parson  Dale,  as  a  clergyman  and  a  scholar,  had,  no  doubt, 
these  authorities  at  his  fingers'  end.  "  And  I  wonder  he 
did  not  quote  them,"  quoth  my  father;  "but,  to  be  sure,  he 
is  represented  as  a  mild  man,  and  so  might  not  wish  to  hum- 
ble the  Squire  overmuch  in  the  presence  of  his  family. 
Meanwhile,  My  Novel  is  My  Novel  ;  and  now  that  the 
matter  is  settled,  perhaps  the  tongs,  poker,  and  shovel  may 


I4o  MY  NOVEL;    OR, 

be  picked  up,  the  children  may  go  to  bed,  Blanche  and 
Kitty  may  speculate  apart  upon  the  future  dignities  of  the 
Neogilos, — taking  care,  nevertheless,  to  finish  the  new  pin- 
befores  he  requires  for  the  present ;  Roland  may  cast  up  his 
account-book,  Mr.  Squills  hav^e  his  brandy-and-water,  and 
all  the  world  be  comfortable,  each  in  his  own  way.  Blanche, 
come  away  from  the  screen,  get  me  my  slippers,  and  leave 
Pisistratus  to  himself.  M?)  /aVei  Ka/^aptvav — don't  disturb  Ca- 
marina.  You  see,  my  dear,"  added  my  father  kindly,  as, 
after  setting  himself  into  his  slippers,  he  detained  Blanche's 
hand  in  his  own — "you  see,  my  dear,  every  house  has  its 
Camarina.  Man,  who  is  a  lazy  animal,  is  quite  content  to 
let  it  alone  ;  but  woman,  being  the  more  active,  bustling, 
curious  creature,  is  always  for  giving  it  a  sly  stir." 

BLANCHE  (with  female  dignity). — I  assure  you,  that  if 
Pisistratus  had  not  called  me,  I  should  not  have 

MR.  CAXTON  (interrupting  her,  without  lifting  his  eyes 
from  the  book  he  has  already  taken). — Certainly  you  would 
not.  I  am  now  in  the  midst  of  the  great  Oxford  Contro- 
versy. M?)  /a'uet  Ka/Aaptvav — don't  disturb  Camarina. 

A  dead  silence  for  half  an  hour,  at  the  end  of  which 

PISISTRATUS  (from  behind  the  screen). — Blanche,  my 
dear,  I  want  to  consult  you. 

Blanche  does  not  stir. 

PISISTRATUS. — Blanche,  I  say. 

Blanche  glances  in  triumph  toward  Mr.  Caxton. 

MR.  CAXTON  (laying  down  his  theological  tract,  and 
rubbing  his  spectacles  mournfully). — I  hear  him,  child  ;  I 
hear  him,  I  retract  my  vindication  of  man.  Oracles  warn 
in  vain  :  so  long  as  there  is  a  woman  on  the  other  side  of 
the  screen, — it  is  all  up  with  Camarina. 


CHAPTER  II. 

IT  is  greatly  to  be  regretted  that  Mr.  Stirn  was  not  pres- 
ent at  the  Parson's  Discourse — but  that  valuable  function- 
ary was  far  otherwise  engaged — indeed,  during  the  summer 
months  he  was  rarely  seen  at  the  afternoon  service.  Not  that 
he  cared  for  being  preached  at — not  he  :  Mr.  Stirn  would 
have  snapped  his  fingers  at  the  thunders  of  the  Vatican. 
But  the  fact  was,  that  Mr.  Stirn  chose  to  do  a  great  deal  of 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  141 

gratuitous  business  upon  the  day  of  rest.  The  Squire  al- 
lowed all  persons  who  -chose  to  walk  about  the  park  on  a 
Sunday  ;  and  many  came  from  a  distance  to  stroll  by  the 
lake,  or  recline  under  the  elms.  These  visitors  were  ob- 
jects of  great  suspicion,  nay,  of  positive  annoyance,  to  Mr. 
Stirn — and,  indeed,  not  altogether  without  reason,  for  we 
English  have  a  natural  love  of  liberty,  which  we  are  even 
more  apt  to  display  in  the  grounds  of  other  people  than  in 
those  we  cultivate  ourselves.  Sometimes,  to  his  inexpres- 
sible and  fierce  satisfaction,  Mr.  Stirn  fell  upon  a  lot  of  boys 
pelting  the  swans  ;  sometimes  he  missed  a  young  sapling, 
and  found  it  in  felonious  hands,  converted  into  a  walking- 
stick  ;  sometimes  he  caught  a  hulking  fellow  scrambling  up 
up  the  ha-ha,  to  gather  a  nosegay  for  his  sweetheart  from  one 
of  poor  Mrs.  Hazeldean's  pet  parterres  ;  not  unfrequently, 
indeed,  when  all  the  family  were  fairly  at  church,  some 
curious  impertinents  forced  or  sneaked  their  way  into  the 
gardens,  in  order  to  peep  in  at  the  windows.  For  these, 
and  various  other  offences  of  like  magnitude,  Mr.  Stirn  had 
long,  but  vainly,  sought  to  induce  the  Squire  to  withdraw 
a  permission  so  villainously  abused.  But  though  there  were 
times  when  Mr.  Hazeldean  grunted  and  growled,  and  swore 
"that  he  would  shut  up  the  park,  and  fill  it  (illegally)  with 
man-traps  and  spring-guns,"  his  anger  always  evaporated 
in  words.  The  park  was  still  open  to  all  the  world  on  a 
Sunday  ;  and  that  blessed  day  was  therefore  converted  into 
a  day  of  travail  and  wrath  to  Mr.  Stirn.  But  it  was  from 
the  last  chime  of  the  afternoon  service  bell  until  dusk,  that 
the  spirit  of  this  vigilant  functionary  was  most  perturbed  ; 
for,  amidst  the  flocks  that  gathered  from  the  little  hamlets 
round  to  the  voice  of  the  Pastor,  there  were  always  some 
stray  sheep,  or  rather  climbing,  desultory,  vagabond  goats, 
who  struck  off  in  all  perverse  directions,  as  if  for  the 
special  purpose  of  distracting  the  energetic  watchfulness  of 
Mr.  Stirn  As  soon  as  church  was  over,  if  the  day  were  fine, 
the  whole  park  became  a  scene  animated  with  red  cloaks, 
or  lively  shawls,  Sunday  waistcoats,  and  hats  stuck  full  of 
wild  flowers — which  last  Mr.  Stirn  often  stoutly  maintained 
to  be  Mrs.  Hazeldean's  newest  geraniums.  Now,  on  this 
Sunday,  especially,  there  was  an  imperative  call  upon  an 
extra  exertion  of  vigilance  on  the  part  of  the  superintend- 
ent— he  had  not  only  to  detect  ordinary  depredators  and  tres- 
passers ;  but,  first  to  discover  the  authors  of  the  conspiracy 
against  the  stocks  ;  and,  secondly,  to  "  make  an  example." 


142  MY  NOVEL;    OK, 

He  had  begun  his  rounds,  therefore,  from  the  early 
morning  ;  and  just  as  the  afternoon  bell  was  sounding  its 
final  peal,  he  emerged  upon  the  village-green  from  a  hedge- 
row, behind  which  he  had  been  at  watch  to  observe  who 
had  the  most  suspiciously  gathered  round  the  stocks.  At 
that  moment  the  place  was  deserted.  At  a  distance,  the  su- 
perintendent saw  the  fast  disappearing  forms  of  some  belated 
groups  hastening  toward  the  church  ;  in  front,  the  stocks 
stood  staring  at  him  mournfully  from  its  four  great  eyes, 
which  had  been  cleansed  from  the  mud,  but  still  looked 
bleared  and  stained  with  the  marks  of  the  recent  outrage. 
Here  Mr.  Stirn  paused,  took  off  his  hat,  and  wiped  his  brows. 

"  If  I  had  sum  un  to  watch  here,"  thought  he,  "while  I 
takes  a  turn  by  the  water-side,  p'r'aps  summat  might  come 
out;  p'r'aps  them  as  did  it  ben't  gone  to  church,  but  will 
come  sneaking  round  to  look  on  their  villainy  !  as  they  says 
murderers  are  always  led  back  to  the  place  where  they  ha' 
left  the  body.  But  in  this  here  village  there  ben't  a  man, 
Avoman,  nor  child,  as  has  any  consarn  for  Squire  or  Parish, 
barring  myself."  It  was  just  as  he  arrived  at  that  misan- 
thropical conclusion,  that  Mr.  Stirn  beheld  Leonard  Fair- 
field  walking  very  fast  from  his  own  home.  The  superin- 
tendent clapped  on  his  hat,  and  stuck  his  right  arm  akimbo. 
"  Hallo,  you  sir,"  said  he,  as  Lenny  now  came  in  hearing, 
"where  be  you  going  at  that  rate  ?  " 

"  Please,  sir,  I  be  going  to  church." 

"Stop,  sir — stop,  Master  Lenny.  Going  to  Church — 
why,  the  bell's  done  ;  and  you  knows  the  Parson  is  very 
angry  at  them  as  comes  in  late,  disturbing  the  congrega- 
tion. You  can't  go  to  church  now !  " 

"  Please,  sir — 

"  I  says  you  can't  go  to  church  now.  You  must  learn 
to  think  a  little  of  others,  lad.  You  sees  how  I  sweats  to 
serve  the  Squire!  and  you  must  serve  him  too.  Why,  your 
mother's  got  the  house  and  premises  almost  rent  free  ;  you 
ought  to  have  a  grateful  heart,  Leonard  Fairfield,  and  feel 
for  his  honor  !  Poor  man  !  his  heart  is  well  nigh  bruk,  I 
am  sure,  writh  the  goings  on." 

Leonard  opened  his  innocent  blue  eyes,  while  Mr.  Stirn 
dolorously  wiped  his  own. 

"Look  at  that  'ere  dumb  cretur,"  said  Stirn,  suddenly 
pointing  to  the  stocks— "look  at  it.  If  it  could  speak, 
what  would  it  say,  Leonard  Fairfield  ?  Answer  me  that ! 
— '  Damn  the  stocks,'  indeed  !  " 


VARIETIES   IN   ENGLISH  LIFE. 


'43 


"  It  was  very  bad  in  them  to  write  such  naughty  words," 
said  Lenny,  gravely.  "  Mother  was  quite  shocked  when 
she  heard  of  it  this  morning." 

MR.  STIRN. — I  dare  say  she  was,  considering  what  she 
pays  for  the  premishes  ;  (insinuatingly)  you  does  not  know 
who  did  it — eh,  Lenny  ? 

LENNY. — No,  sir  ;  indeed  I  does  not! 

MR.  STIRN. — Well,  you  see,  you  can't  go  to  church — 
prayers  half  over  by  this  time.  You  recollex  that  I  put  them 
stocks  under  your  "  sponsibility,"  and  see  the  way  you's 
done  your  duty  by  'em.  I've  half  a  mind  to — 

Mr.  Stirn  ca'st  his  eyes  on  the  eyes  of  the  stocks. 

"  Please,  sir,"  began  Lenny  again,  rather  frightened. 

"  No,  I  won't  please  ;  it  ben't  pleasing  at  all.  But  I 
forgives  you  this  time,  only  keep  a  sharp  lookout,  lad,  in 
future.  Now  you  just  stay  here — no,  there — under  the 
hedge,  and  you  watches  if  any  person  comes  to  loiter  about 
or  looks  at  the  stocks,  or  laughs  to  hisself,  while  I  go  my 
rounds.  I  shall  be  back  either  afore  church  is  over  or  just 
arter  ;  so  you  stay  till  I  comes,  and  give  me  your  report. 
Be  sharp,  boy,  or  it  will  be  worse  for  you  and  your  mother  ; 
I  can  let  the  premishes  for  four  pounds  a-year  more  to- 
morrow." 

Concluding  with  that  somewhat  menacing  and  very 
significant  remark,  and  not  staying  for  an  answer,  Mr.  Stirn 
waved  his  hand,  and  walked  off. 

Poor  Lenny  remained  by  the  stocks,  very  much  dejected, 
and  greatly  disliking  the  neighborhood  to  which  he  was 
consigned.  At  length  he  slowly  crept  off  to  the  hedge,  and 
sate  himself  down  in  the  place  of  espionage  pointed  out  to 
him.  Now,  philosophers  tell  us  that  what  is  called  the  point 
of  honor  is  a  barbarous  feudal  prejudice.  Amongst  the 
higher  classes,  wherein  those  feudal  prejudices  maybe  sup- 
posed to  prevail,  Lenny  Fairfield's  occupation  would  not 
have  been  considered  peculiarly  honorable  ;  neither  would 
it  have  seemed  so  to  the  more  turbulent  spirits  among  the 
humbler  orders,  who  have  a  point  of  honor  of  their  own 
which  consists  in  the  adherence  to  each  other  in  defiance  of 
all  lawful  authority.  But  to  Lenny  Fairfield,  brought  up 
much  apart  from  other  boys,  and  with  profound  and  grate- 
ful reverence  for  the  Squire  instilled  into  all  his  habits  of 
thought,  notions  of  honor  bounded  themselves  to  simple 
honesty  and  straightforward  truth  ;  and  as  he  cherished  an 
unquestioning  awe  of  order  and  constitutional  authority, 


144  MY  NOVEL;    OK, 

so  it  did  not  appear  to  him  that  there  was  anything  derog- 
atory and  debasing  in  being  thus  set  to  watch  an  offender. 
On  the  contrary,  as  he  began  to  reconcile  himself,  to  the 
loss  of  the  church  service,  and  to  enjoy  the  cool  of  the 
summer  shade,  and  the  occasional  chirp  of  the  birds,  he  got 
to  look  on  the  bright  side  of  the  commission  to  which  he 
was  deputed.  In  youth,  at  least,  everything  has  its  bright 
side — even  the  appointment  of  Protector  to  the  Parish 
Stocks.  For  the  stocks  itself  Leonard  had  no  affection,  it 
is  true  ;  but  he  had  no  sympathy  with  its  aggressors,  and  he 
could  well  conceive  that  the  Squire  would  be  very  much 
hurt  at  the  revolutionary  event  of  the  night.  "  So,"  thought 
poor  Leonard  in  his  simple  heart — "  so,  if  I  can  serve  his 
honor,  by  keeping  off  mischievous  boys,  or  letting  him 
know  who  did  the  thing,  I'm  sure  it  would  be  a  proud  day 
for  mother."  Then  he  began  to  consider  that,  however  un- 
graciously Mr.  Stirn  had  bestowed  on  him  the  appointment, 
still  it  was  a  compliment  to  him — showed  trust  and  confi- 
dence in  him,  picked  him  out  from  his  contemporaries  as 
the  sober  moral  pattern  boy  ;  and  Lenny  had  a  great  deal 
of  pride  in  him,  especially  in  matters  of  repute  and 
character. 

All  these  things  considered,  I  say,  Leonard  Fairfield  re- 
clined on  his  lurking-place,  if  not  with  positive  delight  and 
intoxicating  rapture,  at  least  with  tolerable  content  and 
some  complacency. 

Mr.  Stirn  might  have  been  gone  a  quarter  of  ^an  hour, 
when  a  boy  came  through  a  little  gate  in  the  park,  just  op- 
posite to  Lenny's  retreat  in  the  hedge,  and,  as  if  fatigued 
with  walking,  or  oppressed  by  the  heat  of  the  day,  paused 
on  the  green  for  a  moment  or  so,  and  then  advanced  under 
the  shade  of  the  great  tree  which  overhung  the  stocks. 

Lenny  pricked  up  his  ears,  and  peeped  out  jealously. 

He  had  never  seen  the  boy  before  ;  it  was  a  strange  face 
to  him. 

Leonard  Fairfield  was  not  fond  of  strangers  ;  moreover, 
he  had  a  vague  belief  that  strangers  were  at  the  bottom  of 
that  desecration  of  the  stocks.  The  boy,  then,  was  a 
stranger  ;  but  what  was  his  rank  ?  Was  he  of  that  grade  in 
society  in  which  the  natural  offences  are  or  are  not  conso- 
nant to,  or  harmonious  with,  outrages  upon  stocks  ?  On 
that  Lenny  Fairfield  did  not  feel  quite  assured.  Accord- 
ing to  all  the  experience  of  the  villager,  the  boy  was  not 
dressed  like  a  young  gentleman.  Leonard's  notions  of  such 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  145 

aristocratic  costume  were  naturally  fashioned  upon  the 
model  of  Frank  Hazeldean.  They  represented  to  him  a  daz- 
zling vision  of  snow-white  trowsers,  and  beautiful  blue  coats, 
and  incomparable  cravats.  Now  the  dress  of  this  stranger, 
though  not  that  of  a  peasant  nor  of  a  farmer,  did  not  in  any 
way  correspond  with  Lenny's  notions  of  the  costume  of  a 
young  gentleman  ;  it  looked  to  him  highly  disreputable  ;  the 
coat  was  covered  with  mud,  and  the  hat  was  all  manner  of 
shapes,  with  a  gap  between  the  side  and  crown. 

Lenny  was  puzzled,  till  it  suddenly  occurred  to  him  that 
the  gate  through  which  the  boy  had  passed  was  in  the  direct 
path  across  the  park  from  a  small  town,  the  inhabitants  of 
which  were  in  very  bad  odor  at  the  Hall — they  had  imme- 
morially  furnished  the  most  daring  poachers  to  the  pre- 
serves, the  most  troublesome  trespassers  on  the  park,  the 
most  unprincipled  orchard  robbers,  and  the  most  disputatious 
asserters  of  various  problematical  rights  of  way,  which,  ac- 
cording to  the  Town,  were  public,  and,  according  to  the 
Hall,  had  been  private  since  the  Conquest.  It  was  true  that 
the  same  path  led  also  directly  from  the  Squire's  house,  but 
it  was  not  probable  that  the  wearer  of  attire  so  equivocal 
had  been  visiting  there.  All  things  considered,  Lenny  had 
no  doubt  in  his  mind  but  that  the  stranger  was  a  shop-boy 
or  'prentice  from  the  town  of  Thorndyke  ;  and  the  notor- 
ious repute  of  that  town,  coupled  with  this  presumption, 
made  it  probable  that  Lenny  now  saw  before  him  one  of 
the  midnigjit  desecrators  of  the  stocks.  As  if  to  confirm 
the  suspicion,  which  passed  through  Lenny's  mind  with  a 
rapidity  wholly  disproportionate  to  the  number  of  lines  it 
costs  me  to  convey  it,  the  boy,  now  standing  right  before 
the  stocks,  bent  down  and  read  that  pithy  anathema  with 
which  it  was  defaced.  And  having  read  it  he  repeated  it 
aloud,  and  Lenny  actually  saw  him  smile — such  a  smile  ! — 
so  disagreeable  and  sinister !  Lenny  had  never  before  seen 
the  smile  Sardonic. 

But  what  were  Lenny's  pious  horror  and  dismay  when 
this  ominous  stranger  fairly  seated  himself  on  the  stocks, 
rested  his  heels  profanely  on  the  lids  of  two  of  the  four 
round  eyes,  and,  taking  out  a  pencil  and  a  pocket-book, 
began  to  write.  Was  this  audacious  Unknown  taking  an 
inventory  of  the  church  and  the  Hall  for  the  purposes  of 
conflagration  ?  He  looked  at  one,  and  at  the  other,  with  a 
strange,  fixed  stare  as  he  wrote — not  keeping  his  eyes  on 
the  paper,  as  Lenny  had  been  taught  to  do  when  he  sat 


146  My  NOVEL;    OR, 

down  to  his  copy-book.  The  fact  is,  that  Randal  Leslie  was 
tired  and  faint,  and  he  felt  the  shock  of  his  fall  the  more, 
after  the  few  paces  he  had  walked,  so  that  he  was  glad  to 
rest  himself  a  few  moments  ;  and  he  took  that  opportunity 
to  write  a  line  to  Frank,  to  excuse  himself  for  not  calling 
again,  intending  to  tear  the  leaf  on  which  he  wrote  out  of 
his  pocket-book  and  leave  it  at  the  first  cottage  he  passed, 
with  instructions  to  take  it  to  the  Hall. 

While  Randal  was  thus  innocently  engaged,  Lenny  came 
up  to  him,  with  the  firm  and  measured  pace  of  one  who  has 
resolved,  cost  what  it  may,  to  do  his  duty.  And  as  Lenny, 
though  brave,  was  not  ferocious,  so  the  anger  he  felt,  and  the 
suspicions  he  entertained,  only  exhibited  themselves  in  the 
following  solemn  appeal  to  the  offender's  sense  of  propriety, — 

"  Ben't  you  ashamed  of  yourself  ?  Sitting  on  the  Squire's 
new  stocks  !  Do  get  up,  and  go  along  with  you  ! " 

Randal  turned  round  sharply  ;  and  though,  at  any  other 
moment,  he  would  have  had  sense  enough  to  extricate  him- 
self very  easily  from  his  false  position,  yet.  Nemo  murtalium, 
etc.  No  one  is  always  wise.  And  Randal  was  in  an  ex- 
ceedingly bad  humor.  The  affability  toward  his  inferiors, 
for  which  I  lately  praised  him,  was  entirely  lost  in  the  con- 
tempt of  impertinent  snobs  natural  to  an  insulted  Etonian. 

Therefore,  eyeing  Lenny  with  great  disdain,  Randal 
answered  briefly, — 

"You  are  an  insolent  young  blackguard." 

So  curt  a  rejoinder  made  Lenny's  blood  fly  to  his  face. 
Persuaded  before  that  the  intruder  \vas  some  lawless  ap- 
prentice or  shop-lad,  he  was  now  more  confirmed  in  that 
judgment,  not  only  by  language  so  uncivil,  but  by  the  truc- 
ulent glance  which  accompanied  it,  and  which  certainly  did 
not  derive  any  imposing  dignity  from  the  mutilated,  rakish, 
hang-dog,  ruinous  hat,  under  which  it  shot  its  sullen  and 
menacing  fire. 

Of  all  the  various  articles  of  which  our  male  attire  is 
composed,  there  is  perhaps  not  one  which  has  so  much 
character  and  expression  as  the  top  covering.  A  neat,  well- 
brushed,  short-napped,  gentleman-like  hat,  put  on  with  a 
certain  air,  gives  a  distinction  and  respectability  to  the 
whole  exterior  ;  whereas,  a  broken,  squashed,  higgledy-pig- 
gledy sort  of  a  hat,  such  as  Randal  Leslie  had  on,  would  go 
far  toward  transforming  the  stateliest  gentleman  who  ever 
walked  down  St.  James's  Street  into  the  ideal  of  a  ruffianly 
scamp. 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  147 

Now,  it  is  well  known  that  there  is  nothing  more  anti- 
pathetic to  your  peasant-boy  than  a  shop-boy.  Even  on 
grand  political  occasions,  the  rural  working-class  can  rarely 
be  coaxed  into  sympathy  with  the  trading  town-class. 
Your  true  English  peasant  is  always  an  aristocrat.  More- 
over, and  irrespectively  of  this  immemorial  grudge  of  class, 
there  is  something  peculiarly  hostile  in  the  relationship  be* 
tween  boy  and  boy  when  their  backs  are  once  up,  and  they 
are  alone  on  a  quiet  bit  of  green.  Something  of  the  game- 
cock feeling — something  that  tends  to  keep  alive,  in  the 
population  of  this  island  (otherwise  so  lamb-like  and  peace- 
ful), the  martial  propensity  to  double  the  thumb  tightly 
over  the  four  fingers,  and  make  what  is  called  "  a  fist  of  it." 
Dangerous  symptoms  of  these  mingled  and,  aggressive  sen- 
timents were  visible  in  Lenny  Fairfield  at  the  words  and  the 
look  of  the  unprepossessing  stranger.  And  the  stranger 
seemed  aware  of  them  ;  for  his  pale  face  grew  more  pale, 
and  his  sullen  eye  more  fixed  and  vigilant. 

"You  get  off  them  stocks,"  said  Lenny,  disdaining  to 
reply  to  the  coarse  expressions  bestowed  on  him  ;  and,  suit- 
ing the  action  to  the  word,  he  gave  the  intruder  what  he 
meant  for  a  shove,  but  what  Randal  took  for  a  blow.  The 
Etonian  sprang  up,  and  the  quickness  of  his  movement, 
aided  by  a  slight  touch  of  his  hand,  made  Lenny  lose  his 
balance,  and  sent  him  neck  and  crop  over  the  stocks. 
Burning  with  rage,  the  young  villager  arose  alertly,  and 
flying  at  Randal,  struck  out  right  and  left. 


CHAPTER    III. 

AID  me,  O  ye  Nine  !  whom  the  incomparable  Persius 
satirized  his  contemporaries  for  invoking,  and  then,  all  of  a 
sudden,  invoked  on  his  own  behalf — aid  me  to  describe  that 
famous  battle  by  the  stocks,  and  in  defence  of  the  stocks, 
which  was  waged  by  the  two  representatives  of  Saxon  and 
Norman  England.  Here,  sober  support  of  law  and  duty 
and  delegated  trust — pro  aris  et  focis  ;  there,  haughty  inva- 
sion, and  bellicose  spirit  of  knighthood,  and  that  respect  for 
name  and  person,  which  we  call  "  honor."  Here,  too, 
hardy  physical  force — there,  skilful  discipline.  Here — The 
Nine  are  as  deaf  as  a  post,  and  as  cold  as  a  stone  !  Plague 
take  the  jades  ! — I  can  do  better  without  them. 


I48  MY  NOVEL;    OK, 

Randal  was  a  year  or  two  older  than  Lenny,  but  he  was 
not  so  tall  nor  so  strong,  nor  even  so  active  ;  and  after  the 
first  blind  rush,  when  the  two  boys  paused,  and  drew  back 
to  breathe,  Lenny,  eyeing  the  slight  form  and  hueless  cheek 
of  his  opponent,  and  seeing  blood  trickling  from  Randal's 
lip,  was  seized  with  an  instantaneous  and  generous  remorse. 
"  It  wras  not  fair,"  he  thought,  "to  fight  one  whom  he  could 
beat  so  easily."  So,  retreating  still  farther,'  and  letting  his 
arms  fall  to  his  side,  he  said  mildly — "  There,  let's  have  no 
more  of  it  ;  but  go  home  and  be  good." 

Randal  Leslie  had  no  remarkable  degree  of  that  consti- 
tutional quality  called  physical  courage  ;  but  he  had  some 
of  those  moral  qualities  which  supply  its  place.  He  was 
proud— he  \vras  vindictive — he  had  high  self-esteem — he  had 
the  destructive  organ  more  than  the  combative  ; — what  had 
once  provoked  his  wrath  it  became  his  instinct  to  sweep 
away.  Therefore,  though  all  his  nerves  were  quivering,  and 
hot  tears  were  in  his  eyes,  he  approached  Lenny  with  the 
sternness  of  a  gladiator,  and  said,  between  his  teeth,  which 
he  set  hard,  choking  back  the  sob  of  rage  and  pain — 

"You  have  struck  me— and  you  shall  not  stir  from  this 
ground  till  I  have  made  you  repent  it.  Put  up  your  hands 
— defend  yourself." 

Lenny  mechanically  obeyed  ;  and  he  had  good  need  of 
the  admonition  ;  for  if  before  he  had  had  the  advantage, 
now  that  Randal  had  recovered  the  surprise  to  his  nerves, 
the  battle  was  not  to  the  strong. 

Though  Leslie  had  not  been  a  fighting  boy  at  Eton,  still 
his  temper  had  involved  him  in  some  conflicts  when  he  was 
in  the  lower  forms,  and  he  had  learned  something  of  the 
art  as  well  as  the  practice  in  pugilism — an  excellent  thing 
too,  I  am  barbarous  enough  to  believe,  and  which  I  hope 
will  never  quite  die  out  of  our  public  schools.  Ah,  many  a 
young  duke  has  been  a  better  fellow  for  life  from  a  fair  set- 
to  with  a  trader's  son  ;  and  many  a  trader's  son  has  learned 
to  look  a  lord  more  manfully  in  the  face  on  the  hustings, 
from  the  recollection  of  the  sound  thrashing  he  once  gave 
to  some  little  Lord  Leopold  Dawdle. 

So  Randal  now  brought  his  experience  and  art  to  bear  ; 
put  aside  those  heavy  roundabout  blows,  and  darted  in  his 
own,  quick  and  sharp — supplying  to  the  natural  feebleness 
of  his  arm  the  due  momentum  of  pugilistic  mechanism. 
Ay,  and  the  arm,  too,  was  no  longer  so  feeble  ;  for  strange 
is  the  strength  that  comes  from  passion  and  pluck  ! 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  149 

Poor  Lenny,  who  had  never  fought  before,  was  be- 
wildered ;  his  sensations  grew  so  entangled  that  he  could 
never  recall  them  distinctly ;  he  had  a  dim  reminiscence  of 
some  breathless  impotent  rush — of  a  sudden  blindness  fol- 
lowed by  quick  flashes  of  intolerable  light — of  a  deadly 
faintness,  from  which  he  was  aroused  by  sharp  pangs — here 
— there  —everywhere  ;  and  then  all  he  could  remember  was, 
that  he  was  lying  on  the  ground,  huddled  up,  and  panting 
hard,  while  his  adversary  bent  over  him  with  a  countenance 
as  dark  and  livid  as  Lara  himself  might  have  bent  over  the 
fallen  Otho.  For  Randal  Leslie  was  not  one  who,  by  im- 
pulse and  nature,  subscribed  to  the  noble  English  maxim — 
"  Never  hit  a  foe  when  he  is  down  ; "  and  it  cost  him  a 
strong  if  brief  self-struggle,  not  to  set  his  heel  on  that  pros- 
trate form.  It  was  the  mind,  not  the  heart,  that  subdued 
the  savage  within  him,  as  muttering  something  inwardly — 
certainly  not  Christian  forgiveness — the  victor  turned 
gloomily  away. 


CHAPTER   IV. 

JUST  at  that  precise  moment,  who  should  appear  but  Mr. 
Siirn  !  For,  in  fact,  being  extremely  anxious  to  get  Lenny 
into  disgrace,  he  had  hoped  that  he  should  have  found  the 
young  villager  had  shirked  the  commission  entrusted  to 
him  ;  and  the  Right-hand  Man  had  slily  come  back,  to  see  if 
that  amiable  expectation  were  realized.  He  now  beheld 
Lenny  rising  with  some  difficulty — still  panting  hard — and 
with  hysterical  sounds  akin  to  what  is  vulgarly  called  blub- 
bering— his  fine  new  waistcoat  sprinkled  with  his  own  blood, 
which  flowed  from  his  nose — nose  that  seemed  to  Lenny  Fair- 
field's  feelings  to  be  a  nose  no  more,  but  a  swollen,  gigantic, 
mountainous  Slawkenbergian  excrescence ; — in  fact,  he  felt 
all  nose  !  Turning  aghast  from  this  spectacle,  Mr.  Stirn 
surveyed  with  no  more  respect  than  Lenny  had  manifested, 
the  stranger  boy,  who  had  again  seated  himself  on  the 
stocks  (whether  to  recover  his  breath,  or  whether  to  show 
that  his  victory  was  consummated,  and  that  he  was  in  his 
rights  of  possession).  "  Hollo,"  said  Mr.  Stirn,  "  what  is  all 
this  ?  — what's  the  matter,  Lenny,  you  blockhead  ? " 

"  He  will  sit  there,"  answered  Lenny,  in  broken  gasps, 


150  MY  NOVEL;    OR, 

"and  he  has  beat  me  because  I  would  not  let  him  ;  but  I 
doesn't  mind  that,"  added  the  villager,  trying  hard  to  sup- 
press his  tears,  "and  I'm  ready  again  for  him — that  I  am." 

"And  what  do  you  do  lollopoping  there  on  them 
blessed  stocks  ? " 

"  Looking  at  the  landscape  ;  out  of  my  light,  man  ! " 

This  tone  instantly  inspired  Mr.  Stirn  with  misgivings  ; 
it  was  a  tone  so  disrespectful  to  him,  that  he  was  seized 
with  involuntary  respect ;  who  but  a  gentleman  could 
speak  so  to  Mr.  Stirn  ? 

"And  may  I  ask  who  you  be  ?"  said  Stirn,  falteringly, 
and  half  inclined  to  touch  his  hat.  "  What's  your  name, 
pray  ?— what's  your  bizness  ?  " 

"  My  name  is  Randal  Leslie,  and  my  business  was  to 
visit  your  master's  family — that  is,  if  you  are,  as  I  guess 
from  your  manner,  Mr.  Hazeldean's  ploughman  !  " 

So  saying,  Randal  rose  ;  and  moving  on  a  few  paces, 
turned,  and  throwing  half-a-crown  on  the  road,  said  to 
Lenny, — "Let  that  pay  you  for  your  bruises,  and  remem- 
ber another  time  how  you  speak  to  a  gentleman.  As  for 
you,  fellow," — and  he  pointed  his  scornful  hand  toward 
Mr.  Stirn,  who  with  his  mouth  open,  and  his  hat  now  fairly 
off,  stood  bowing  to  the  earth — "as  for  you,  give  my  com- 
pliments to  Mr.  Hazeldean,  and  say  that,  when  he  does  us 
the  honor  to  visit  us  at  Rood  Hall,  I  trust  that  the  manners 
of  our  villagers  will  make  him  ashamed  of  Hazeldean." 

O  my  poor  Squire  !  Rood  Hall  ashamed  of  Hazeldean  ! 
If  that  message  had  been  delivered  to  you,  you  would 
never  have  looked  up  again  ! 

With  those  bitter  words,  Randal  swung  himself  over 
the  stile  that  led  into  the  Parson's  glebe,  and  left  Lenny 
Fairfield  still  feeling  his  nose,  and  Mr.  Stirn  still  bowing 
to  the  earth. 


CHAPTER  V. 

RANDAL  LESLIE  had  a  very  long  walk  home  ;  he  was 
bruised  and  sore  from  head  to  foot,  and  his  mind  was  still 
more  sore  and  more  bruised  than  his  body.  But  if  Randal 
Leslie  had  rested  himself  in  the  Squire's  gardens,  without 
walking  backward,  and  indulging  in  speculations  sug- 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  151 

gested  by  Marat,  and  warranted  by  My  Lord  Bacon,  he 
would  have  passed  a  most  agreeable  evening,  and  really 
availed  himself  of  the  Squire's  wealth  by  going  home  in 
the  Squire's  carriage.  But,  because  he  chose  to  take  so 
intellectual  a  view  of  property,  he  tumbled  into  a  ditch  ; 
because  he  tumbled  into  a  ditch,  he  spoiled  his  clothes  ; 
because  he  spoiled  his  clothes,  he  gave  up  his  visit ;  be- 
cause he  gave  up  his  visit,  he  got  into  the  village-green, 
and  sat  on  the  stocks  with  a  hat  that  gave  him  the  air  of 
a  fugitive  from  the  treadmill ;  because  he  sat  on  the  stocks 
— with  that  hat,  and  a  cross  face  under  it — he  had  been 
forced  into  the  most  discreditable  squabble  with  a  clod- 
hopper, and  was  now  limping  home,  at  war  with  gods  and 
men  ;  ergo  (this  is  a  moral  that  will  bear  repetition) — 
ergo,  when  you  walk  in  a  rich  man's  grounds,  be  contented 
to  enjoy  what  is  yours,  namely,  the  prospect ;  I  dare  say 
you  will  enjoy  it  more  than  he  does  ! 


CHAPTER  VI. 

IF,  in  the  simplicity  of  his  heart,  and  the  crudity  of  his 
experience,  Lenny  Fairfield  had  conceived  it  probable 
that  Mr.  Stirn  would  address  to  him  some  words  in 
approbation  of  his  gallantry,  and  in  sympathy  for  his 
bruises,  he  /soon  found  himself  wofully  mistaken.  That 
truly  great  man,  worthy  prime-minister  of  Hazeldean, 
might,  perhaps,  pardon  a  dereliction  from  his  orders,  if 
such  dereliction  proved  advantageous  to  the  interest  of 
the  service,  or  redounded  to  the  credit  of  the  chief ;  but 
he  was  inexorable  to  that  worst  of  diplomatic  offences — 
an  ill-timed,  stupid,  over-zealous  obedience  to  orders,  which, 
if  it  established  the  devotion  of  the  employe,  got  the  employer 
into  what  is  popularly  called  a  scrape  !  And  though,  by 
those  unversed  in  the  intricacies  of  the  human  heart,  and 
unacquainted  with  the  especial  hearts  of  prime-ministers 
and  right-hand  men,  it  might  have  seemed  natural  that 
Mr.  Stirn,  as  he  stood  still,  hat  in  hand,  in  the  middle  of 
the  road,  stung,  humbled,  and  exasperated  by  the  mortifi- 
cation he  had  received  from  the  lips  of  Randal  Leslie,  would 
have  felt  that  that  young  gentleman  was  the  proper  object 
of  his  resentment ;  yet  such  a  breach  of  all  the  etiquette  of 


152  MY  NOVEL;    OR, 

diplomatic  life  as  resentment  toward  a  superior  power, 
was  the  last  idea  that  would  have  suggested  itself  to  the 
profound  intellect  of  the  Premier  of  Hazeldean.  Still,  as 
rage,  like  steam,  must  escape  somewhere,  Mr.  Stirn,  on 
feeling— as  he  afterward  expressed  it  to  his  wife — that  hit 
"  buz/.om  was  a-burstin,"  turned  with  the  natural  instinct 
of  self-preservation  to  the  safety-valve  provided  for  the  ex- 
plosion ;  and  the  vapors  within  him  rushed  into  vent  upon 
Lenny  Fairfield.  He  clapped  his  hat  on  his  head  fiercely, 
and  thus  relieved  his  "buzzom." 

"  You  young  willain !  you  howdacious  wiper !  and  so 
all  this  blessed  Sabbath  afternoon,  when  you  ought  to 
have  been  in  church  on  your  marrow-bones,  a-praying  for 
your  betters,  you  has  been  a-fitting  with  that  young  gentle- 
man, and  a  wisiter  to  your  master,  on  the  wery  place  of 
the  parridge  hinstitution  that  you  was  to  guard  and  per- 
tect ;  and  a-bloodying  it  all  over,  I  declares,  with  your 
blackguard  little  nose  ! "  Thus  saying,  and  as  if  to  mend 
the  matter,  Mr.  Stirn  aimed  an  additional  stroke  at  the 
offending  member ;  but  Lenny,  mechanically  putting  up 
both  arms  to  defend  his  face,  Mr.  Stirn  struck  his  knuckles 
against  the  large  brass  buttons  that  adorned  the  cuff  of  the 
boy's  coat-sleeve — an  incident  which  considerably  ag- 
gravated his  indignation.  And  Lenny,  whose  spirit  was 
fairly  roused  at  what  the  narrowness  of  his  education  con- 
ceived to  be  a  signal  injustice,  placing  the  trunk  of  the 
tree  between  Mr.  Stirn  and  himself,  began  that  task  of  self- 
justification  which  it  was  equally  impolitic  to  conceive  and 
imprudent  to  execute,  since,  in  such  a  case,  to  justify  was 
to  recriminate. 

"  I  wonder  at  you,  Master  Stirn, — if  molher  could  hear 
you  !  You  know  it  was  you  who  would  not  let  me  go  to 
church  ;  it  was  you  who  told  me  to — 

"Fit  a  young  gentleman,  and  break  the  Sabbath,"  said 
Mr.  Stirn,  interrupting  him  with  a  withering  sneer.  "  O 
yes  !  I  told  you  to  disgrace  his  honor  the  Squire,  and  me, 
and  the  parridge,  and  bring  us  all  into  trouble.  But  the 
Squire  told  me  to  make  an  example,  and  I  will !  "  With 
those  words,  quick  as  lightning  flashed  upon  Mr.  Stirn's 
mind  the  luminous  idea  of  setting  Lenny  in  the  very  stocks 
which  he  had  too  faithfully  guarded.  Eureka  !  the  "  ex- 
ample "  was  before  him  !  Here  he  could  gratify  his  long 
grudge  against  the  pattern  boy ;  here  by  such  a  selection  of 
the  very  best  lad  in  the  parish,  he  could  strike  terror  into 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  153 

the  worst ;  here  he  could  appease  the  offended  dignity  of 
Randal  Leslie  ;  here  was  a  practical  apology  to  the  Squire 
for  the  affront  put  upon  his  young  visitor  ;  here,  too,  there 
was  prompt  obedience  to  the  Squire's  own  wish  that  the 
stocks  should  be  provided  as  soon  as  possible  with  a  tenant. 
Suiting  the  action  to  the  thought,  Mr.  Stirn  made  a  rapid 
plunge  at  his  victim,  caught  him  by  the  skirt  of  his  jacket, 
and,  in  a  few  seconds  more,  the  jaws  of  the  stocks  had 
opened,  and  Lenny  Fairfield  was  thrust  therein — a  sad 
spectacle  of  the  reverse  of  fortune.  This  done,  and  while 
the  boy  was  too  astounded,  too  stupefied  by  the  suddenness 
of  the  calamity  for  the  resistance  he  might  otherwise  have 
made — nay,  for  more  than  a  few  inaudible  words — Mr. 
Stirn  hurried  from  the  spot,  but  not  without  first  picking  up 
and  pocketing  the  half-crown  designed  for  Lenny,  and 
which,  so  great  had  been  his  first  emotions,  he  had  hitherto 
even  almost  forgotten.  He  then  made  his  way  toward  the 
church,  with  the  intention  to  place  himself  close  by  the  door, 
catch  the  Squire  as  he  came  out,  whisper  to  him  what  had 
passed,  and  lead  him,  with  the  whole  congregation  at  his 
heels,  to  gaze  upon  the  sacrifice  offered  up  to  the  joint 
Powers  of  Nemesis  and  Themis. 


CHAPTER  VII. 

UNAFFECTEDLY  I  say  it — upon  the  honor  of  a  gentleman, 
and  the  reputation  of  an  author,  unaffectedly  I  say  it — no 
words  of  mine  can  do  justice  to  the  sensations  experienced 
by  Lenny  Fairfield,  as  he  sat  alone  in  that  place  of  penance. 
He  felt  no  more  the  physical  pain  of  his  bruises  ;  the 
anguish  of  his  mind  stifled  and  overbore  all  corporeal  suffer- 
ing— an  anguish  as  great  as  the  childish  breast  is  capable  of 
holding.  For  first  and  deepest  of  all,  and  earliest  felt,  was 
the  burning  sense  of  injustice.  He  had,  it  might  be  with 
erring  judgment,  but  with  all  honesty,  earnestness,  and  zeal, 
executed  the  commission  intrusted  to  him  ;  he  had  stood 
forth  manfully  in  discharge  of  his  duty  ;  he  had  fought  for 
it,  suffered  for  it,  bled  for  it.  This  was  his  reward  !  Now, 
in  Lenny's  mind  there  was  pre-eminently  that  quality  which 
distinguishes  the  Anglo-Saxon  race — the  sense  of  justice. 
7* 


IS4  MY  NOVEL;    OR, 

It  was  perhaps  the  strongest  principle  in  his  moral  constitu- 
tion ;  and  the  principle  had  never  lost  its  virgin  bloom  and 
freshness  by  any  of  the  minor  acts  of  oppression  and 
iniquity  which  boys  of  higher  birth  often  suffer  from  harsh 
parents,  or  in  tyrannical  schools.  So  that  it  was  for  the  first 
time  that  that  iron  entered  into  his  soul,  and  with  it  came 
its  attendant  feeling — the  wrathful,  galling  sense  of  impo- 
tence. He  had  been  wronged,  and  he  had  no  means  to  right 
himself.  Then  came  another  sensation,  if  not  so  deep,  yet 
more  smarting  and  envenomed  for  the  time — shame  !  He, 
the  good  boy  of  all  good  boys — he,  the  pattern  of  the  school, 
and  the  pride  of  the  Parson — he,  whom  the  Squire,  in  sight 
of  all  his  contemporaries,  had  often  singled  out  to  slap  on 
the  back,  and  the  grand  Squire's  lady  to  pat  on  the  head, 
with  a  smiling  gratulation  on  his  young  and  fair  repute — he, 
who  had  already  learned  so  dearly  to  prize  the  sweets  of  an 
honorable  name — he,  to  be  made,  as  it  were,  in  the  twinkling 
of  an  eye,  a  mark  for  opprobrium,  a  butt  of  scorn,  a  jeer, 
and  a  by-word  !  The  streams  of  his  life  were  poisoned  at 
the  fountain.  And  then  came  a  tenderer  thought  of  his 
mother !  of  the  shock  this  would  be  to  her — she  who  had 
already  begun  to  look  up  to  him  as  her  stay  and  support : 
he  bowed  his  head,  and  the  tears,  long  suppressed,  rolled 
down. 

Then  he  wrestled  and  struggled,  and  strove  to  wrench 
his  limbs  from  that  hateful  bondage  ; — for  he  heard  steps 
approaching.  And  he  began  to  picture  to  himself  the  ar- 
rival of  all  the  villagers  from  church,  the  sad  gaze  of  the 
Parson,  the  bent  brow  of  the  Squire,  the  idle,  ill-suppressed 
titter  of  all  the  boys,  jealous  of  his  unspotted  character — a 
character  of  which  the  original  whiteness  could  never,  never 
be  restored  !  Fie  would  always  be  the  boy  who  had  sat  in 
the  stocks  !  And  the  words  uttered  by  the  Squire  came  back 
on  his  soul,  like  the  voice  of  conscience  in  the  ears  of  some 
doomed  Macbeth.  "A  sad  disgrace,  Lenny — you'll  never  be 
in  such  a  quandary."  "  Quandary,"  the  word  was  unfamiliar 
to  him  ;  it  must  mean  something  awfully  discreditable.  The 
poor  boy  could  have  prayed  for  the  earth  to  swallow  him. 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  155 


CHAPTER    VIII. 

"  KETTLES  and  frying-pans  !  what  has  us  here  ?  "  cried 
the  Tinker. 

This  time  Mr.  Sprott  was  without  his  donkey ;  for  it 
being  Sunday,  it  is  to  be  presumed  that  the  donkey  was  en- 
joying his  Sabbath  on  the  Common.  The  Tinker  was  in  his 
Sunday's  best,  clean  and  smart,  about  to  take  his  lounge  in 
the  Park. 

Lenny  Fairfield  made  no  answer  to  the  appeal. 

"  You  in  the  wood,  my  baby  !  Well,  that's  the  last  sight  I 
should  ha'  thought  to  see.  But.  we  all  lives  to  larn,"  added 
the  Tinker,  sententiously.  "  Who  gave  you  them  leggings  ? 
Can't  you  speak,  lad  ? " 

"Nick  Stirn." 

"  Nick  Stirn  !  Ay,  I'd  ha'  ta'en  my  davy  on  that ;  and 
cos  vy  ? " 

"  'Cause  I  did  as  he  told  me,  and  fought  a  boy  as  was 
trespassing  on  these  very  stocks;  and  Jie  beat  me — but  I 
don't  care  for  that ;  and  that  boy  was  a  young  gentleman, 
and  going  to  visit  the  Squire  ;  and  so  Nick  Stirn — "  Lenny 
stopped  short,  choked  by  rage  and  humiliation. 

"  Augh,"  said  the  Tinker,  staring,  "you  fit  with  a  young 
gentleman,  did  you  ?  Sorry  to  hear  you  confess  that,  my 
lad  !  Sit  there,  and  be  thankful  you  ha'  got  off  so  cheap. 
'Tis  salt  and  battery  to  fit  with  your  betters,  and  a  Lunnon 
justice  o'  peace  would  have  given  you  two  months  o'  the 
treadmill.  But  vy  should  you  fit  cos  he  trespassed  on  the 
stocks  ?  It  ben't  your  natural  side  for  fitting,  I  takes  it." 

Lenny  murmured  something  not  very  distinguishable 
about  serving  the  Squire,  and  doing  as  he  was  bid. 

"  Oh,  I  sees,  Lenny,"  interrupted  the  Tinker,  in  a  tone 
of  great  contempt,  "  you  be  one  of  those  who  would  ray- 
ther  'unt  with  the  'ounds  than  run  with  the  'are  !  You  be's 
the  good  pattern  boy,  and  would  peach  agin  your  own 
horder  to  curry  favors  with  the  grand  folks.  Fie,  lad  !  you 
be  sarved  right  ;  stick  by  your  horder,  then  you'll  be 
'  spected  when  you  gets  into  trouble,  and  not  be  'varsally 
'spised — as  you'll  be  arter  church-time!  Veil,  I  can't  be 
seen  'sorting  with  you,  now  you  are  in  this  drogotary  fix  ; 


156  MY  NOVEL;    OR, 

it  might  hurt  my  cracter,  both  with  them  as  built  the  stocks, 
and  them  as  wants  to  pull  'em  down.  Old  kettles  to  mend  ! 
Vy,  you  makes  me  forgit  the  Sabbath.  Sarverit,  my  lad, 
and  wish  you  well  out  of  it ;  'specks  to  your  mother,  and 
say  we  can  deal  for  the  pan  and  shovel  all  the  same  for  your 
misfortin." 

The  Tinker  went  his  way.  Lenny's  eye  followed  him 
with  the  sullenness  of  despair.  The  Tinker,  like  all  the 
tribe  of  human  comforters,  had  only  watered  the  brambles 
to  invigorate  the  prick  of  the  thorns.  Yes,  if  Lenny  had 
been  caught  breaking  the  stocks,  some  at  least  would  have 
pitied  him  ;  but  to  be  incarcerated  for  defending  them,  you 
might  as  well  have  expected  that  the  widows  and  orphans 
of  the  Reign  of  Terror  would  have  pitied  Dr.  Guillotin  when 
he  slid  through  the  grooves  of  his  own  deadly  machine. 
And  even  the  Tinker,  itinerant,  ragamuffin  vagabond  as  he 
was,  felt  ashamed  to  be  found  with  the  pattern  boy  !  Lenny's 
head  sank  again  on  his  breast  heavily,  as  if  it  had  been  of 
lead.  Some  few  minutes  thus  passed,  when  the  unhappy 
prisoner  became  aware  of  the  presence  of  another  spectator 
to  his  shame  :  he  heard  no  step,  but  he  saw  a  shadow  thrown 
over  the  sward.  He  held  his  breath,  and  would  not  look 
up,  with  some  vague  idea  that  if  he  refused  to  see  him,  he 
might  escape  being  seen. 


CHAPTER  IX. 

"Per  Bacco!  "  said  Dr.  Riccabocca,  putting  his  hand  on 
Lenny's  shoulder,  and  bending  down  to  look  into  his  face — 
"  Per  Bacco  !  my  young  friend  ;  do  you  sit  here  from  choice, 
or  necessity  ?  " 

Lenny  slightly  shuddered,  and  winced  under  the  touch 
of  one  whom  he  had  hitherto  regarded  with  a  sort  of  su- 
perstitious abhorrence. 

"  I  fear,"  resumed  Riccabocca,  after  waiting  in  vain  for 
an  answer  to  his  question,  "that,  though  the  situation  is 
charming,  you  did  not  select  it  yourself.  What  is  this  ?  "- 
and  the  irony  of  the  tone  vanished— "what  is  this,  my  poor 
boy  ?  You  have  been  bleeding,  and  I  see  that  those  tears 
which  you  try  to  check  come  from  a  deep  well.  Tell  me 
povero  fanciullo  mio  (the  sweet  Italian  vowels,  though  Lenny 


VARIETIES  IN   ENGLISH  LIFE.  157 

did  not  understand  them,  sounded  softly  and  soothingly) — 
tell  me,  my  child,  how  all  this  happened.  Perhaps  I  can 
help  you — we  have  all  erred  ;  we  should  all  help  each  other." 

Lenny's  heart,  that  just  before  had  seemed  bound  in 
brass,  found  itself  a  way  as  the  Italian  spoke  thus  kindly, 
and  the  tears  rushed  down  ;  but  he  again  stopped  them,  and 
gulped  out  sturdily — 

"  I  have  not  done  no  wrong  ;  it  ben't  my  fault — and  'tis 
that  which  kills  me  !"  concluded  Lenny,  with  a  burst  of  en- 
ergy. 

"You  have  not  done  wrong?  Then,"  said  the  philoso- 
pher, drawing  out  his  pocket-handkerchief  with  great  com- 
posure, and  spreading  it  on  the  ground — "then  I  may  sit 
beside  you.  I  could  only  stoop  pityingly  over  sin,  but  I  can 
lie  down  on  equal  terms  with  misfortune." 

Lenny  Fairfield  did  not  quite  comprehend  the  words, 
but  enough  of  their  general  meaning  was  apparent  to  make 
him  cast  a  grateful  glance  on  the  Italian.  Riccabocca  re- 
sumed, as  he  adjusted  the  pocket-handkerchief,  "  I  have  a 
right  to  your  confidence,  my  child,  for  I  have  been  afflicted 
in  my  day  ;  yet  I  too  say  with  thee,  '  I  have  not  done  wrong.' 
Cospetto  !  "  and  here  the  Doctor  seated  himself  deliberately, 
resting  one  arm  on  the  side-column  of  the  stocks,  in  familiar 
contact  with  the  captive's  shoulder,  while  his  eye  wandered 
over  the  lovely  scene  around — "  Cospetto!  my  prison,  if  they 
had  caught  me,  would  not  have  had  so  fair  a  look-out  as  this. 
But,  to  be  sure,  it  is  all  one ;  there  are  no  ugly  loves,  and 
no  handsome  prisons." 

With  that  sententious  maxim,  which,  indeed,  he  uttered 
in  his  native  Italian,  Riccabocca  turned  round,  and  renewed 
his  soothing  invitations  to  confidence.  A  friend  in  need  is 
a  friend  indeed,  even  if  he  come  in  the  guise  of  a  Papist  and 
wizard.  All  Lenny's  ancient  dislike  to  the  foreigner  had 
gone,  and  he  told  him  his  little  tale. 

Dr.  Riccabocca  was  much  too  shrewd  a  man  not  to  see 
exactly  the  motives  which  had  induced  Mr.  Stirn  to  incar- 
cerate his  agent  (barring  only  that  of  personal  grudge,  to 
which  Lenny's  account  gave  him  no  clue).  That  a  man 
high  in  office  should  make  a  scape-goat  of  his  own  watch- 
dog for  an  unlucky  snap,  or  even  an  indiscreet  bark,  was 
nothing  strange  to  the  wisdom  of  the  student  of  Machiavelli. 
However,  he  set  himself  to  the  task  of  consolation  with 
equal  philosophy  and  tenderness.  He  began  by  reminding, 
or  rather  informing,  Leonard  Fairfield  of  all  the  instances 


158  MY  NOVEL;    OR, 

of  illustrious  men  afflicted  by  the  injustice  of  others  that 
occurred  to  his  own  excellent  memory.  He  told  him  how 
the  great  Epictetus,  when  in  slavery,  had  a  master  whose 
favorite  amusement  was  pinching  his  leg,  which,  as  the 
amusement  ended  in  breaking  that  limb,  was  worse  than 
the  stocks.  He  also  told  him  the  anecdote  of  Lenny's  own 
gallant  countryman,  Admiral  Byng,  whose  execution  gave 
rise  to  Voltaire's  celebrated  witticism.  "  EnAngleterre  ontue 
un  atniral  pour  cncourager  les autres "  ("In  England  they  ex- 
ecute one  admiral  in  order  to  encourage  the  others"). 
Many  other  illustrations,  still  more  pertinent  to  the  case  in 
point,  his  erudition  supplied  from  the  stories  of  history. 
But  on  seeing  that  Lenny  did  not  seem  in  the  slightest  de- 
gree consoled  by  these  memorable  examples,  he  shifted  his 
ground,  and  reducing  his  logic  to  the  strict  argumentum  ad 
rem,  began  to  prove,  ist,  that  there  was  no  disgrace  at  all  in 
Lenny's  present  position — that  every  equitable  person 
would  recognize  the  tyranny  of  Stirn,  and  the  innocence  of 
its  victim  ;  adly,  that  if  even  here  he  we're  mistaken — for 
public  opinion  was  not  always  righteous — what  was  public 
opinion,  after  all  ? — "  A  breath — a  puff,"  cried  Dr.  Ricca- 
bocca — "  a  thing  without  matter — without  length,  breadth, 
or  substance  ;  a  shadow — a  goblin  of  our  own  creating.  A 
man's  own  conscience  is  his  sole  tribunal,  and  he  should 
care  no  more  for  that  phantom  '  opinion  '  than  he  should 
fear  meeting  a  ghost  if  he  cross  the  church-yard  at  dark." 

Now,  as  Lenny  did  very  much  fear  meeting  a  ghost  if  he 
crossed  the  church-yard  at  dark,  the  simile  spoiled  the  ar- 
gument, and  he  shook  his  head  very  mournfully.  Dr.  Ric- 
cabocca  was  about  to  enter  into  a  third  course  of  reasoning, 
which,  had  it  come  to  an  end,  would  doubtless  have  settled 
the  matter,  and  reconciled  Lenny  to  sitting  in  the  stocks 
till  doomsday,  when  the  captive,  with  the  quick  ear  and  eye 
of  terror  and  calamity,  became  conscious  that  church  was 
over,  that  the  congregation  in  a  few  seconds  more  would  be 
flocking  thitherwards.  He  saw  visionary  hats  and  bonnets 
through  the  trees,  which  Riccabocca  saw  not,  despite  all  the 
excellence  of  his  spectacles — heard  phantasmal  rustlings 
and  murmurings  which  Riccabocca  heard  not,  despite  all 
that  theoretical  experience  in  plots,  stratagems,  and  trea- 
sons, which  should  have  made  the  Italian's  ear  as  fine  as  a 
conspirator's  or  a  mole's.  And,  with  another  violent  but 
vain  effort  at  escape,  the  prisoner  exclaimed — 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  159 

"  Oh,  if  I  could  but  get  out  before  they  come  !  Let  me 
out — let  me  out.  O,  kind  sir,  have  pity — let  me  out !  " 

"Diavolo!"  said  the  philosopher,  startled,  "I  wonder 
that  I  never  thought  of  that  before.  After  all,  I  believe  he 
has  hit  the  right  nail  on  the  head,"  and,  looking  close,  he 
perceived  that  though  the  partition  of  ^  wood  had  hitched 
firmly  into  a  sort  of  spring-clasp,  which.'  defied  Lenny's  un- 
aided struggles,  still  it  was  not  locked  (for,  indeed,  the  pad- 
lock and  key  were  snug  in  the  justice-room  of  the  Squire, 
who  never  dreamt  that  his  orders  would  be  executed  so 
literally  and  summarily  as  to  dispense  with  all  formal  ap- 
peal to  himself).  As  soon  as  Dr.  Riccabocca  made  that 
discovery,  it  occurred  to  him  that  all  the  wisdom  of  all  the 
schools  that  ever  existed  can't  reconcile  man  or  boy  to  a 
bad  position — the  moment  there  is  a  fair  opportunity  of 
letting  him  out  of  it.  Accordingly,  without  more  ado,  he 
lifted  up  the  creaking  board,  and  Lenny  Fairfield  darted 
forth  like  a  bird  from  a  cage — halted  a  moment  as  if  for 
breath,  or  in  joy  ;  and  then,  taking  at  once  to  his  heels,  fled, 
as  a  hare  to  its  form — fast  to  his  mother's  home. 

Dr.  Riccabocca  dropped  the  yawning  wood  into  its  place, 
picked  up  his  handkerchief  and  restored  it  ta  his  pocket ; 
and  then,  with  some  curiosity,  began  to  examine  the  nature 
of  that  place  of  duresse  which  had  caused  so  much  painful 
emotion  to  its  rescued  victim.  "  Man  is  a  very  irrational 
animal  at  best,"  quoth  the  sage,  soliloquising,  "and  is 
frightened  by  strange  buggabooes !  'Tis  but  a  piece  of 
wood  !  how  little  it  really  injures  !  And,  after  all,  the  holes 
are  but  rests  to  the  legs,  and  keep  the  feet  out  of  the  dirt. 
And  this  green  bank  to  sit  upon — under  the  shade  of  the 
elm-tree — verily  the  position  must  be  more  pleasant  than 

otherwise  !  I've  a  great  mind "  Here  the  Doctor 

looked  around,  and  seeing  the  coast  still  clear,  the  oddest 
notion  imaginable  took  possession  of  him  ;  yet  not  indeed  a 
notion  so  odd,  considered  philosophically — for  all  phil- 
osophy is  based  on  practical  experiment — and  Dr.  Ricca- 
bocca felt  an  irresistible  desire  practically  to  experience 
what  manner  of  thing  that  punishment  of  the  stocks  really 
was.  "I  can  but  try  !  only  for  a  moment,"  he  said,  apolo- 
getically to  his  own  expostulating  sense  of  dignity.  "  I  have 
time  to  do  it  before  any  one  comes."  He  lifted  up  the  par- 
tition again ;  but  stocks  are  built  on  the  true  principle  of 
English  law,  and  don't  easily  allow  a  man  to  criminate  him- 
self— it  was  hard  to  get  into  them  without  the  help  of  a 


160  MY  NOVEL;    OR, 

friend.  However,  as  we  before  noticed,  obstacles  only 
whetted  Dr.  Riccabocca's  invention.  He  looked  round, 
and  saw  a  withered  bit  of  stick  under  the  tree — this  he  in- 
serted in  the  division  of  the  stocks,  somewhat  in  the  man- 
ner in  which  boys  place  a  stick  under  a  sieve  for  the  purpose 
of  ensnaring*  sparrows  :  the  fatal  wood  thus  propped,  Dr. 
Riccabocca  sat  grawly  down  on  the  bank,  and  thrust  his 
feet  through  the  apertures. 

"Nothing  in  it!"  cried  he  triumphantly,  after  a  .mo- 
ment's deliberation.  "The  evil  is  only  in  idea.  Such  is  the 
boasted  reason  of  mortals  ! "  With  that  reflection,  never- 
theless, he  was  about  to  withdraw  his  feet  from  their  vol- 
untary dilemma,  when  the  crazy  stick  suddenly  gave  way, 
and  the  partition  fell  back  into  its  clasp.  Dr.  Riccabocca 
was  fairly  caught — "  Facilis  descenstts — sed  revocare  gradum  !  " 
True,  his  hands  were  at  liberty,  but  his  legs  wrere  so  long 
that,  being  thus  fixed,  they  kept  the  hands  from  the  res- 
cue ;  and  as  Dr.  Riccabocca's  form  was  by  no  means  supple, 
and  the  twin  parts  of  the  wood  stuck  together  with  that 
firmness  of  adhesion  which  things  newly  painted  possess, 
so,  after  some  vain  twists  and  contortions,  in  which  he  suc- 
ceeded at  length  (not  without  a  stretch  of  the  sinews  that 
made  them  crack  again)  in  finding  the  clasp  and  breaking 
his  nails  thereon,  the  victim  of  his  own  rash  experiment 
resigned  himself  to  his  fate.  Dr.  Riccabocca  was  one  of 
those  men  who  never  do  things  by  halves.  When  I  say  he 
resigned  himself,  I  mean  not  only  Christian  but  philosophi- 
cal resignation.  The  position  was  not  quite  so  pleasant  as, 
theoretically,  he  had  deemed  it  ;  but  he  resolved  to  make 
himself  as  comfortable  as  he  could.  At  first,  as  is  natural 
in  all  troubles  to  men  who  have  grown  familiar  with  that 
odoriferous  comforter  which  Sir  Walter  Raleigh  is  said  first 
to  have  bestowed  upon  the  Caucasian  races,  the  Doctor 
made  use  of  his  hand  to  extract  from  his  pocket  his  pipe, 
match-box,  and  tobacco-pouch.  After  a  few  whiffs,  he 
would  have  been  quite  reconciled  to  his  situation,  but  for 
the  discovery  that  the  sun  had  shifted  its  place  in  the 
heavens,  and  was  no  longer  shaded  from  his  face  by  the 
elm-tree.  The  Doctor  again  looked  round,  and  perceived 
that  his  red  silk  umbrella,  which  he  had  laid  aside  when  he 
had  seated  himself  by  Lenny,  was  within  arm's  reach.  Pos- 
sessing himself  of  this  treasure,  he  soon  expanded  its  friend- 
ly folds.  And  thus,  doubly  fortified  within  and  without, 
under  shade  of  the  umbrella,  and  his  pipe  composedly  be- 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  161 

tween  his  lips,  Dr.  Riccabocca  gazed  on  his  own  incarcer- 
ated legs,  even  with  complacency. 

"  '  He  who  can  despise  all  things,'  "  said  he,  in  one  of 
his  native  proverbs,  "'possesses  all  things!' — if  one  de- 
spises freedom,  one  is  free  !  This  seat  is  as  soft  as  a  sofa  ! 
I  am  not  sure,"  he  resumed,  soliloquizing,  after  a  pause — 
"  I  am  not  sure  that  there  is  not  something  more  witty  than 
manly  and  philosophical  in  that  national  proverb  of  mine 
which  I  quoted  to  the  fanciullo,  '  that  there  are  no  handsome 
prisons ! '  Did  not  the  son  of  that  celebrated  Frenchman, 
surnamed  Bras  de  Fer,  write  a  book  not  only  to  prove  that 
adversities  are  more  necessary  than  prosperities,  but  that 
among  all  adversities  a  prison  is  the  most  pleasant  and 
profitable  ?  *  But  is  not  this  condition  of  mine,  vol- 
untarily and  experimentally  incurred,  a  type  of  my  life  ? 
Is  it  the  first  time  that  I  have  thrust  myself  into  a  hobble  ? 
— and  if  a  hobble  of  mine  own  choosing,  why  should  I 
blame  the  gods  ? " 

Upon  this,  Dr.  Riccabocca  fell  into  a  train  of  musing  so 
remote  from  time  and  place,  that  in  a  few  minutes  he  no 
more  remembered  that  he  was  in  the  parish  stocks  than  a 
lover  remembers  that  flesh  is  grass,  a  miser  that  mammon 
is  perishable,  a  philosopher  that  wisdom  is  vanity.  Dr. 
Riccabocca  was  in  the  clouds. 


CHAPTER   X. 

THE  dullest  dog  that  ever  wrote  a  novel  (and,  entre  nous, 
reader — but  let  it  go  no  farther — we  have  a  good  many 
dogs  among  the  fraternity  that  are  not  Munitosf)  might 
have  seen  with  half  an  eye  that  the  Parson's  discourse  had 
produced  a  very  genial  and  humanizing  effect  upon  his 
audience.  When  all  was  over,  and  the  congregation  stood 
up  to  let  Mr.  Hazeldean  and  his  family  walk  first  down  the 
aisle  (for  that  was  the  custom  of  Hazeldean)  moistened 
eyes  glanced  at  the  Squire's  sun-burned  manly  face,  with  a 
kindness  that  bespoke  revived  memory  of  many  a  generous 
benefit  and  ready  service.  The  head  might  be  wrong  now 

*  "  Entre  tout,  r  ttat  cfune  prison  est  le  plus  doux,  est  le  plus  profitable  !" 
t  Munito  was  the  name  of  a  dog  famous  for  his  learning  (a  Person  of  a  dog)  at  the  date  of 
my  childhood.     There  are  no  such  dogs  now-a-days. 


1 62  MY  NOVEL;    OR, 

and  then — the  heart  was  in  the  right  place  after  all.  And 
the  lady,  leaning  on  his  arm,  came  in  for  a  large  share  of 
that  gracious  good  feeling.  True,  she  now  and  then  gave  a 
little  offence  when  the  cottages  were  not  so  clean  as  she 
fancied  they  ought  to  be — and  poor  folks  don't  like  a 
liberty  taken  with  their  houses  any  more  than  the  rich  do  ; 
true  that  she  was  not  quite  so  popular  with  the  women  as 
the  Squire  was,  for,  if  the  husband  went  too  often  to  the  ale- 
house, she  always  laid  the  fault  on  the  wife,  and  said,  "  No 
man  Avould  go  out  of  doors  for  his  comforts,  if  he  had  a 
smiling  face  and  a  clean  hearth  at  his  home  ; "  whereas  the 
Squire  maintained  the  more  gallant  opinion,  that  "  if  Gill 
was  a  shrew,  it  was  because  Jack  did  not,  as  in  duty  bound, 
stop  her  mouth  with  a  kiss  !  "  Still,  notwithstanding  these 
more  obnoxious  notions  on  her  part,  and  a  certain  awe  in- 
spired by  the  stiff  silk  gown  and  the  handsome  aquiline 
nose,  it  was  impossible,  especially  in  the  softened  tempers 
of  that  Sunday  afternoon,  not  to  associate  the  honest, 
comely,  beaming  countenance  of  Mrs.  Hazeldean  with  com- 
fortable recollections  of  soups,  jellies,  and  wine  in  sickness, 
loaves  and  blankets  in  winter,  cheering  words  and  ready 
visits  in  every  little  distress,  and  pretexts  afforded  by 
improvement  in  the  grounds  and  gardens  (improvements 
which,  as  the  Squire,  who  preferred  productive  labor,  justly 
complained,  "Avould  never  finish")  for  little  timely  jobs  of 
work  to  some  veteran  grandsire,  who  still  liked  to  earn  a 
penny,  or  some  ruddy  urchin  in  a  family  that  "  came  too 
fast."  Nor  was  Frank,  as  he  walked  a  little  behind,  in  the 
whitest  of  trousers  and  the  stiffest  of  neckcloths — with  a 
look  of  suppressed  roguery  in  his  bright  hazel  eye,  that 
contrasted  his  assumed  stateliness  of  mien — without  his  por- 
tion of  the  silent  blessing.  Not  that  he  had  done  anything 
yet  to  deserve  it  ;  but  we  all  give  youth  so  large  a  credit 
in  the  future.  As  for  Miss  Jemima,  her  trifling  foibles  only 
rose  from  too  soft  and  feminine  susceptibility,  too  ivy-like  a 
yearning  for  some  masculine  oak  whereon  to  entwine  her 
tendrils  ;  and  so  little  confined  to  self  was  the  natural 
lovingness  of  her  disposition,  that  she  had  helped  many  a 
village  lass  to  find  a  husband,  by  the  bribe  of  a  marriage 
gift  from  her  own  privy  purse  ;  notwithstanding  the  assur- 
ances with  which  she  accompanied  the  marriage  gift, — viz., 
that  "  the  bridegroom  would  turn  out  like  the  rest  of  his 
ungrateful  sex  ;  but  that  it  was  a  comfort  to  think  that  it 
would  be  all  one  in  the  approaching  crash."  So  that  she 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  163 

had  her  warm  partisans,  especially  amongst  the  young  ; 
while  the  slim  Captain,  on  whose  arm  she  rested  her  fore- 
finger, was  at  least  a  civil-spoken  gentleman,  who  had  never 
done  any  harm,  and  who  would,  doubtless,  do  a  deal  of  good 
if  he  belonged  to  the  parish.  Nay,  even  the  fat  footman, 
who  came  last,  with  the  family  Prayer-book,  had  his  due 
share  in  the  general  association  of  neighborly  kindness 
between  hall  and  hamlet.  Few  were  there  present  to  whom 
he  had  not  extended  the  right-hand  of  fellowship  with  a  full 
horn  of  October  in  the  clasp  of  it  ;  and  he  was  a  Hazeldean 
man,  too,  born  and  bred,  as  two-thirds  of  the  Squire's 
household  (now  letting  themselves  out  from  their  large 
pew  under  the  gallery)  were. 

On  his  part,  too,  you  could  see  that  the  Squire  was 
"moved  withal,"  and  a  little  humbled  moreover.  Instead 
of  walking  erect,  and  taking  bow  and  curtsey  as  a  matter  of 
course,  and  of  no  meaning,  he  hung  his  head  somewhat,  and 
there  was  a  slight  blush  on  his  cheek  ;  and  as  he  glanced 
upward  and  round  him — shyly,  as  it  were — and  his  eye  met 
those  friendly  looks,  it  returned  them  with  an  earnestness 
that  had  in  it  something  touching  as  well  as  cordial — an  eye 
that  said,  as  well  as  eye  could  say,  "  I  don't  quite  deserve  it, 
I  fear,  neighbors ;  but  I  thank  you  for  your  good-will  with 
my  whole  heart."  And  so  readily  was  that  glance  of  the 
eye  understood,  that  I  think,  if  that  scene  had  taken  place 
out  of  doors  instead  of  in  the  church,  there  would  have  been 
a  hurrah  as  the  Squire  passed  out  of  sight. 

Scarcely  had  Mr.  Hazeldean  got  clear  of  the  church-yard, 
ere  Mr.  Stirn  was  whispering  in  his  ear.  As  Stirn  whispered, 
the  Squire's  face  grew  long,  and  his  color  rose.  The  con- 
gregation, now  flocking  out  of  the  church,  exchanged  looks 
with  each  other ;  that  ominous  conjunction  between  Squire 
and  man  chilled  back  all  the  efforts  of  the  Parson's  sermon. 
The  Squire  struck  his  cane  violently  into  the  ground.  "I 
would  rather  you  had  told  me  Black  Bess  had  got  the 
glanders.  A  young  gentleman,  coming  to  visit  my  son, 
struck  and  insulted  in  Hazeldean  ;  a  young  gentleman — 
'sdeath,  sir,  a  relation — his  grandmother  was  a  Hazeldean. 
I  do  believe  Jemima's  right,  and  the  world's  coming  to  an 
end  !  But  Leonard  Fairfield  in  the  stocks  ?  What  will  the 
Parson  say,  and  after  such  a  sermon  !  '  Rich  man,  respect 
the  poor  ! '  And  the  good  widow  too  ;  and  poor  Mark,  who 
almost  died  in  my  arms.  Stirn,  you  have  a  heart  of  stone  ! 
You  confounded,  lawless,  merciless  miscreant,  who  the  deuce 


1 64  MY  NOVEL;    OR, 

gave  you  the  right  to  imprison  man  or  boy  in  my  parish  of 
Hazeldean  without  trial,  sentence,  or  warrant  ?  Run  and 
let  the  boy  out  before  any  one  sees  him  ;  run,  or  I  shall 

"  The  Squire  elevated  the  cane,  and  his  eyes  shot  fire. 

Mr.  Stirn  did  not  run,  but  he  walked  off  very  fast.  The 
Squire  drew  back  a  few  paces,  and  again  took  his  wife's  arm. 
"  Just  wait  a  bit  for  the  Parson,  while  I  talk  to  the  congre- 
gation. I  want  to  stop  'em  all,  if  I  can,  from  going  into  the 
village  ;  but  how  ?" 

Frank  heard,  and  replied  readily — 

"  Give  'em  some  beer,  sir." 

"  Beer  !  on  a  Sunday  !  For  shame,  Frank  ! "  cried  Mrs. 
Hazeldean. 

"Hold  your  tongue,  Harry.  Thank  you,  Frank,"  said 
the  Squire,  and  his  brow  grew  as  clear  as  the  blue  sky  above 
him.  I  doubt  if  Riccabocca  could  have  got  him  out  of  his 
dilemma  with  the  same  ease  as  Frank  had  done. 

"  Halt  there,  my  men — lads  and  lasses  too — there,  halt  a 
bit.  Mrs.  Fairfield,  do  you  hear  ? — halt.  I  think  his  rever- 
ence has  given  us  a  capital  sermon.  Go  up  to  the  Great 
House  all  of  you,  and  drink  a  glass  to  his  health.  Frank, 
go  with  them,  and  tell  Spruce  to  tap  one  of  the  casks  kept 
for  the  haymakers. — Harry  [this  in  a  whisper],  catch  the 
Parson,  and  tell  him  to  come  to  me  instantly." 

"  My  dear  Hazeldean,  what  has  happened  ?  you  are 
mad." 

"  Don't  bother — do  what  I  tell  you." 

"  But  where  is  the  Parson  to  find  you  ?" 

"Where,  gad  zooks,  Mrs.  H., — at  the  Stocks,  to  be 
sure ! " 


CHAPTER  XI. 

DR.  RICCABOCCA,  awakened  out  of  his  reverie  by  the 
sound  of  footsteps,  was  still  so  little  sensible  of  the  indignity 
of  his  position,  that  he  enjoyed  exceedingly,  and  with  all 
the  malice  of  his  natural  humor,  the  astonishment  and  stupor 
manifested  by  Stirn,  when  that  functionary  beheld  the  ex- 
traordinary substitute  which  fate  and  philosophy  had  found 
for  Lenny  Fairfield.  Instead  of  the  weeping,  crushed, 
broken-hearted  captive  whom  he  had  reluctantly  come  to 
deliver,  he  stared,  speechless  and  aghast,  upon  the  grotesque 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  165 

but  tranquil  figure  of  the  Doctor,  enjoying  his  pipe,  and 
cooling  himself  under  his  umbrella,  with  a  sang-froid  that 
was  truly  appalling  and  diabolical.  Indeed,  considering  that 
Stirn  always  suspected  the  Papisher  of  having  had  a  hand 
in  the  whole  of  that  black  and  midnight  business,  in  which 
the  stocks  had  been  broken,  bunged  up,  and  consigned  to 
perdition,  and  that  the  Papisher  had  the  evil  reputation  of 
dabbling  in  the  Black  Art,  the  hocus-pocus  way  in  which 
the  Lenny  he  had  incarcerated  was  transformed  into  the 
Doctor  he  found,  conjoined  with  the  peculiarly  strange, 
eldritch,  and  Mephistophelean  physiognomy  and  person  of 
Riccabocca,  could  not  but  strike  a  thrill  of  superstitious  dis- 
may into  the  breast  of  the  parochial  tyrant.  While  to  his 
first  confused  and  stammered  exclamations  and  interroga- 
tories, Riccabocca  replied  with  so  tragic  an  air,  such  ominous 
shakes  of  the  head,  such  mysterious,  equivocating,  long- 
worded  sentences,  that  Stirn  every  moment  felt  more  and 
more  convinced  that  the  boy  had  sold  himself  to  the  Powers 
of  Darkness  ;  and  that  he  himself  prematurely,  and  in  the 
flesh,  stood  face  to  face  with  the  Arch-Enemy. 

Mr.  Stirn  had  not  yet  recovered  his  wonted  intelligence, 
which,  to  do  him  justice,  was  usually  prompt  enough — 
when  the  Squire,  followed  hard  by  the  Parson,  arrived  at 
the  spot.  Indeed,  Mrs.  Hazeldean's  report  of  the  Squire's 
urgent  message,  disturbed  manner,  and  most  unparalleled 
invitation  to  the  parishioners,  had  given  wings  to  Parson 
Dale's  ordinarily  slow  and  sedate  movements.  And  while 
the  Squire,  sharing  Stirn's  amazement,  beheld  indeed  a 
great  pair  of  feet  projecting  from  the  stocks,  and  saw  be- 
hind them  the  grave  face  of  Doctor  Riccabocca,  under  the 
majestic  shade  of  the  umbrella,  but  not  a  vestige  of  the  only 
being  his  mind  could  identify  with  the  tenancy  of  the  stock?, 
Mr.  Dale  catching  him  by  the  arm,  and  panting  hard,  ex- 
claimed with  a  petulance  he  had  never  before  known  to  dis- 
play— except  at  the  whist-table, — 

"Mr.  Hazeldean,  Mr.  Hazeldean,  I  am  scandalized — I 
am  shocked  at  you.  I  can  bear  a  great  deal  from  you,  sir, 
as  I  ought  to  do  ;  but  to  ask  my  whole  congregation,  the 
moment  after  divine  service,  to  go  up  and  guzzle  ale  at  the 
Hall,  and  drink  my  health,  as  if  a  clergyman's  sermon  had 
been  a  speech  at  a  cattle-fair  !  I  am  ashamed  of  you,  and 
of  the  parish  !  What  on  earth  has  come  to  you  all  1 " 

"That's the  very  question  I  wish  to  Heaven  I  could  an- 
swer," groaned  the  Squire,  quite  mildly  and  pathetically — 


166  MY  NOVEL;   OR, 

"  What  on  earth  has  come  to  us  all !  Ask  Stirn  :  "  (then 
bursting  out)  "Stirn,  you  infernal  rascal,  don't  you  hear? 
— what  on  earth  has  come  to  us  all  ?  " 

"The  Papisher  is  at  the  bottom  of  it,  sir,"  said  Stirn, 
provoked  out  of  all  temper.  "  I  does  my  duty,  but  I  is  but 
a  mortal  man,  arter  all." 

"A  mortal  fiddlestick — where's  Leonard  Fairfield,  I 
say  ? " 

'•'•Him  knows  best,"  answered  Stirn,  retreating  mechani- 
cally, for  safety's  sake,  behind  the  parson,  and  pointing  to 
Dr.  Riccabocca.  Hitherto,  though  both  the  Squire  and 
Parson  had  indeed  recognized  the  Italian,  they  had  merely 
supposed  him  to  be  seated  on  the  bank.  It  never  entered 
into  their  heads  that  so  respectable  and  dignified  a  man 
could  by  any  possibility  be  an  inmate,  compelled  or 
voluntary,  of  the  parish  stocks.  No,  not  even  though,  as  I 
before  said,  the  Squire  had  seen,  just  under  his  nose,  a  very 
long  pair  of  soles  inserted  in  the  apertures — that  sight  had 
only  confused  and  bewildered  him,  unaccompanied,  as  it 
ought  to  have  been,  with  the  trunk  and  face  of  Lenny  Fair- 
field.  Those  soles  seemed  to  him  optical  delusions,  phan- 
toms of  the  over-heated  brain  ;  but  now,  catching  hold  of 
Stirn,  while  the  Parson  in  equal  astonishment  caught  hold 
of  him — the  Squire  faltered  out,  "  Well,  this  beats  cock- 
fighting  !  The  man's  as  mad  as  a  March  hare,  and  has  taken 
Dr.  Rickeybockey  for  little  Lenny!" 

"Perhaps,"  said  the  Doctor,  breaking  silence  with  a 
bland  smile,  and  attempting  an  inclination  of  the  head  as 
courteous  as  his  position  would  permit — "  perhaps,  if  it  be 
quite  the  same  to  you,  before  you  proceed  to  explanations, 
you  will  just  help  me  out  of  the  stocks." 

The  Parson,  despite  his  perplexity  and  anger,  could  not 
repress  a  smile,  as  he  approached  his  learned  friend,  and 
bent  down  for  the  purpose  of  extricating  him. 

"  Lord  love  your  reverence,  you'd  better  not !  "  cried 
Mr.  Stirn.  "  Don't  be  tempted — he  only  wants  to  get  you 
into  his  claws.  I  would  not  go  a-near  him  for  all  the — 

The  speech  was  interrupted  by  Dr.  Riccabocca  himself, 
who  now,  thanks  to  the  parson,  had  risen  into  his  full 
height,  and  half  a  head  taller  than  all  present — even  than 
the  tall  Squire — approached  Mr.  Stirn,  with  a  gracious 
Avave  of  the  hand.  Mr.  Stirn  retreated  rapidly  toward  the 
hedge,  amidst  the  branches  of  which  he  plunged  himself 
incontinently. 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  167 

"  I  guess  whom  you  take  me  for,  Mr.  Stirn,"  said  the 
Italian,  lifting  his  hat  with  his  characteristic  politeness. 
"  It  is  certainly  a  great  honor ;  but  you  will  know  better 
one  of  these  days,  when  the  gentleman  in  question  admits 
you  to  a  personal  interview  in  another,  and — a  hotter 
world." 


CHAPTER  XII. 

"  BUT  how  on  earth  did  you  get  into  my  new  stocks  ? " 
asked  the  Squire,  scratching  his  head. 

"  My  dear  sir,  Pliny  the  elder  got  into  the  crater  of 
Mount  Etna." 

"  Did  he,  and  what  for  ? " 

"  To  try  what  it  was  like,  I  suppose,"  answered  Ricca- 
bocca. 

The  Squire  burst  out  a-laughing. 

"  And  so  you  got  into  the  stocks  to  try  what  it  was  like. 
Well,  I  can't  wonder— it  is  a  very  handsome  pair  of  stocks," 
continued  the  Squire,  with  a  loving  look  at  the  object  of 
his  praise.  "  Nobody  need  be  ashamed  of  being  seen  in 
those  stocks — I  should  not  mind  it  myself." 

"We  had  better  move  on,"  said  the  Parson,  dryly,  "or 
we  shall  have  the  whole  village  here  presently,  gazing  on 
the  lord  of  the  manor  in  the  same  predicament  as  that 
from  which  we  have  just  extricated  the  Doctor.  Now, 
pray,  what  is  the  matter  with  Lenny  Fairfield  ?  I  can't 
understand  a  word  of  what  has  passed.  You  don't  mean 
to  say  that  good  Lenny  Fairfield  (who  was  absent  from 
church,  by-the-by)  can  have  done  anything  to  get  into  dis- 
grace ? " 

"  Yes,  he  has  though,"  cried  the  Squire.  "  Stirn,  I 
say,  Stirn — "  But  Stirn  had  forced  his  way  through  the 
hedge  and  vanished.  Thus  left  to  his  own  powers  of 
narrative  at  second-hand,  Mr.  Hazeldean  now  told  all  he 
had  to  communicate  ;  the  assault  upon  Randal  Leslie,  and 
the  prompt  punishment  inflicted  by  Stirn,  his  own  indig- 
nation at  the  affront  to  his  young  kinsman,  and  his  good- 
natured,  merciful  desire  to  save  the  culprit  from  public 
humiliation. 

The  Parson,  mollified  toward  the  rude  and  hasty  inven- 
tion of  the  beer-drinking,  took  the  Squire  by  the  hand. 


168  MY  NOVEL;    OR, 

"Ah,  Mr.  Hazeldean,  forgive  me,"  he  said  repentantly; 
"  I  ought  to  have  known  at  once  that  it  was  only  some 
ebullition  of  your  heart  that  could  stifle  your  sense  of 
decorum.  But  this  is  a  sad  story  abont  Lenny,  brawling 
and  fighting  on  the  Sabbath-day.  So  unlike  him,  too — I 
don't  know  what  to  make  of  it." 

"Like  or  unlike,"  said  the  Squire,  "it  has  been  a  gross 
insult  to  young  Leslie  ;  and  looks  all  the  worse  because 
I  and  Audley  are  not  just  the  best  friends  in  the  world.  I 
can't  think  what  it  is,"  continued  Mr.  Hazeldean,  musingly; 
"  but  it  seems  that  there  must  be  always  some  association 
of  fighting  connected  with  that  prim  half-brother  of  mine. 
There  was  I,  son  of  his  own  mother — who  might  have  been 
shot  through  the  lungs,  only  the  ball  lodged  in  the  shoulder 
— and  now  his  wife's  kinsman — my  kinsman,  too — grand- 
mother a  Hazeldean — a  hard-reading,  sober  lad,  as  I  am 
given  to  understand,  can't  set  his  foot  into  the  quietest 
parish  in  the  three  kingdoms,  but  what  the  mildest  boy 
that  ever  was  seen — makes  a  rush  at  him  like  a  mad  bull. 
It  is  FATALITY  !  "  cried  the  Squire,  solemnly. 

"  Ancient  legends  record  similar  instances  of  fatality  in 
certain  houses,"  observed  Riccabocca.  "  There  was  the 
House  of  Pelops — and  Polynices  and  Eteocles — the  sons  of 
CEdipus  ! " 

"  Pshaw  !  "  said  the  Parson  ;  "  but  what's  to  be  done  ?" 

"Done?"  said  the  Squire;  "why,  reparation  must  be 
made  to  young  Leslie.  And  though  I  wished  to  spare 
Lenny,  the  young  ruffian,  a  public  disgrace — for  your  sake, 
Parson  Dale,  and  Mrs.  Fairfield's  ; — yet  a  good  caning  in 
private " 

"  Stop,  sir  !  "  said  Riccabocca,  mildly,  "  and  hear  me." 
The  Italian  then,  with  much  feeling  and  considerable  tact 
pleaded  the  cause  of  his  poor  protege,  and  explained  how 
Lenny's  error  arose  only  from  mistaken  zeal  for  the  Squire's 
service,  and  in  the  execution  of  the  orders  received  from 
Mr.  Stirn. 

"That  alters  the  matter,"  said  the  Squire,  softened; 
"  and  all  that  is  necessary  now  will  be  for  him  to  make  a 
proper  apology  to  my  kinsman." 

"Yes,  that  is  just,"  rejoined  the  Parson;  "but  I  still 
don't  learn  how  he  got  out  of  the  stocks." 

Riccabocca  then  resumed  his  tale  ;  and,  after  confess- 
ing his  own  principal  share  in  Lenny's  escape,  drew  a  mov- 
ing picture  of  the  boy's  shame  and  honest  mortification. 


VARIETIES   Iff  ENGLISH  LIFE.  169 

"  Let  us  march  against  Philip  !  "  cried  the  Athenians  when 
they  heard  Demosthenes 

"  Let  us  go  at  once  and  comfort  the  child  ! "  cried  the 
Parson,  before  Riccabocca  could  finish. 

With  that  benevolent  intention  all  three  quickened  their 
pace,  and  soon  arrived  at  the  widow's  cottage.  But 
Lenny  had  caught  sight  of  their  approach  through  the 
window;  and  not  doubting  that,  in  spite  of  Riccabocca's 
intercession,  the  Parson  was  coming  to  upbraid,  and  the 
Squire  to  re-imprison,  he  darted  out  by  the  back  way,  got 
amongst  the  woods,  and  lay  there  perdu  all  the  evening. 
Nay,  it  was  not  till  after  dark  that  his  mother — who  sat 
wringing  her  hands  in  the  little  kitchen,  and  trying  in  vain 
to  listen  to  the  Parson  and  Mrs.  Dale,  who  (after  sending 
in  search  of  the  fugitive)  had  kindly  come  to  console  the 
mother — heard  a  timid  knock  at  the  door  and  a  nervous 
fumble  at  the  latch.  She  started  up,  opened  the  door,  and 
Lenny  sprang  to  her  bosom,  and  there  buried  his  face,  sob- 
bing loud. 

"No  harm,  my  boy,"  said  the  Parson,  tenderly;  "you 
have  nothing  to  fear — all  is  explained  and  forgiven." 

Lenny  looked  up,  and  the  veins  on  his  forehead  were 
much  swollen.  "Sir,"  said  he,  sturdily,  "I  don't  want  to 
be  forgiven — I  aint  done  no  wrong.  And — I've  been  dis- 
graced— and  I  won't  go  to  school,  never  no  more." 

"  Hush,  Carry  !  "  said  the  Parson  to  his  wife,  who,  with 
the  usual  liveliness  of  her  little  temper,  was  about  to  ex- 
postulate. "  Good  night,  Mrs.  Fairfield.  I  shall  come  and 
talk  to  you  to-morrow,  Lenny  ;  by  that  time  you  will  think 
better  of  it." 

The  Parson  then  conducted  his  wife  home,  and  went  up 
to  the  Hall  to  report  Lenny's  safe  return  ;  for  the  Squire  was 
very  uneasy  about  him,  and  had  even  in  person  shared  the 
search.  As  soon  as  he  heard  Lenny  was  safe — "  Well,"  said 
the  Squire,  "  let  him  go  the  first  thing  in  the  morning  to 
Rood  Hall,  to  ask  Master  Leslie's  pardon,  and  all  will  be 
right  and  smooth  again." 

"A  young  villain!"  cried  Frank,  with  his  cheeks  the 
color  of  scarlet;  "to  strike  a  gentleman  and  an  Etonian, 
who  had  just  been  to  call  on  me.  I  But  I  wonder  Randal 
let  him  off  so  well — any  other  boy  in  the  sixth  form  would 
have  killed  him  !  " 

"  Frank,"  said  the  Parson,  sternly,  "  if  we  all  had  our 
deserts,  what  should  be  done  to  him  who  not  only  lets  the 


170  MY  NOVEL;    OR, 

sun  go  down  on  his  own  wrath,  but  strives  with  uncharitable 
breath  to  fan  the  dying  embers  of  another's  ? " 

The  clergyman  here  turned  away  from  Frank,  who  bit 
his  lip,  and  seemed  abashed — while  even  his  mother  said 
not  a  word  in  his  exculpation  ;  for  when  the  Parson  did 
reprove  in  that  stern  tone,  the  majesty  of  the  Hall  stood 
awed  before  the  rebuke  of  the  Church.  Catching  Ricca- 
bocca's  inquisitive  eye,  Mr.  Dale  drew  aside  the  philosopher, 
and  whispered  to  him  his  fears  that  it  would  be  a  very  hard 
matter  to  induce  Lenny  to  beg  Randal  Leslie's  pardon,  and 
that  the  proud  stomach  of  the  pattern  boy  would  not  digest 
the  stocks  with  as  much  ease  as  a  long  regimen  of  philoso- 
phy had  enabled  the  sage  to  do.  This  conference  Miss 
Jemima  soon  interrupted  by  a  direct  appeal  to  the  Doctor 
respecting  the  number  of  years  (even  without  any  previous 
and  more  violent  incident)  that  the  world  could  possibly 
withstand  its  own  wear  and  tear. 

"  Ma'am,"  said  the  Doctor,  reluctantly  summoned  away 
to  look  at  a  passage  in  some  prophetic  periodical  upon  that 
interesting  subject — "  ma'am,  it  is  very  hard  that  you 
should  make  one  remember  the  end  of  the  world,  since,  in 
conversing  with  you,  one's  natural  temptation  is  to  forget 
its  existence." 

Miss  Jemima's  cheeks  were  suffused  with  a  deeper  scarlet 
than  Frank's  had  been  a  few  minutes  before.  Certainly 
that  deceitful,  heartless  compliment  justified  all  her  con- 
tempt for  the  male  sex  ;  and  yet — such  is  human  blindness 
— it  went  far  to  redeem  all  mankind  in  her  credulous  and 
too-confiding  soul. 

"  He  is  about  to  propose,"  sighed  Miss  Jemima. 

"  Giacomo,"  said  Riccabocca,  as  he  drew  on  his  night- 
cap, and  stepped  majestically  into  the  four-posted  bed,  "  I 
think  we  shall  get  that  boy  for  the  garden  now  ! " 

Thus  each  spurred  his  hobby,  or  drove  her  car,  round 
the  Hazeldean  whirligig. 


CHAPTER  XIII. 

WHATEVER  may  be  the  ultimate  success  of  Miss  Jemima 
Hazeldean's  designs  upon  Dr.  Riccabocca,  the  Machiavellian 
sagacity  with  which  the  Italian  had  counted  upon  securing 


VARIETIES  TN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  171 

the  services  of  Lenny  Fairfield  was  speedily  and  triumph- 
antly established  by  the  result.  No  voice  of  the  Parson's, 
charmed  he  ever  so  wisely,  could  persuade  the  peasant-boy 
to  go  and  ask  pardon  of  the  young  gentleman,  to  whom, 
because  he  had  done  as  he  was  bid,  he  owed  an  agonizing 
defeat,  and  a  shameful  incarceration.  And,  to  Mrs.  Dale's 
vexation,  the  widow  took  the  boy's  part.  She  was  deeply 
offended  at  the  unjust  disgrace  Lenny  had  undergone  in 
being  put  in  the  stocks  ;  she  shared  his  pride,  and  openly 
approved  his  spirit.  Nor  was  it  without  great  difficulty  that 
Lenny  could  be  induced  to  resume  his  lessons  at  school  ; 
nay,  even  to  set  foot  beyond  the  precincts  of  his  mother's 
holding.  The  point  of  the  school  at  last  he  yielded,  though 
sullenly  ;  and  the  Parson  thought  it  better  to  temporize  as 
to  the  more  unpalatable  demand.  Unluckily,  Lenny's 
apprehensions  of  the  mockery  that  awaited  him  in  the  mer- 
ciless world  of  his  village  were  realized.  Though  Stirn  at 
first  kept  his  own  counsel,  the  Tinker  blabbed  the  whole 
affair.  And  after  the  search  instituted  for  Lenny  on  the 
fatal  night,  all  attempts  to  hush  up  what  had  passed  would 
have  been  impossible.  So  then  Stirn  told  his  story,  as  the 
Tinker  had  told  his  own  ;  both  tales  were  very  unfavorable 
to  Leonard  Fairfield.  The  pattern  boy  had  broken  the 
Sabbath,  fought  with  his  betters,  and  been  well  mauled  into 
the  bargain  ;  the  village  lad  had  sided  with  Stirn  and  the 
authorities  in  spying  out  the  misdemeanors  of  his  equals  : 
therefore  Leonard  Fairfield,  in  both  capacities  of  degraded 
pattern  boy  and  baffled  spy,  could  expect  no  mercy  ;  he  was 
ridiculed  in  the  one,  and  hated  in  the  other. 

It  is  true  that,  in  the  presence  of  the  schoolmaster,  and 
under  the  eye  of  Mr.  Dale,  no  one  openly  gave  vent  to 
malignant  feelings ;  but  the  moment  those  checks  were 
removed,  popular  persecution  began. 

Some  pointed  and  mowed  at  him  ;  some  cursed  him  for  a 
sneak,  and  all  shunned  his  society  ;  voices  were  heard  in  the 
hedgerows,  as  he  passed  through  the  village  at  dusk,  "Who 
was  put  in  the  stocks  ? — baa  !  "  "  Who  got  a  bloody  nob  for 
playing  spy  to  Nick  Stirn  ? — baa  !  "  To  resist  this  species 
of  aggression  would  have  been  a'vain  attempt  for  a  wiser 
head  and  a  colder  temper  than  our  poor  pattern-boy's.  He 
took  his  resolution  at  once,  and  his  mother  approved  it  \ 
and  the  second  or  third  day  after  Dr.  Riccabocca's  return  to 
the  Casino,  Lenny  Fairfield  presented  himself  on  the  terrace 
with  a  little  bundle  in  his  hand.  "  Please,  sir,"  said  he  to 


172  MY  NOVEL;    OR, 

the  Doctor,  who  was  sitting  cross-legged  on  the  balustrade, 
with  his  red  silk  umbrella  over  his  head — "  please,  sir,  if 
you'll  be  good  enough  to  take  me  now,  and  give  me  any 
hole  to  sleep  in,  I'll  work  lor  your  honor  night  and  day; 
and  as  for  the  wages,  mother  says,  'just  suit  yourself, 
sir.'  ' 

"  My  child,"  said  the  Doctor,  taking  Lenny  by  the  hand, 
and  looking  at  him  with  the  sagacious  eye  of  a  wizard,  "  I 
knew  you  would  come  !  and  Giacomo  is  already  prepared 
for  you  !  As  to  wages,  we'll  talk  of  them  by-and-bye." 

Lenny  being  thus  settled,  his  mother  looked  for  some 
evenings  on  the  vacant  chair,  where  he  had  so  long  sate  in 
the  place  of  her  beloved  Mark  ;  and  the  chair  seemed  so 
comfortless  and  desolate,  thus  left  all  to  itself,  that  she  could 
bear  it  no  longer. 

Indeed  the  village  had  grown  as  distasteful  to  'her  as  to 
Lenny — perhaps  more  so  ;  and  one  morning  she  hailed  the 
Steward  as  he  was  trotting  his  hog-maned  cob  beside  the 
door,  and  bade  him  tell  the  Squire  that  "  she  would  take  it 
very  kind  if  he  would  let  her  off  the  six  months'  notice  for 
the  land  and  premises  she  held — there  wrere  plenty  to  step 
into  the  place  at  a  much  better  rent." 

"  You're  a  fool,"  said  the  good-natured  Steward  ;  and  I'm 
very  glad  you  did  not  speak  to  that  fellow  Stirn  instead  of 
to  me.  You've  been  doing  extremely  well  here  and  have 
the  place,  I  may  say,  for  nothing." 

"  Nothin"  as  to  rent,  sir,  but  a  great  deal  as  to  feelin'," 
said  the  widow ;  "  and  now  Lenny  has  gone  to  work  with 
the  foreign  gentleman,  I  should  like  to  go  and  live  near 
him." 

"Ah,  yes — I  heard  Lenny  had  taken  himself  off  to  the 
Casino — more  fool  he  ;  but,  bless  your  heart,  'tis  no  distance 
— two  miles  or  so.  Can't  he  come  home  every  night  after 
work  ? " 

"  No,  sir,'  exclaimed  the  widow,  almost  fiercely  ;  "  he 
shan't  come  home  here,  to  be  called  bad  names  and  jeered 
at ! — he  whom  my  dead  good-man  was  so  fond  and  proud  of. 
No,  sir  ;  we  poor  folks  have  our  feelings,  as  I  said  to  Mrs. 
Dale,  and  as  I  will  say  to  the  Squire  hisself.  Not  that  I 
don't  thank  him  for  all  favors — he  be  a  good  gentleman  if 
let  alone  ;  but  he  says  he  won't  come  near  us  till  Lenny 
goes  and  axes  pardin.  Pardin  for  what,  I  should  like  to 
know  ?  Poor  lamb  !  I  wish  you  could  ha'  seen  his  nose, 
sir — as  big  as  your  two  fists.  Ax  pardin  i  if  the  Squire  had 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  173 

had  such  a  nose  as  that,  I  don't  think  it's  pardin  he'd  been 
ha'  axing.  But  I  let  the  passion  get  the  better  of  me — I 
humbly  beg  you'll  excuse  it,  sir.  I'm  no  scholard  as  poor 
Mark  was,  and  Lenny  would  have  been,  if  the  Lord  had  not 
visited  us  otherways.  Therefore  just  get  the  Squire  to  let 
me  go  as  soon  as  may  be  ;  and  as  for  the  bit  o'  hay  and 
what's  on  the  grounds  and  orchard,  the  new  comer  will  no 
doubt  settle  that." 

The  Steward,  finding  no  eloquence  of  his  could  induce 
the  widow  to  relinquish  her  resolution,  took  her  message  to 
the  Squire.  Mr.  Hazeldean,  who  was  indeed  really  offended 
at  the  boy's  obstinate  refusal  to  make  the  amende  honorable 
to  Randal  Leslie,  at  first  only  bestowed  a  hearty  curse  or 
two  on  the  pride  and  ingratitude  both  of  mother  and  son. 
It  may  be  supposed,  however,  that  his  second  thoughts  were 
more  gentle,  since  that  evening,  though  he  did  not  go  him- 
self to  the  widow,  he  sent  his  "  Harry."  Now,  though 
Harry  was  sometimes  austere  and  brusque  enough  on  her 
own  account,  and  in  such  business  as  might  especially  be 
transacted  between  herself  and  the  cottagers,  yet  she  never 
appeared  as  the  delegate  of  her  lord  except  in  the  capacity 
of  a  herald  of  peace  and  mediating  angel.  It  was  with  good 
heart,  too,  that  she  undertook  this  mission,  since,  as  we 
have  seen,  both  mother  and  son  were  great  favorites  of  hers. 
She  entered  the  cottage  with  the  friendliest  beam  in  her 
bright  blue  eye,  and  it  was  with  the  softest  tone  of  her 
frank,  cordial  voice  that  she  accosted  the  widow.  But  she 
was  no  more  successful  than  the  Steward  had  "been.  The 
truth  is,  that  I  don't  believe  the  haughtiest  duke  in  the 
three  kingdoms  is  really  so  proud  as  your  plain  English 
rural  peasant,  nor  half  so  hard  to  propitiate  and  deal  with 
when  his  sense  of  dignity  is  ruffled.  Nor  are  there  many 
of  my  own  literary  brethren  (thin-skinned  creatures  though 
we  are)  so  sensitively  alive  to  the  Public  Opinion,  wisely 
despised  by  Dr.  Riccabocca,  as  that  same  peasant.  He  can 
endure  a  good  deal  of  contumely  sometimes,  it  is  true,  from 
his  superiors  (though,  thank  Heaven  !  that  he  rarely  meets 
with  unjustly) ;  but  to  be  looked  down  upon,  and  mocked, 
and  pointed  at  by  his  own  equals — his  own  little  world — 
cuts  him  to  the  soul.  And  if  you  can  succeed  in  breaking 
this  pride,  and  destroying  this  sensitiveness,  then  he  is  a 
lost  being.  He  can  never  recover  his  self-esteem,  and  you 
have  chucked  him  half-way — a  stolid,  inert,  sullen  victim — 
to  the  perdition  of  the  prison  or  the  convict-ship. 


I74  MY  NOVEL;    OR, 

Of  this  stuff  was  the  nature  both  of  the  widow  and  her 
son.  Had  the  honey  of  Plato  flowed  from  the  tongue  of 
Mrs.  Hazeldean;  it  could  not  have  turned  into  sweetness  the 
bitter  spirit  upon  which  it  descended.  But  Mrs.  Hazeldean, 
though  an  excellent  woman,  was  rather  a  bluff,  plain-spoken 
one — and,  after  all,  she  had  some  little  feeling  for  the  son 
of  a  gentleman,  and  a  decayed,  fallen  gentleman,  who,  even 
by  Lenny's  account,  had  been  assailed  without  any  intelli- 
gible provocation  ;  nor  could  she,  with  her  strong  common 
sense,  attach  all  the  importance  which  Mrs.  Fairfield  did  to 
the  unmannerly  impertinence  of  a  few  young  cubs,  which 
she  said  truly,  "would  soon  die  away  if  no  notice  was  taken 
of  it."  The  widow's  mind  was  made  up,  and  Mrs.  Hazel- 
dean  departed — with  much  chagrin  and  some  displeasure. 

Mrs.  Fairfield,  however,  tactily  understood  that  the  re- 
quest she  had  made  was  granted,  and  early  one  morning  her 
door  was  found  locked — the  key  left  at  a  neighbor's  to  be 
given  to  the  Steward  :  and,  on  further  inquiry,  it  was  ascer- 
tained that  her  furniture  and  effects  had  been  removed  by 
the  errand-cart,  in  the  dead  of  the  night.  Lenny  had  suc- 
ceeded in  finding  a  cottage  on  the  roadside,  not  far  from  the 
Casino  ;  and  there,  with  a  joyous  face,  he  waited  to  welcome 
his  mother  to  breakfast,  and  show  how  he  had  spent  the 
night  in  arranging  her  furniture. 

"  Parson  ! "  cried  the  Squire  when  all  this  news  came 
upon  him,  as  he  was  walking  arm-in-arm  with  Mr.  Dale,  to 
inspect  some  proposed  improvement  in  the  Alms-house, 
"  this  is  all  your  fault.  Why  did  not  you  go  and  talk  to  that 
brute  of  a  boy,  and  that  dolt  of  a  woman  ?  You've  got '  soft 
sawder  enough,'  as  Frank  calls  it  in  his  new-fashioned  slang." 

"  As  if  I  had  not  talked  myself  hoarse  to  both  ! "  said 
the  Parson,  in  a  tone  of  reproachful  surprise  at  the  accusa- 
tion. "  But  it  was  in  vain  !  O  Squire,  if  you  had  taken  my 
advice  about  the  stocks — quieta  -non  mover e  !  " 

"  Bother  !  "  said  the  Squire.  "  I  suppose  I  am  to  be  held 
up  as  a-tyrant,  a  Nero,  a  Richard  the  Third,  or  a  Grand  In- 
quisitor,  merely  for  having  things  smart  and  tidy  !  Stocks 
indeed  ! — your  friend  Rickeybockey  said  he  was  never  more 
comfortable  in  his  life — quite  enjoyed  sitting  there.  And 
what  did  not  hurt  Rickeybockey's  dignity  (a  very  gentle- 
man-like man  he  is,  when  he  pleases)  ought  to  be  no  such 
great  matter  to  Master  Leonard  Fairfield.  But  'tis  no  use 
talking!  What's  to  be  done  now?  The  woman  must  not 
starve ;  and  I'm  sure  she  can't  live  out  of  Rickeybockey's 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  175 

wages  to  Lenny — (by  the  way,  I  hope  he  don't  board  the 
boy  upon  his  and  Jackeymo's  leavings  :  I  hear  they  dine 
upon  newts  and  sticklebacks — faugh  !) — I'll  tell  you  what, 
Parson,  now  I  think  of  it — at  the  back  of  the  cottage  which 
she  has  taken  there  are  some  fields  of  capital  land  just  va- 
cant. Rickeybockey  wants  to  have  'em,  and  sounded  me 
as  to  the  rent  when  he  was  at  the  Hall.  I  only  half-prom- 
ised him  the  refusal.  And  he  must  give  up  four  or  five  acres 
of  the  best  land  round  the  cottage  to  the  widow — just  enough 
for  her  to  manage — and  she  can  keep  a  dairy.  If  she  wants 
capital,  I'll  lend  her  some  in  your  name — only  don't  tell 
Stirn  ;  and  as  for  the  rent — we'll  talk  of  that  when  we  see 
how  she  gets  on,  thankless,  obstinate  jade  that  she  is  !  You 
see,"  added  the  Squire,  as  if  he  felt  there  was  some  apology 
due  for  this  generosity  to  an  object  whom  he  professed  to 
consider  so  ungrateful,  "her husband  was  a  faithful  servant, 
and  so — I  wish  you  would  not  stand  there  staring  me  out 
of  countenance,  but  go  down  to  the  woman  at  once,  or  Stirn 
will  have  let  the  land  to  Rickeybockey,  as  sure  as  a  gun. 
And  harkye,  Dale,  perhaps  you  can  contrive,  if  the  woman 
is  so  cursedly  stiff-backed,  not  to  say  the  land  is  mine,  or 
that  it  is  any  favor  I  want  to  do  her— or,  in  short,  manage 
it  as  you  can  for  the  best."  Still  even  this  charitabie  mes- 
sage failed.  The  widow  knew  that  the  land  was  the  Squire's, 
and  worth  a  good  ^3  an  acre.  "  She  thanked  him  humbly 
for  that  and  all  favors  ;  but  she  could  not  afford  to  buy 
cows,  and  she  did  not  wish  to  be  beholden  to  any  one  for 
her  living.  And  Lenny  was  well  off  at  Mr.  Rickeybockey's, 
and  coming  on  wonderfully  in  the  garden  way — and  she  did 
not  doubt  she  could  get  some  washing  ;  at  all  events,  her 
haystack  would  bring  in  a  good  bit  of  money,  and  she 
should  do  nicely,  thank  their  honors." 

Nothing  farther  could  be  done  in  the  direct  way,  but 
the  remark  about  the  washing  suggested  some  mode  of 
indirectly  benefiting  the  widow.  And  a  little  time  after- 
ward, the  sole  laundress  in  that  immediate  neighborhood 
happening  to  die,  a  hint  from  the  Squire  obtained  from 
the  landlady  of  the  inn  opposite  the  Casino  such  custom  as 
she  had  to  bestow,  which  at  times  was  not  inconsiderable. 
And  what  with  Lenny's  wages  (whatever  that  mysterious 
item  might  be),  the  mother  and  son  contrived  to  live  with- 
out exhibiting  any  of  those  physical  signs  of  fast  and  abstin- 
ence which  Riccabocca  and  his  valet  gratuitously  afforded 
to  the  student  in  animal  anatomy. 


MY  NOVEL;    OK, 


CHAPTER    XIV. 

OF  all  the  wares  and  commodities  in  exchange  and  bar- 
ter, wherein  so  mainly  consists  the  civilization  of  our  mod- 
ern world,  there  is  not  one  which  is  so  carefully  weighed — 
so  accurately  measured — so  plumbed  and  gauged — so  doled 
and  scraped — so  poured  out  in  minima  and  balanced  with 
scruples — as  that  necessity  of  social  commerce  called  "  an 
apology  ! "  If  the  chemists  were  half  so  careful  in  vending 
their  poisons,  there  would  be  a  notable  diminution  in  the 
yearly  average  of  victims  to  arsenic  and  oxalic  acid.  But, 
alas,  in  the  matter  of  apology,  it  is  not  from  the  excess  of 
the  dose,  but  the  timid,  niggardly,  miserly  manner  in  which  it 
is  dispensed,  that  poor  Humanity  is  hurried  off  to  the  Styx  ! 
How  many  times  does  a  life  depend  on  the  exact  propor- 
tions of  an  apology  !  It  is  a  hair-breadth  too  short  to  cover 
the  scratch  for  which  you  want  it  ?  Make  your  will — you 
are  a  dead  man  !  A  life,  do  I  say  ? — a  hecatomb  of  lives  ! 
How  many  wars  would  have  been  prevented,  how  many 
thrones  would  be  standing,  dynasties  nourishing — common- 
wealths brawling  round  a  bema,  or  fitting  out  galleys  for 
corn  and  cotton — if  an  inch  or  two  more  of  apology  had 
been  added  to  the  proffered  ell  !  But  then  that  plaguy, 
jealous,  suspicious,  old  vinegar- faced  Honor,  and  her  part- 
ner Pride — as  penny-wise  and  pound-foolish  a  she-skinflint 
as  herself — have  the  monopoly  of  the  article.  And  what 
with  the  time  they  lose  in  adjusting  their  spectacles,  hunt- 
ing in  the  precise  shelf  for  the  precise  quality  demanded, 
then  (quality  found)  the  haggling  as  to  quantum — con- 
sidering whether  it  should  be  Apothecary's  weight  or  Avoir- 
dupois, or  English  measure  or  Flemish — and,  finally,  the 
hullabuloo  they  make  if  the  customer  is  not  perfectly  satis- 
fied with  the  monstrous  little  he  gets  for  his  money — I  don't 
wonder,  for  my  part,  how  one  loses  temper  and  patience, 
and  sends  Pride,  Honor,  and  Apology,  all  to  the  devil. 
Aristophanes,  in  his  comedy  of  "Peace"  insinuates  a 
beautiful  allegory  by  only  suffering  that  goddess,  though  in 
fact  she  is  his  heroine,  to  appear  as  a  mute.  She  takes  care 
never  to  open  her  lips.  The  shrewd  Greek  knew  very  well 
that  she  would  cease  to  be  Peace,  if  she  once  began  to  chat- 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  177 

ter.  Wherefore,  O  reader,  if  ever  you  find  your  pump 
under  the  iron  heel  of  another  man's  boot,  heaven  grant 
that  you  may  hold  your  tongue,  and  not  make  things  past 
all  endurance  and  forgiveness  by  bawling  out  for  an  apology  ! 


CHAPTER   XV. 

BUT  the  Squire  and  his  son,  Frank,  were  large  hearted, 
generous  creatures  in  the  article  of  apology,  as  in  all  things 
less  skimpingly  dealt  out.  And  seeing  that  Leonard  Fair- 
field  would  offer  no  plaster  to  Randal  Leslie,  they  made 
amends  for  his  stinginess  by  their  own  prodigality.  The 
Squire  accompanied  his  son  to  Rood  Hall,  and  none  of  the 
family  choosing  to  be  at  home,  the  Squire  in  his  own  hand, 
and  from  his  own  head,  indited  and  composed  an  epistle 
which  might  have  satisfied  all  the  wounds  which  the  dig- 
nity of  the  Leslies  had  ever  received. 

This  letter  of  apology  ended  with  a  hearty  request  that 
Randal  would  come  and  spend  a  few  days  with  his  son. 
Frank's  epistle  was  to  the  same  purport,  only  more  Etonian 
and  less  legible. 

It  was  some  days  before  Randal's  replies  to  these 
epistles  were  received.  The  replies  bore  the  address  of  a  vil- 
lage near  London,  and  stated  that  the  writer  was  now  read- 
ing with  a  tutor  preparatory  to  entrance  at  Oxford,  and 
could  not,  therefore,  accept  the  invitation  extended  to  him. 

For  the  rest,  Randal  expressed  himself  with  good  sense, 
though  not  with  much  generosity.  He  excused  his  partici- 
pation in  the  vulgarity  of  such  a  conflict  by  a  bitter  but 
short  allusion  to  the  obstinacy  and  ignorance  of  the  village 
boor  ;  and  did  not  do  what  you,  my  kind  reader,  certainly 
would  have  done  under  similar  circumstances — viz.,  inter- 
cede in  .behalf  of  a  brave  and  unfortunate  antagonist. 
Most  of  us  like  a  foe  better  after  we  have  fought  him — that 
is,  if  we  are  the  conquering  party  ;  this  was  not  the  case 
with  Randal  Leslie.  There,  so  far  as  the  Etonian  was  con- 
cerned, the  matter  rested.  And  the  Squire,  irritated  that  he 
could  not  repair  whatever  wrong  that  young  gentleman  had 
sustained,  no  longer  felt  a  pang  of  regret  as  he  passed  by 
Mrs.  Fairfield's  deserted  cottage. 
8* 


MY  NOVEL;    OR, 


CHAPTER  XVI. 

LENNY  F  AIRFIELD  continued  to  give  great  satisfaction  to 
his  new  employers,  and  to  profit  in  many  respects  by  the 
familiar  kindness  with  which  he  was  treated.  Riccabocca, 
who  valued  himself  on  penetrating  into  character,  had,  from 
the  first,  seen  that  much  stuff  of  no  common  quality  and 
texture  was  to  be  found  in  the  disposition  and  mind  of  the 
English  village  boy.  On  farther  acquaintance,  he  perceived 
that,  under  a  child's  innocent  simplicity,  there  were  the 
workings  of  an  acuteness  that  required  but  development 
and  direction.  He  ascertained  that  the  pattern  boy's  pro- 
gress at  the  village  school  proceeded  from  something  more 
than  mechanical  docility  and  readiness  of  comprehension. 
Lenny  had  a  keen  thirst  for  knowledge,  and  through  all 
the  disadvantages  of  birth  and  circumstances,  there  were 
the  indications  of  that  natural  genius  which  converts  disad- 
vantages themselves  into  stimulants.  Still,  with  the  germs 
of  good  qualities  lay  the  embryos  of  those  which,  difficult 
to  separate,  and  hard  to  destroy,  often  mar  the  produce  of 
the  soil.  With  a  remarkable  and  generous  pride  in  self- 
repute,  there  was  some  stubbornness  ;  with  great  sensibility 
to  kindness,  there  was  also  strong  reluctance  to  forgive  af- 
front. 

This  mixed  nature  in"  an  uncultivated  peasant's  breast 
interested  Riccabocca,  who,  though  long  secluded  from  the 
commerce  of  mankind,  still  looked  upon  man  as  the  most 
various  and  entertaining  volume  which  philosophical  re- 
search can  explore.  He  soon  accustomed  the  boy  to  the 
tone  of  a  conversation  generally  subtle  and  suggestive  ;  and 
Lenny's  language  and  ideas  became  insensibly  less  rustic 
and  more  refined.  Then  Riccabocca  selected  from  his  li- 
brary, small  as  it  was,  books  that,  though  elementary,  were 
of  a  higher  class  than  Lenny  could  have  found  within  his 
reach  at  Hazeldean.  Riccabocca  knew  the  English  lan- 
guage well — better  in  grammar,  construction,  and  genius 
than  many  a  not  ill-educated  Englishman  ;  for  he  had 
studied  it  with  the  minuteness  with  which  a  scholar  studies 
a  dead  language,  and  amidst  his  collection  he  had  many  of 
the  books  which  had  formerly  served  him  for  that  purpose. 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  179 

These  were  the  first  works  he  lent  to  Lenny.  Meanwhile 
Jackeymo  imparted  to  the  boy  many  secrets  in  practical 
gardening  and  minute  husbandry,  for  at  that  day  farming  in 
England  (some  favored  counties  and  estates  excepted)  was 
far  below  the  nicety  to  which  the  art  has  been  immemorially 
carried  in  the  north  of  Italy — where,  indeed,  you  may  travel 
for  miles  and  miles  as  through  a  series  of  market-gardens — 
so  that,  all  these  things  considered,  Leonard  Fairfield  might 
be  said  to  have  made  a  change  for  the  better.  Yet,  in  truth, 
and  looking  below  the  surface,  that  might  be  fair  matter  of 
doubt.  For  the  same  reason  which  had  induced  the  boy  to 
fly  his  native  village,  he  no  longer  repaired  to  the  church  of 
Hazeldean.  The  old,  intimate  intercourse  between  him  and 
the  Parson  became  necessarily  suspended,  or  bounded  to  an 
occasional  kindly  visit  from  the  latter — visits  which  grew 
more  rare,  and  less  familiar,  as  he  found  his  former  pupil  in 
no  want  of  his  services,  and  wholly  deaf  to  his  mild  en- 
treaties to  forget  and  forgive  the  past,  and  come  at  least  to 
his  old  seat  in  the  parish  church.  Lenny  still  went  to 
church — a  church  a  long  way  off  in  another  parish — but  the 
sermons  did  not  do  him  the  same  good  as  Parson  Dale's  had 
done  ;  and  the  clergyman,  who  had  his  own  flock  to  attend 
to,  did  not  condescend,  as  Parson  Dale  would  have  done,  to 
explain  what  seemed  obscure,  and  enforce  what  was  profit- 
able, in  private  talk,  with  that  stray  lamb  from  another's 
fold. 

Now  I  question  much  if  all  Dr.  Riccabocca's  maxims, 
though  they  were  often  very  moral,  and  generally  very  wise, 
served  to  expand  the  peasant  boy's  native  good  qualities, 
and  correct  his  bad,  half  so  well  as  the  few  simple  words, 
not  at  all  indebted  to  Machiavelli,  which  Leonard  had  once 
reverently  listened  to  when  he  stood  by  Mark's  elbow-chair, 
yielded  up  for  the  moment  to  the  good  Parson,  worthy  to 
sit  in  it  ;  for  Mr.  Dale  had  a  heart  in  which  all  the  fatherless 
of  the  parish  found  their  place.  Nor  was  this  loss  of  ten- 
der, intimate,  spiritual  lore  so  counterbalanced  by  the 
greater  facilities  for  purely  intellectual  instruction,  as  mod- 
ern enlightenment  might  presume.  For,  without  disputing 
the  advantage  of  knowledge  in  a  general  way,  knowledge, 
in  itself,  is  not  friendly  to  content.  Its  tendency,  of  course, 
is  to  increase  the  desires,  to  dissatisfy  us  with  what  is,  in 
order  to  urge  progress  to  what  may  be  ;  and,  in  that  pro- 
gress, what  unnoticed  martyrs  among  the  many  must  fall, 
baffled  and  crushed  by  the  way !  To  how  large  a  number 


i8o  MY  NOVEL;    OX, 

will  be  given  desires  they  will  never  realize,  dissatisfaction 
of  the  lot  from  which  they  will  never  rise  !  Allans  !  one  is 
viewing  the  dark  side  of  the  question.  It  is  all  the  fault  of 
that  confounded  Riccabocca,  who  had  already  caused  Lenny 
Fairfield  to  lean  gloomily  on  his  spade,  and,  after  looking 
round  and  seeing  no  one  near  him,  groan  out  querously — 
"  And  am  I  born  to  dig  a  potato-ground  ?  " 
Pardieu,  my  friend  Lenny,  if  you  live  to  be  seventy,  and 
ride  in  your  carriage,  and  by  the  help  of  a  dinner-pill  digest 
a  spoonful  of  curry,  you  may  sigh  to  think  what  a  relish 
there  was  in  potatoes  roasted  in  ashes  after  you  had  digged 
them  out  of  that  ground  with  your  own  stout  young  hands. 
Dig  on,  Lenny  Fairfield,  dig  on  !  Dr.  Riccabocca  will  tell 
you  that  there  was  once  an  illustrious  personage  *  who  made 
experience  of  two  very  different  occupations — one  was  ruling 
men,  the  other  was  planting  cabbages  ;  he  thought  planting 
cabbages  much  the  pleasanter  of  the  two  ! 


CHAPTER  XVII. 

DR.  RICCABOCCA  had  secured  Lenny  Fairfield,  and  might 
therefore  be  considered  to  have  ridden  his  hobby  in  the 
great  whirligig  with  adroitness  and  success.  But  Miss  Jem- 
ima was  still  driving  round  in  her  car,  handling  the  reins, 
and  flourishing  the  whip,  without  apparently  having  got  an 
inch  nearer  to  the  flying  form  of  Dr.  Riccabocca. 

Indeed,  that  excellent  and  only  too  susceptible  spinster, 
with  all  her  experience  of  the  villany  of  man,  had  never  con- 
ceived the  wretch  to  be  so  thoroughly  beyond  the  reach  of 
redemption  as  when  Dr.  Riccabocca  took  his  leave,  and  once 
more  interred  himself  amidst  the  solitudes  of  the  Casino, 
without  having  made  any  formal  renunciation  of  his  crim- 
inal celibacy.  For  some  days  she  shut  herself  up  in  her 
own  chamber,  and  brooded  with  more  than  her  usual  gloomy 
satisfaction  on  the  certainty  of  the  approaching  crash.  In- 
deed, many  signs  of  that  universal  calamity,  which,  while 
the  visit  of  Riccabocca  lasted,  she  had  permitted  herself  to 
consider  ambiguous,  now  became  luminously  apparent. 
Even  the  newspaper,  which  during  that  credulous  and  happy 
period  had  given  half  a  column  to  Births  and  Marriages,  now 

*  The  Emperor  Diocletian. 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  iSi 

bore  an  ominously  long  catalogue  of  Deaths ;  so  that  it 
seemed  as  if  the  whole  population  had  lost  heart,  and  had  no 
chance  of  repairing  its  daily  losses.  The  leading  articles 
spoke,  with  the  obscurity  of  a  Pythian,  of  an  impending 
CRISIS.  Monstrous  turnips  sprouted  out  from  the  paragraphs 
devoted  to  General  News.  Cows  bore  calves  with  two  heads, 
whales  were  stranded  in  the  Humber,  showers  of  frogs  de- 
scended in  the  High  Street  of  Cheltenham.  ;;'£ 

All  these  symptoms  of  the  world's  decrepitude  and  con- 
summation, which  by  the  side  of  the  fascinating  Riccabocca 
might  admit  of  some  doubt  as  to  their  origin  and  cause,  now 
conjoined  with  the  worst  of  all,  viz.,  the  frightfully  progres- 
sive wickedness  of  man — left  to  Miss  Jemima  no  ray  of  hope 
save  that  afforded  by  the  reflection  that  she  could  contem- 
plate the  wreck  of  matter  without  a  single  sentiment  of 
regret. 

Mrs.  Dale,  however,  by  no  means  shared  the  despondency 
of  her  fair  friend,  and,  having  gained  access  to  Miss  Jemi- 
ma's chamber,  succeeded,  though  not  without  difficulty,  in 
her  kindly  attempts  to  cheer  the  drooping  spirits  of  that 
female  misanthropist.  Nor,  in  her  benevolent  desire  to 
speed  the  car  of  Miss  Jemima  to  its  hymeneal  goal,  was  Mrs. 
Dale  so  cruel  toward  her  male  friend,  Dr.  Riccabocca,  as 
she  seemed  to  her  husband.  For  Mrs.  Dale  was  a  woman 
of  shrewdness  and  penetration,  as  most  quick-tempered 
women  are  ;  and  she  knew  that  Miss  Jemima  was  one  of 
those  excellent  young  ladies  who  are  likely  to  value  a  hus- 
band in  proportion  to  the  difficulty  of  obtaining  him.  In 
fact,  my  readers  of  both  sexes  must  often  have  met,  in  the 
course  of  their  experience,  with  that  peculiar  sort  of  fem- 
inine disposition,  which  requires  the  warmth  of  the  conjugal 
hearth  to  develop  all  its  native  good  qualities ;  nor  is  it  to 
be  blamed  overmuch  if,  innocently  aware  of  this  tendency 
in  its  nature,  it  turns  toward  what  is  best  fitted  for  its 
growth  and  improvement,  by  laws  akin  to  those  which  make 
the  sun-flower  turn  to  the  sun,  or  the  willow  to  the  stream. 
Ladies  of  this  disposition,  permanently  thwarted  in  their 
affectionate  bias,  gradually  languish  away  into  intellectual 
inanition,  or  sprout  out  into  those  abnormal  eccentricities 
which  are  classed  under  the  general  name  of  "  oddity "  or 
"character."  But,  once  admitted  to  their  proper  soil,  it  is 
astonishing  what  healthful  improvement  takes  place — how 
the  poor  heart,  before  starved  and  stinted  of  nourishment, 
throws  out  its  suckers,  and  bursts  into  bloom  and  fruit. 


i82  MY  NOVEL;    OR, 

And  thus  many  a  belle  from  whom  the  beaux  have  stood 
aloof,  only  because  the  puppies  think  she  could  be  had  for 
the  asking,  they  see  afterward  settled  down  into  true  wife 
and  fond  mother,  with  amaze  at  their  former  disparagement, 
and  a  sigh  at  their  blind  hardness  of  heart. 

In  all  probability,  Mrs.  Dale  took  this  view  of  the  subject ; 
and  certainly,  in  addition  to  all  the  hitherto  dormant  virtues 
which  would  be  awakened  in  Miss  Jemima  when  fairly  Mrs. 
Riccabocca,  she  counted  somewhat  upon  the  mere  worldly 
advantage  which  such  a  match  would  bestow  upon  the  exile. 
So  respectable  a  connection  with  one  of  the  oldest,  wealthiest, 
and  most  popular  families  in  the  shire^  would  in  itself  give 
him  a  position  not  to  be  despised  by  a  poor  stranger  in  the 
land  ;  and  though  the  interest  in  Miss  Jemima's  dowry  might 
not  be  much,  regarded  in  the  light  of  English  pounds  (not 
Milanese  lire),  still  it  would  suffice  to  prevent  that  gradual 
process  of  dematerialization  which  the  lengthened  diet  upon 
minnows  and  sticklebacks  had  already  made  apparent  in  the 
fine  and  slow-evanishing  form  of  the  philosopher. 

Like  all  persons  convinced  of  the  expediency  of  a  thing, 
Mrs.  Dale  saw  nothing  wanting  but  opportunities  to  insure 
its  success.  And  that  these  might  be  forthcoming,  she  not 
only  renewed  with  greater  frequency,  and  more  urgent  in- 
stance than  ever,  her  friendly  invitations  to  Riccabocca  to 
drink  tea  and  spend  the  evening,  but  she  so  artfully  chafed 
the  Squire  on  his  sore  point  of  hospitality,  that  the  Doctor 
received  weekly  a  pressing  solicitation  to  dine  and  sleep  at 
the  Hall. 

At  first  the  Italian  pished  and  grunted,  and  said  Cospetto, 
and  Per  Bacco,  and  Diavolo,  and  tried  to  creep  out  of  so  much 
proffered  courtesy.  But,  like  all  single  gentlemen,  he  was 
a  little  under  the  tyrannical  influence  of  his  faithful  servant ; 
and  Jackeymo,  though  he  could  bear  starving  as  well  as  his 
master,  when  necessary,  still,  when  he  had  the  option,  pre- 
ferred roast-beef  and  plum-pudding.  Moreover,  that  vain 
and  incautious  confidence  of  Riccabocca,  touching  the  vast 
sum  at  his  command,  and  with  no  heavier  drawback  than 
that  of  so  amiable  a  lady  as  Miss  Jemima — who  had  already 
shown  him  (Jackeymo)  many  little  delicate  attentions — had 
greatly  whetted  the  cupidity  which  was  in  the  servant's 
Italian  nature  ;  a  cupidity  the  more  keen  because,  long  de- 
barred its  legitimate  exercise  on  his  own  mercenary  interests, 
he  carried  it  all  to  the  account  of  his  master's  ! 

Thus  tempted  by  his  enemy,  and  betrayed  by  his  ser- 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  183 

vant,  the  unfortunate  Riccabocca  fell,  though  with  eyes  not 
blinded,  into  the  hospitable  snares  extended  for  the  de- 
struction of  his — celibacy !  He  went  often  to  the  Parson- 
age, often  to  the  Hall,  and  by  degrees  the  sweets  of  the  social 
domestic  life,  long  denied  him,  began  to  exercise  their  en- 
ervating charm  upon  the  stoicism  of  our  poor  exile.  Frank 
had  now  returned  to  Eton.  An  unexpected  invitation  had 
carried  off  Captain  Higginbotham  to  pass  a  few  weeks  at 
Bath  with  a  distant  relation,  who  had  lately  returned  from 
India,  and  who,  as  rich  as  Croesus,  felt  so  estranged  and  sol- 
itary in  his  native  isle,  that,  when  the  Captain  "  claimed 
kindred  there,"  to  his  own  amaze,  "he  had  his  claims  al- 
lowed ;"  while  a  very  protracted  sitting  of  Parliament  still 
delayed  in  London  the  Squire's  habitual  visitors  during  the 
later  summer  ;  so  that — a  chasm  thus  made  in  his  society — 
Mr.  Hazeldean  welcomed  with  no  hollow  cordiality  the  di- 
version or  distraction  he  found  in  the  foreigner's  compan- 
ionship. Thus,  with  pleasure  to  all  parties,  and  strong 
hopes  to  the  two  female  conspirators,  the  intimacy  between 
the  Casino  and  Hall  rapidly  thickened  ;  but  still  not  a  word 
resembling  a  distinct  proposal  did  Dr.  Riccabocca  breathe. 
And  still,  if  such  an  idea  obtruded  itself  on  his  mind,  it  was 
chased  therefrom  with  so  determined  a  Diavolo,  that  per- 
haps, if  not  the  end  of  the  world,  at  least  the  end  of  Miss 
Jemima's  tenure  in  it,  might  have  approached,  and  seen  her 
still  Miss  Jemima,  but  for  a  certain  letter  with  a  foreign 
post-mark  that  reached  the  Doctor  one  Tuesday  morning. 


CHAPTER  XVIII. 

THE  servant  saw  that  something  had  gone  wrong,  and, 
under  pretence  of  syringing  the  orange-trees,  he  lingered 
near  his  master,  andNpeered  through  the  sunny  leaves  upon 
Riccabocca's  melancholy  brows. 

The  Doctor  sighed  heavily.  Nor  did  he,  as  was  his 
wont,  after  some  such  sigh,  mechanically  take  up  that  dear 
comforter  the  pipe.  But  though  the  tobacco-pouch  lay  by 
his  side  on  the  balustrade,  and  the  pipe  stood  against  the 
wall  between  his  knees,  childlike  lifting  up  its  lips  to  the 
customary  caress — he  heeded  neither  the  one  nor  the  other, 


184  MY  NOVEL;    OR, 

but  laid  the  letter  silently  on  his  lap,  and  fixed  his  eyes 
upon  the  ground. 

"  It  must  be  bad  news,  indeed ! "  thought  Jackeymo, 
and  desisted  from  his  work.  Approaching  his  master,  he 
took  up  the  pipe  and  the  tobacco-pouch,  and  filled  the  bowl 
slowly,  glancing  all  the  while  toward  that  dark  musing 
face,  on  which,  when  abandoned  by  the  expression  of  intel- 
lectual vivacity  or  the  exquisite  smile  of  Italian  courtesy, 
the  deep  downward  lines  revealed  the  characters  of  sorrow. 
Jackeymo  did  not  venture  to  speak  ;  but  the  continued 
silenc^  of  his  master  disturbed  him  much.  He  laid  that 
peculiar  tinder  which  your  smokers  use  upon  the  steel,  and 
struck  the  spark — still  not  a  word,  nor  did  Riccabocca 
stretch  forth  his  hand. 

"  I  never  knew  him  in  this  taking  before,"  thought 
Jackeymo  ;  and  delicately  he  insinuated  the  neck  of  the 
pipe  into  the  nerveless  fingers  of  the  hand  that  lay  supine 
on  those  quiet  knees.  The  pipe  fell  to  the  ground. 

Jackeymo  crossed  himself,  and  began  praying  to  his 
sainted  namesake  with  great  fervor. 

The  Doctor  rose  slowly,  and  as  if  with  an  effort  ;  he 
walked  once  or  twice  to  and  fro  the  terrace  ;  and  then  he 
halted  abruptly,  and  said — 

"  Friend  !  " 

"  Blessed  Monsignore  San  Giacomo,  I  knew  thou  wouldst 
hear  me ! "  cried  the  servant  ;  and  he  raised  his  master's 
hand  to  his  lips,  then  abruptly  turned  away  and  wiped  his 
eyes. 

"Friend,"  repeated  Riccabocca,  and  this  time  with  a 
tremulous  emphasis,  and  in  the  softest  tone  of  a  voice  never 
wholly  without  the  music  of  the  sweet  South,  "  I  would 
talk  to  thee  of  my  child." 


CHAPTER  XIX. 

"  THE   letter,    then,    relates   to   the    Signorina.     She   is 

well  ? " 

"  Yes,  she  is  well  now.     She  is  in  our  native  Italy." 
Jackeymo    raised    his   eyes    involuntarily    toward    the 

orange-trees,  and  the  morning  breeze  swept  by  and  bore  to 

him  the  odor  of  their  blossoms. 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  185 

"  Those  are  sweet  even  here,  with  care,"  said  he,  point- 
ing to  the  trees.  "  I  think  I  have  said  that  before  to  the 
Padrone." 

But  Riccabocca  was  now  looking  again  at  the  letter, 
and  did  not  notice  either  the  gesture  or  the  remark  of  his 
servant. 

"  My  aunt  is  no  more ! "  said  he,  after  a  pause. 

"We  will  pray  for  her  soul !"  answered  Jackeymo  sol- 
emnly. "  But  she  was  very  old,  and  had  been  a  long  time 
ailing.  Let  it  not  grieve  the  Padrone  too  keenly  ;  at  that 
age,  and  with  those  infirmities,  death  comes  as  a  friend." 

"  Peace  be  to  her  dust !  "  returned  the  Italian.  "  If  she 
had  her  faults,  be  they  now  forgotten  for  ever ;  and  in  the 
hour  of  my  danger  and  distress  she  sheltered  my  infant ! 
That  shelter  is  destroyed.  This  letter  is  from  the  priest, 
her  confessor.  And  the  home  of  which  my  child  is  be- 
reaved falls  to  the  inheritance  of  my  enemy." 

"Traitor!"  muttered  Jackeymo;  and  his  right  hand 
seemed  to  feel  for  the  weapon  which  the  Italians  of  the 
lower  rank  often  openly  wear  in  their  girdles. 

"  The  priest,"  resumed  Riccabocca,  calmly,  "  has  rightly 
judged  in  removing  my  child  as  a  guest  from  the  house  in 
which  that  traitor  enters  as  lord." 

"And  where  is  the  Signorina?" 

"With  the  poor  priest.  See,  Giacomo — here,  here — 
this  is  her  handwriting  at  the  end  of  the  letter — the  first 
lines  she  ever  yet  traced  to  me." 

Jackeymo  took  off  his  hat,  and  looked  reverently  on  the 
large  characters  of  a  child's  writing.  But  large  as  they 
were,  they  seemed  indistinct,  for  the  paper  was  blistered 
with  the  child's  tears  ;  and  on  the  place  where  they  had  not 
fallen,  there  was  a  round,  fresh,  moist  stain  of  the  tear  that 
had  dropped  from  the  lids  of  the  father.  Riccabocca 
renewed, — "  The  priest  recommends  a  convent." 

"  To  the  devil  with  the  priest !  "  cried  the  servant  ;  then 
crossing  himself  rapidly,  he  added,  "  I  did  not  mean  that, 
Monsignore  San  Giacomo — forgive  me !  But  your  Excel- 
lency *  does  not  think  of  making  a  nun  of  his  only  child  ! " 

"And  yet  why  not?"  said  Riccabocca,  mournfully; 
"what  can  I  give  her  in  the  world?  Is  the  land  of  the 
stranger  a  better  refuge  than  the  home  of  peace  in  her 
native  clime  ?" 

*  The  title  of  Excellency  does  not,  in  Italian,  nccesssarily  express  any  exalted  rank  ;  but 
is  often  given  by  servants  to  their  masters. 


i36  MY  NOVEL;    OR, 

"  In  the  land  of  the  stranger  beats  her  father's  heart ! " 

"  And  if  that  beat  were  stilled,  what  then  ?  Ill  fares  the 
life  that  a  single  death  can  bereave  of  all.  In  a  convent  at 
least  (and  the  priest's  influence  can  obtain  her  that  asylum 
amongst  her  equals  and  amidst  her  sex)  she  is  safe  from 
trial  and  from  penury — to  her  grave." 

"  Penury  !  Just  see  how  rich  we  shall  be  when  we  take 
those  fields  at  Michaelmas." 

"Pazzie!"  (follies)  said  Riccabocca,  listlessly.  "Are 
these  suns  more  serene  than  ours,  or  the  soil  more  fertile  ? 
Yet  in  our  own  Italy,  saith  the  proverb,  '  he  who  sows  land 
reaps  more  care  than  corn.'  It  were  different,"  continued 
the  father,  after  a  pause,  and  in  a  more  resolute  tone,  "  if  I 
had  some  independence,  however  small,  to  count  on — nay, 
if  among  all  my  tribe  of  dainty  relatives  there  were  but  one 
female  who  would  accompany  Violante  to  the  exile's  hearth 
— Ishmael  had  his  Hagar.  But  how  can  we  two  rough- 
bearded  men  provide  for  all  the  nameless  wants  and  cares 
of  a  frail  female  child  ?  And  she  has  been  so  delicately 
reared — the  woman  child  needs  the  fostering  hand  and  ten- 
der eye  of  a  woman." 

"And  with  a  word,"  said  Jackeymo,  resolutely,  "the 
Padrone  might  secure  to  his  child  all  that  he  needs  to  save 
her  from  the  sepulchre  of  a  convent  ;  and  ere  the  autumn 
leaves  fall,  she  might  be  sitting  on  his  knee.  Padrone,  do 
not  think  that  you  can  conceal  from  me  the  truth,  that  you 
love  your  child  better  than  all  things  in  the  world — now 
the  Patria  is  as  dead  to  you  as  the  dust  of  your  fathers — 
and  your  heart-strings  would  crack  with  the  effort  to  tear 
her  from  them,  and  consign  her  to  a  convent.  Padrone, 
never  again  to  hear  her  voice — never  again  to  see  her  face  ! 
Those  little  arms  that  twined  round  your  neck  that  dark 
night,  when  we  fled  fast  for  life  and  freedom,  and  you  said, 
as  you  felt  their  clasp,  '  Friend,  all  is  not  yet  lost.'  " 

"  Giacomo  !  "  exclaimed  the  father  reproachfully,  and 
his  voice  seemed  to  choke  him.  Riccabocca  turned  away, 
and  walked  restlessly  to  and  fro  the  terrace  ;  then,  lifting 
his  arms  with  a  wild  gesture,  as  he  still  continued  his  long 
irregular  strides,  he  muttered,  "Yes,  heaven  is  my  witness 
that  I  could  have  borne  reverse  and  banishment  without  a 
murmur,  had  I  permitted  myself  that  young  partner  in 
exile  and  privation.  Heaven  is  my  witness  that,  if  I  hesi- 
tate now,  it  is  because  I  would  not  listen  to  my  own  selfish 
heart.  Yet  never,  never  to  see  her  again — my  child  !  And 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  187 

it  was  but  as  the  infant  that  I  beheld  her !  O  friend, 
friend — "  (and  stopping  short  with  a  burst  of  uncontrollable 
emotion,  he  bowed  his  head  upon  his  servant's  shoulder) — 
"  thou  knowest  what  I  have  endured  and  suffered  at  my 
hearth,  as  in  my  country  ;  the  wrong,  the  perfidy,  the — the — " 
His  voice  again  failed  him  ;  he  clung  to  his  servant's  breast, 
and  his  whole  frame  shook. 

"  But  your  child,  the  innocent  one — think  now  only  of 
her  ! "  faltered  Giacomo,  struggling  with  his  own  sobs. 

"  True,  only  of  her,"  replied  the  exile,  raising  his  face, 
— "  only  of  her.  Put  aside  thy  thoughts  for  thyself,  friend 
— counsel  me.  If  I  were  to  send  for  Violante,  and  if,  trans- 
planted to  these  keen  airs,  she  drooped  and  died — look, 
look — the  priest  says  that  she  needs  such  tender  care  ;  or  if 
I  myself  were  summoned  from  the  world,  to  leave  her  in  it 
alone,  friendless,  homeless,  breadless  perhaps,  at  the  age  of 
woman's  sharpest  trial  against  temptation,  would  she  not 
live  to  mourn  the  cruel  egotism  that  closed  on  her  infant 
innocence  the  gates  of  the  House  of  God  ? " 

Jackeymo  was  appalled  by  this  appeal  ;  and  indeed, 
Riccabocca  had  never  before  thus  reverently  spoken  of  the 
cloister.  In  his  hours  of  philosophy,  he  was  wont  to  sneer 
at  monks  and  nuns,  priesthood  and  superstition. 

But  now,  in  that  hour  of  emotion,  the  Old  Religion 
reclaimed  her  empire  ;  and  the  sceptical  world-wise  man, 
thinking  only  of  his  child,  spoke  and  felt  with  a  child's 
simple  faith. 


CHAPTER  XX. 

"  BUT  again  I  say,"  murmured  Jackeymo,  scarce  audibly, 
and  after  a  long  silence,  "  if  the  Padrone  would  make  up 
his  mind — to  marry  ! " 

He  expected  that  his  master  would  start  up  in  his  cus- 
tomary indignation  at  such  a  suggestion — nay,  he  might 
not  have  been  sorry  so  to  have  changed  the  current  of  feel- 
ing ;  but  the  poor  Italian  only  winced  slightly,  and  mildly 
withdrawing  himself  from  his  servant's  supporting  arm, 
again  paced  the  terrace,  but  this  time  quietly  and  in  silence. 
A  quarter  of  an  hour  thus  passed.  "Give  me  the  pipe," 
said  Dr.  Riccabocca,  passing  into  the  belvidere. 

Jackeymo  again   struck  the  spark,  and,  wonderfully  re- 


i88  MY  NOVEL;    Off, 

lieved  at  the  Padrone's  return  to  the  habitual  adviser,  men- 
tally besought  his  sainted  namesake  to  bestow  a  double 
portion  of  soothing  wisdom  on  the  benignant  influences  of 
the  weed. 


CHAPTER  XXI. 

,  DR.  RICCABOCCA  had  been  some  time  in  the  solitude  of 
the  belvidere,  when  Lenny  Fairfield,  not  knowing  that  his 
employer  was  therein,  entered  to  lay  down  a  book  which 
the  Doctor  had  lent  him,  with  injunctions  to  leave  it  on  a 
certain  table  when  done  with.  Riccabocca  looked  up  at 
the  sound  of  the  young  peasant's  step. 

"  I  beg  your  honor's  pardon — I  did  not  know " 

"  Never  mind  ;  lay  the  book  there.  I  wish  to  speak 
with  you.  You  look  well,  my  child  ;  this  air  agrees  with 
you  as  well  as  that  of  Hazeldean  ?  " 

"  Oh,  yes,  sir  !  " 

"Yet  it  is  higher  ground —  more  exposed?" 

"  That  can  hardly  be,  sir,"  said  Lenny  ;  there  are  many 
plants  grow  here  which  don't  flourish  at  the  Squire's.  The 
hill  yonder  keeps  off  the  east  wind,  and  the  place  lays  to 
the  south." 

"  Lies,  not  lays,   Lenny.     What  are  the  principal  com- 
plaints in  these  parts  ?  " 
'  Eh,  sir  ? " 

'  I  mean  what  maladies,  what  diseases  ! " 

'  I  never  heard  tell  of  any,  sir,  except  the  rheumatism." 

'  No  low  fevers  ? — no  consumption  ?  " 

'  Never  heard  of  them,  sir." 

Riccabocca  drew  a  long  breath,  as  if  relieved. 
'  That  seems  a  very  kindly  family  at  the  Hall." 

'  I  have  nothing  to  say  against  it,"  answered  Lenny, 
bluntly.  "  I  have  not  been  treated  justly.  But  as  that 
book  says,  sir,  '  It  is  not  every  one  who  comes  into  the 
world  with  a  silver  spoon  in  his  mouth.'  " 

Little  thought  the  Doctor  that  those  wise  maxims  may 
leave  sore  thoughts  behind  them.  He  was  too  occupied 
with  the  subject  most  at  his  own  heart  to  think  then  of 
what  was  in  Lenny  Fairfield's. 

"  Yes ;  a  kind,  English  domestic  family.  Did  you  see 
much  of  Miss  Hazeldean  ? " 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  189 

"  Not  so  much  as  of  the  Lady." 

"  Is  she  liked  in  the  village,  think  you  ?  " 

"  Miss  Jemima  ?  Yes.  She  never  did  harm.  Her  little 
dog  bit  me  once — she  did  not  ask  me  to  beg  its  pardon,  she 
asked  mine  !  She's  a  very  nice  young  lady  ;  the  girls  say 
she  is  very  affable  ;  and,"  added  Lenny  with  a  smile,  "there 
are  always  more  weddings  going  on  when  she  is  down  at 
the  Hall." 

"  Oh ! "  said  Riccabocca.  Then,  after  a  long  whiff, 
"  Did  you  ever  see  her  play  with  the  little  children?  Is 
she  fond  of  children,  do  you  think  ?" 

"  Lord,  sir,  you  guess  everything !  She's  never  so 
pleased  as  when  she's  playing  with  the  babies." 

"  Humph  !  "grunted Riccabocca.  "  Babies — well,  that's 
woman-like.  I  don't  mean  exactly  babies,  but  when  they're 
older — little  girls  ?  " 

"Indeed,  sir,  I  dare  say;  but,"  said  Lenny,  primly,  "I 
never  as  yet  kept  company  with  the  little  girls." 

"  Quite  right,  Lenny  ;  be  equally  discreet  all  your  life. 
Mrs.  Dale  is  very  intimate  with  Miss  Hazeldean — more 
than  with  the  Squire's  lady.  Why  is  that,  think  you  ?" 

"  Well,  sir,"  said  Leonard,  shrewdly,  "  Mrs.  Dale  has 
her  little  tempers,  though  she's  a  very  good  lady  ;  and 
Madam  Hazeldean  is  rather  high,  and  has  a  spirit.  But 
Miss  Jemima  is  so  soft  ;  any  one  could  live  with  Miss  Jemi- 
ma, as  Joe  and  the  servants  say  at  the  Hall !" 

"  Indeed  !  Get  my  hat  out  of  the  parlor,  and — just 
bring  a  clothes-brush,  Lenny.  A  fine  sunny  day  for  a 
walk." 

After  this  most  mean  and  dishonorable  inquisition  into 
the  character  and  popular  repute  of  Miss  Hazeldean,  Sig- 
nor  Riccabocca  seemed  as  much  cheered  up  and  elated  as 
if  he  had  committed  some  very  noble  action  ;  and  he  walked 
forth  in  the  direction  of  the  Hall  with  a  far  lighter  and  live- 
lier step  than  that  with  which  he  had  paced  the  terrace. 

"  Monsignore  San  Giacomo,  by  thy  help  and  the  pipe's,  the 
Padrone  shall  have  his  child  ! "  muttered  the  servant,  look- 
ing up  from  the  garden. 


igo  MY  NOVEL;    OR, 


CHAPTER  XXII. 

YET  Dr.  Riccabocca  was  not  rash.  The  man  who  wants 
his  wedding  garment  to  fit  him  must  allow  plenty  of  time 
for  the  measure.  But,  from  that  day,  the  Italian  notably 
changed  his  manner  toward  Miss  Hazeldean.  He  ceased 
that  profusion  of  compliment  in  which  he  had  hitherto  car- 
ried off  in  safety  all  serious  meaning.  For  indeed  the  Doc- 
tor considered  that  compliments  to  a  single  gentleman  were 
what  the  inky  liquid  it  dispenses  is  to  the  cuttle-fish,  that 
by  obscuring  the  water  sails  away  from  its  enemy.  Neither 
did  he,  as  before,  avoid  prolonged  conversations  with  the 
young  lady,  and  contrive  to  escape  from  all  solitary  rambles 
by  her  side.  On  the  contrary,  he  now  sought  every  occa- 
sion to  be  in  her  society  ;  and,  entirely  dropping  the 
language  of  gallantry,  he  assumed  something  of  the  earnest 
tone  of  friendship.  He  bent  down  his  intellect  to  examine 
and  plumb  her  own.  To  use  a  very  homely  simile,  he  blew 
away  that  froth  which  there  is  on  the  surface  of  mere  ac- 
quaintanceships, especially  with  the  opposite  sex  ;  and 
which,  while  it  lasts,  scarce  allows  you  to  distinguish  be- 
tween small  beer  and  double  X.  Apparently  Dr.  Ricca- 
bocca was  satisfied  with  his  scrutiny — at  all  events,  under 
that  froth  there  was  no  taste  of  bitter.  The  Italian  might 
not  find  any  great  strength  of  intellect  in  Miss  Jemima,  but 
he  found  that,  disentangled  from  many  little  whims  and 
foibles — which  he  had  himself  the  sense  to  perceive  were 
harmless  enough  if  they  lasted,  and  not  so  absolutely  con- 
stitutional but  what  they  might  be  removed  by  a  tender 
hand — Miss  Hazeldean  had  quite  enough  sense  to  compre- 
hend the  plain  duties  of  married  life  ;  and  if  the  sense 
could  fail,  it  found  a  substitute  in  good  old  homely  English 
principles,  and  the  instincts  of  amiable,  kindly  feelings. 

I  know  not  how  it  is,  but  your  very  clever  man  never 
seems  to  care  as  much  as  your  less  gifted  mortals  for 
cleverness  in  his  helpmate.  Your  scholars,  and  poets,  and 
ministers  of  state,  are  more  often  than  not  found  assorted 
with  exceedingly  humdrum,  good  sort  of  women,  and  ap- 
parently like  them  all  the  better  for  their  deficiencies. 
Just  see  how  happily  Racine  lived  with  his  wife,  and  what 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  igi 

an  angel  he  thought  her,  and  yet  she  had  never  read  his 
plays.  Certainly  Goethe  never  troubled  the  lady  who 
called  him-  "Mr.  Privy  Councillor"  with  whims  about 
"  monads,"  and  speculations  on  color,  nor  those  stiff  meta- 
physical problems  on  which  one  breaks  one's  shins  in  the 
Second  Part  of  the  Faust.  Probably  it  may  be  that  such 
great  geniuses — knowing  that,  as  compared  with  them- 
selves, there  is  little  difference  between  your  clever  wo- 
man and  your  humdrum  woman — merge  at  once  all 
minor  distinctions,  relinquish  all  attempts  at  sympathy  in 
hard  intellectual  pursuits,  and  are  quite  satisfied  to  establish 
that  tie  which,  after  all,  best  resists  wear  and  tear — viz., 
the  tough  household  bond  between  one  human  heart  and 
another. 

At  all  events  this,  I  suspect,  was  the  reasoning  of  Dr. 
Riccabocca,  when  one  morning,  after  a  long  walk  with  Miss 
Hazeldean,  he  muttered  to  himself — 

"  Duro  con  duro 
Non  fece  mai  buon  muro.1' 

Which  may  bear  the  paraphrase,  "  Bricks  without  mortar 
would  make  a  very  bad  wall."  There  was  quite  enough  in 
Miss  Jemima's  disposition  to  make  excellent  mortar;  the 
Doctor  took  the  bricks  to  himself. 

When  his  examination  was  concluded,  our  philosopher 
symbolically  evinced  the  result  he  had  arrived  at  by  a  very 
simple  proceeding  on  his  part,  which  would  have  puzzled 
you  greatly  if  you  had  not  paused,  and  meditated  thereon, 
till  you  saw  all  that  it  implied.  Dr.  Riccabocca  took  off  his 
spectacles!  He  wiped  them  carefully,  put  them  into  their 
shagreen  case,  and  locked  them  in  his  bureau  ;  that  is  to 
say,  he  left  off  wearing  his  spectacles. 

You  will  observe  that  there  was  a  wonderful  depth  of 
meaning  in  that  critical  symptom,  whether  it  be  regarded 
as  a  sign  outward,  positive,  and  explicit ;  or  a  sign  meta- 
physical, mystical,  and  esoteric.  For,  as  to  the  last,  it  de- 
noted that  the  task  of  the  spectacles  was  over  ;  that,  when 
a  philosopher  has  made  up  his  mind  to  marry,  it  is  better 
henceforth  to  be  short-sighted — nay,  even  somewhat  pur- 
blind— than  to  be  always  scrutinizing  the  domestic  felicity, 
to  which  he  is  about  to  resign  himself,  through  a  pair  of 
cold,  unillusory  barnacles.  And  for  the  things  beyond  the 
hearth,  if  he  cannot  see  without  spectacles,  is  he  not  about 


192  MY  NOVEL;    OR, 

to  ally  to  his  own  defective  vision  a  good,  sharp  pair  of 
eyes,  never  at  fault  where  his  interests  are  concerned  ?  On 
the  other  hand,  regarded  positively,  categorically,  and 
explicitly,  Dr.  Riccabocca,  by  laying  aside  those  spectacles, 
signified  that  he  was  about  to  commence  that  happy  imita- 
tion of  courtship  when  every  man,  be  he  ever  so  much  a 
philosopher,  wishes  to  look  as  young  and  as  handsome  as 
time  and  nature  will  allow.  Vain  task  to  speed  the  soft 
language  of  the  eyes  through  the  medium  of  those  glassy 
interpreters  !  I  remember,  for  my  own  part,  that  once,  on 
a  visit  to  the  town  of  Adelaide,  I — Pisistratus  Caxton — was 
in  great  danger  of  falling  in  love — with  a  young  lady,  too, 
who  would  have  brought  me  a  very  good  fortune,  when  she 
suddenly  produced  from  her  reticule  a  very  neat  pair  of  No. 
4,  set  in  tortoise-shell,  and  fixing  upon  me  their  Gorgon 
gaze,  froze  the  astonished  Cupid  into  stone  !  And  I  hold  it 
a  great  proof  of  the  wisdom  of  Riccabocca,  and  of  his  vast 
experience  in  mankind,  that  he  was  not  above  the  consider- 
ation of  what  your  pseudo  sages  would  have  regarded  as 
foppish  and  ridiculous  trifles.  It  argued  all  the  better  for 
that  happiness  which  is  our  being's  end  and  aim,  that  in 
condescending  to  play  the  lover,  he  put  those  unbecoming 
pctrifiers  under  lock  and  key. 

And  certainly,  now  the  spectacles  were  abandoned,  it 
was  impossible  to  deny  that  the  Italian  had  remarkably 
handsome  eyes.  Even  through  the  spectacles,  or  lifted  a 
little  above  them,  they  were  always  bright  and  expressive; 
but  without  those  adjuncts,  the  blaze  was  softer  and  more 
tempered  ;  they  had  that  look  which  the  French  call  ve- 
loute,  or  velvety  ;  and  he  appeared  altogether  ten  years 
younger.  If  our  Ulysses,  thus  rejuvenated  by  his  Minerva, 
lias  not  fully  made  up  his  mind  to  make  a  Penelope  of  Miss 
Jemima,  all  I  can  say  is,  that  he  is  worse  than  Polyphemus, 
who  was  only  an  Anthropophagos  ; — 

He  preys  upon  the  weaker  sex,  and  is  a  Gynopha;>;itc  ! 


CHAPTER  XXIIL 

"AND  you  commission  me,  then,  to  speak  to  our  dear 
Jemima?"  said  Mrs.  Dale,  joyfully,  and  without  any  bitter- 
ness whatever  in  that  "dear." 


VARIETIES   IN   ENGLISH  LIFE. 


193 


DR.  RICCABOCCA. — Nay,  before  speaking  to  Miss  Hazel- 
dean,  it  would  surely  be  proper  to  know  how  far  my  ad- 
dresses would  be  acceptable  to  the  family. 

MRS.  DALE. — Ah ! 

DR.  RICCABOCCA. — The  Squire  is,  of  course,  the  head  of 
the  family. 

MRS.  DALE  (absent  and  distraite). — The  Squire — yes, 
very  true — quite  proper  (then  looking  up,  and  with  naivete) 
can  you  believe  me,  I  never  thought  of  the  Squire  !  And 
he  is  such  an  odd  man,  and  has  so  many  English  prejudices, 
that  really — dear  me,  how  vexatious  that  it  should  never 
once  have  occurred  to  me  that  Mr.  Hazeldean  had  a  voice  in 
the  matter  !  Indeed  the  relationship  is  so  distant ; — it  is  not 
like  being  her  father ;  and  Jemima  is  of  age,  and  can  do  as 
she  pleases  ;  and — but,  as  you  say,  it  is  quite  proper  that  he 
should  be  consulted,  as  the  head  of  the  family. 

DR.  RICCABOCCA. — And  you  think  that  the  Squire  of 
Hazeldean  might  reject  my  alliance  ?— Pshaw !  that's  a 
grand  word,  indeed  ; — I  mean,  that  he  might  object  very 
reasonably  to  his  cousin's  marriage  with  a  foreigner,  of 
whom  he  can  know  nothing,  except  that  which  in  all 
countries  is  disreputable,  and  is  said  in  this  to  be  criminal 
— poverty  ? 

MRS.  DALE  (kindly).- — You  misjudge  us  poor  English 
people,  and  you  wrong  the  Squire,  Heaven  bless  him  !  for 
we  were  poor  enough  when  he  singled  out  my  husband 
from  a  hundred  for  the  minister  of  his  parish,  for  his 
neighbor  and  his  friend.  I  will  speak  to  him  fearlessly — 

DR.  RICCABOCCA. — And  frankly.  And  now  I  have  used 
that  word,  let  me  go  on  with  the  confession  which  your 
kindly  readiness,  my  fair  friend,  somewhat  interrupted.  I 
said  that  if  I  might  presume  to  think  my  addresses  would 
be  acceptable  to  Miss  Hazeldean  and  her  family,  I  was  too 
sensible  of  her  amiable  qualities  not  to — not  to — 

MRS.  DALE  (with  demure  archness). — Not  to  be  the  hap- 
piest of  men  ;  that's  the  customary  English  phrase,  Doctor. 

RICCABOCCA  (gallantly). — There  cannot  be  a  better. 
But,  continued  he,  seriously,  I  wish  it  first  to  be  under- 
stood that  I  have — been  married  before. 

MRS.  DALE  (astonished). — Married  before! 

RICCABOCCA. — And  that  I  have  an  only  child,  dear  to 
me — inexpressibly  dear.  That  child,  a  daughter,  has  hither- 
to lived  abroad;  circumstances  now  render  it  desirable 
that  she  should  make  her  home  with  me.  And  I  own 


194  MY  NOVEL;    OR, 

fairly  that  nothing  has  so  attached  me  to  Miss  Hazeldean, 
nor  so  induced  my  desire  for  our  matrimonial  connection, 
as  my  belief  that  she  has  the  heart  and  the  temper  to  be- 
come a  kind  mother  to  my  little  one. 

MRS.  DALE  (with  feeling  and  warmth). — You  judge  her 
rightly  there. 

RICCABOCCA.  —  Now  in  pecuniary  matters,  as  you  may 
conjecture  from  my  mode  of  life,  I  have  nothing  to  offer 
to  Miss  Hazeldean  corresponding  with  her  own  fortune, 
whatever  that  may  be  ! 

MRS.  DALE. — That  difficulty  is  obviated  by  settling  Miss 
Hazeldean's  fortune  on  herself,  which  is  customary  in  such 
cases. 

Dr.  Riccabocca's  face  lengthened.  "  And  my  child, 
then  ? "  said  he,  feelingly.  There  was  something  in  that 
appeal  so  alien  from  all  sordid  and  merely  personal  mer- 
cenary motives,  that  Mrs.  Dale  could  not  have  had  the 
heart  to  make  the  very  rational  suggestion, — "  But  that 
child  is  not  Jemima's,  and  you  may  have  children  by 
her." 

She  was  touched,  and  replied,  hesitatingly, — "  But, 
from  what  you  and  Jemima  may  jointly"  possess,  you  can 
save  something  annually, — you  can  insure  your  life  for 
your  child.  We  did  so  when  our  poor  child  whom  we  lost 
was  born  (the  tears  rushed  into  Mrs  Dale's  eyes),  and  I  fear 
that  Charles  still  insures  his  life  for  my  sake,  though 
Heaven  knows  that — that " 

The  tears  burst  out.  That  little  heart,  quick  and 
petulant  though  it  was,  had  not  a  fibre  of  the  elastic 
muscular  tissues  which  are  mercifully  bestowed  on  the 
hearts  of  predestined  widows.  Dr.  Riccabocca  could  not 
pursue  the  subject  of  life  insurances  further.  But  the 
idea — which  had  never  occurred  to  the  foreigner  before, 
though  so  familiar  to  us  English  people  when  only 
possessed  of  a  life  income — pleased  him  greatly.  I  will 
do  him  the  justice  to  say  that  he  preferred  it  to  the  thought 
of  actually  appropriating  to  himself  and  to  his  child  a 
portion  of  Miss  Hazeldean's'dower. 

Shortly  afterward  he  took  his  leave,  and  Mrs.  Dale 
hastened  to  seek  her  husband  in  his  study,  inform  him 
of  the  success  of  her  matrimonial  scheme,  and  consult  him 
as  to  the  chance  of  the  Squire's  acquiescence  therein. 
"  You  see,"  she  said,  hesitatingly,  "  though  the  Squire  might 
be  glad  to  see  Jemima  married  to  some  Englishman,  yet  if 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  195 

he  asks  who  and  what  is  this  Dr.  Riccabocca,  how  am  I 
to  answer  him  ?" 

"  You  should  have  thought  of  that  before,"  said  Mr. 
Dale,  with  unwonted  asperity  ;  "  and,  indeed,  if  I  had  ever 
believed  anything  serious  could  come  out  of  what  seemed 
to  me  so  absurd,  I  should  long  since  have  requested  you 
not  to  interfere  in  such  matters.  Good  heavens  !"  con- 
tinued the  Parson,  changing  color,  "if  we  should  have  as- 
sisted, underhand,  as  it  were,  to  introduce  into  the  family 
of  a  man  to  whom  we  owe  so  much,  a  connection  that  he 
would  dislike !  how  base  we  should  be  ! — how  ungrateful ! " 

Poor  Mrs.  Dale  was  frightened  by  this  speech,  and  still 
more  by  her  husband's  consternation  and  displeasure.  To 
do  Mrs.  Dale  justice,  whenever  her  mild  partner  was  really 
either  grieved  or  offended,  her  little  temper  vanished — she 
became  as  meek  as  a  lamb.  As  soon  as  she  recovered  the 
first  shock  she  experienced,  she  hastened  to  dissipate  the 
Parson's  apprehensions.  She  assured  him  that  she  was 
convinced  that,  if  the  Squire  disapproved  of  Riccabocca's 
pretensions,  the  Italian  would  withdraw  them  at  once,  and 
Miss  Hazeldean  would  never  know  of  his  proposals. 
Therefore,  in  that  case,  no  harm  would  be  done. 

This  assurance,  coinciding  with  Mr.  Dale's  convictions 
as  to  Riccabocca's  scruples  on  the  point  of  honor,  tended 
much  to  compose  the  good  man  ;  and  if  he  did  not,  as  my 
reader  of  the  gentler  sex  would  expect  from  him,  feel 
alarm  lest  Miss  Jemima's  affections  should  have  been 
irretrievably  engaged,  and  her  happiness  thus  put  in 
jeopardy  by  the  Squire's  refusal,  it  was  not  that  the  Parson 
wanted  tenderness  of  heart,  but  experience  in  womankind  ; 
and  he  believed,  very  erroneously,  that  Miss  Jemima 
Hazeldean  was  not  one  upon  whom  a  disappointment  of 
that  kind  would  produce  a  lasting  impression.  Therefore 
Mr.  Dale,  after  a  pause  of  consideration,  said  kindly — 

"  Well,  don't  vex  yourself — and  I  was  to  blame  quite 
as  much  as  you.  But,  indeed,  I  should  have  thought  it 
easier  for  the  Squire  to  have  transplanted  one  of  his  tall 
cedars  into  his  kitchen-garden,  than  for  you  to  inveigle 
Dr.  Riccabocca  into  matrimonial  intentions.  But  a  man 
who  could  voluntarily  put  himself  into  the  parish  stocks 
for  the  sake  of  experiment,  must  be  capable  of  anything ! 
However,  I  think  it  better  that  I,  rather  than  yourself, 
should  speak  to  the  Squire,  and  I  will  go  at  once." 


196  MY  NOVEL;    OR, 


CHAPTER   XXIV. 

THE  Parson  put  on  the  shovel-hat  which — conjoined 
with  other  details  in  his  dress  peculiarly  clerical,  and  al- 
ready, even  then,  beginning  to  be  out  of  fashion  with 
churchmen — had  served  to  fix  upon  him,  emphatically,  the 
dignified  but  antiquated  style  and  cognomen  of  "  Parson," 
and  took  his  way  toward  the  Home  Farm,  at  which  he  ex- 
pected to  find  the  Squire.  But  he  had  scarcely  entered 
upon  the  village-green  when  he  beheld  Mr.  Hazeldean,  lean- 
ing both  hands  on  his  stick,  and  gazing  intently  upon  the 
parish  stocks.  Now,  sorry  am  I  to  say  that,  ever  since  the 
Hegira  of  Lenny  and  his  mother,  the  Anti-Stockian  and 
Revolutionary  spirit  in  Hazeldean,  which  the  memorable 
homily  of  our  Parson  had  awhile  averted  or  suspended,  had 
broken  forth  afresh.  For  though,  while  Lenny  was  present 
to  be  mowed  and  jeered  at,  there  had  been  no  pity  for  him, 
yet  no  sooner  was  he  removed  from  the  scene  of  trial,  than 
a  universal  compassion  for  the  barbarous  usage  he  had  re- 
ceived produced  what  is  called  "  the  reaction  of  public 
opinion."  Not  that  those  who  had  mowed  and  jeered  re- 
pented them  of  their  mockery,  or  considered  themselves  in 
the  slightest  degree  the  cause  of  his  expatriation.  No ; 
they,  with  the  rest  of  the  villagers,  laid  all  the  blame  upon 
the  stocks.  It  was  not  to  be  expected  that  a  lad  of  such  ex- 
emplary character  could  be  thrust  into  that  place  of  igno- 
miny, and  not  be  sensible  of  the  affront.  And  who,  in  the 
whole  village,  was  safe,  if  such  goings-on  and  puttings-in 
were  to  be  tolerated  in  silence,  and  at  the  expense  of  the 
very  best  and  quietest  lad  the  village  had  ever  known  ? 
Thus,  a  few  days  after  the  widow's  departure,  the  stocks  was 
again  the  object  of  midnight  desecration  ;  it  was  bedaubed 
and  bescratched — it  was  hacked  and  hewed — it  was  scrawled 
over  with  pithy  lamentations  for  Lenny,  and  laconic  execra- 
tions on  tyrants.  Night  after  night  new  inscriptions  ap- 
peared, testifying  the  sarcastic  wit  and  the  vindictive  senti- 
ment of  the  parish.  And  perhaps  the  stocks  was  only  spared 
from  axe  and  bonfire  by  the  convenience  it  afforded  to  the 
malice  of  the  disaffected  ;  it  became  the  Pasquin  of  Hazel- 
dean. 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  197 

As  disaffection  naturally  produces  a  correspondent  vigor 
in  authority,  so  affairs  had  been  lately  administered  with 
greater  severity  than  had  been  hitherto  wont  in  the  easy 
rule  of  the  Squire  and  his  predecessors.  Suspected  persons 
were  naturally  marked  out  by  Mr.  Stirn,  and  reported  to  his 
employer,  who,  too  proud  or  too  pained  to  charge  them 
openly  with  ingratitude,  at  first  only  passed  them  by  in  his 
walks  with  a  silent  and  stiff  inclination  of  his  head  ;  and  af- 
terward, gradually  yielding  to  the  baleful  influence  of  Stirn, 
the  Squire  grumbled  forth  "that  he  did  not  see  why  he 
should  be  always  putting  himself  out  of  his  way  to  show 
kindness  to  those  who  made  such  a  return.  There  ought  to 
be  a  difference  between  the  good  and  the  bad."  Encouraged 
by  this  admission,  Stirn  had  conducted  himself  toward  the 
suspected  parties,  and  their  whole  kith  and  kin,  with  the 
iron-handed  justice  that  belonged  to  his  character.  For 
some,  habitual  donations  of  milk  from  the  dairy,  and  vege- 
tables from  the  gardens,  were  surlily  suspended  ;  others 
were  informed  that  their  pigs  were  always  trespassing  on  the 
woods  in  search  of  acorns  ;  or  that  they  were  violating  the 
Game  Laws  in  keeping  lurchers.  A  beer-house,  popular  in 
the  neighborhood,  but  of  late  resorted  to  overmuch  by  the 
grievance-mongers  (and  no  wonder,  since  they  had  become 
the  popular  party),  was  threatened  with  an  application  to 
the  magistrates  for  the  withdrawal  of  its  license.  Sundry 
old  women,  whose  grandsons  were  notoriously  ill-disposed 
toward  the  stocks,  were  interdicted  from  gathering  dead 
sticks  under  the  avenues,  on  pretence  that  they  broke  down 
the  live  boughs  ;  and,  what  was  more  obnoxious  to  the 
younger  members  of  the  parish  than  most  other  retaliatory 
measures,  three  chestnut  trees,  one  walnut,  and  two  cherry 
trees,  standing  at  the  bottom  of  the  Park,  and  which  had, 
from  time  immemorial,  been  given  up  to  the  youth  of 
Hazeldean,  were  now  solemnly  placed  under  the  general 
defence  of  "private  property."  And  the  crier  had  an- 
nounced that,  henceforth,  all  depredators  on  the  fruit  trees 
of  Copse  Hollow  would  be  punished  with  the  utmost  rigor 
of  the  law. 

Stirn,  indeed,  recommended  much  more  stringent  pro- 
ceedings than  all  these  indications  of  a  change  of  policy, 
which,  he  averred,  would  soon  bring  the  parish  to  its 
senses — such  as  discontinuing  many  little  jobs  of  unprofit- 
able work  that  employed  the  surplus  labor  of  the  village. 
But  there  the  Squire,  falling  into  the  department,  and 


I98  MY  NOVEL;    OR, 

under  the  benigner  influence  of  his  Harry,  was  as  yet  not 
properly  hardened.  When  it  came  to  a  question  that 
affected  the  absolute  quantity  of  loaves  to  be  consumed  by 
the  graceless  mouths  that  fed  upon  him,  the  milk  of  human 
kindness — with  which  Providence  has  so  bountifully  sup- 
plied that  class  of  the  mammalia  called  the  "Bucolic,"  and 
of  which  our  Squire  had  an  extra  "yield" — burst  forth, 
and  washed  away  all  the  indignation  of  the  harsher  Adam. 

Still  your  policy  of  half  measures,  which  irritates  with- 
out crushing  its  victims,  which  flaps  an  exasperated  wasp- 
nest  with  a  silk  pocket-handkerchief,  instead  of  blowing  it 
up  with  a  match  and  train,  is  rarely  successful ;  and,  after 
three  or  four  other  and  much  guiltier  victims  than  Lenny 
had  been  incarcerated  in  the  stocks,  the  parish  of  Hazel- 
dean  was  ripe  for  any  enormity.  Pestilent  Jacobinical  tracts, 
conceived  and  composed  in  the  sinks  of  manufacturing 
towns — found  their  way  into  the  popular  beer-house — 
heaven  knows  how,  though  the  Tinker  was  suspected  of 
being  the  disseminator  by  all  but  Stirn,  who  still,  in  a 
whisper,  accused  the  Papishers.  And,  finally,  there  ap- 
peared amongst  the  other  graphic  embellishments  which  the 
poor  stocks  had  received,  the  rude  gravure  of  a  gentleman 
in  a  broad-brimmed  hat  and  top-boots,  suspended  from  a 
gibbet,  with  the  inscription  beneath — "A  warnin  to  hall 
tirans — mind  your  hi ! — sighnde  Captin  sTraw." 

It  was  upon  this  significant  and  emblematic  portraiture 
that  the  Squire  was  gazing  when  the  Parson  joined  him. 

"Well,  Parson,"  said  Mr.  Hazeldean, with  a  smile  which 
he  meant  to  be  pleasant  and  easy,  but  which  was  exceed- 
ingly bitter  and  grim,  "  I  wish  you  joy  of  your  flock — you 
see  they  have  just  hanged  me  in  effigy  !  " 

The  Parson  stared,  and  though  greatly  shocked,  smo- 
thered his  emotions  ;  and  attempted,  with  the  wisdom  of 
the  serpent  and  the  mildness  of  the  dove,  to  find  another 
original  for  the  effigy. 

"  It  is  very  bad,  but  not  so  bad  as  all  that,  Squire  ;  that's 
not  the  shape  of  your  hat.  It  is  evidently  meant  for  Mr. 
Stirn." 

"Do  you  think  so?  "said,  the  Squire,  softened.  "Yet 
the  top-boots — Stirn  never  wears  top-boots." 

"  No  more  do  you,  except  in  the  hunting-field.  If  you 
look  again,  those  are  not  tops — they  are  leggings — Stirn 
wears  leggings.  Besides,  that  flourish,  which  is  meant  for 
a  nose,  is  a  kind  of  a  hook,  like  Stirn's  ;  whereas  your  nose 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  199 

— though  by  no  means  a  snub — rather  turns  up  than  not,  as 
the  Apollo's  does,  according  to  the  plaster  cast  in  Ricca- 
bocca's  parlor." 

"  Poor  Stirn !  "  said  the  Squire,  in  a  tone  that  evinced 
complacency,  not  unmingled  with  compassion,  "  that's  what 
a  man  gets  in  this  world  by  being  a  faithful  servant,  and 
doing  his  duty  with  zeal  for  his  employer.  But  you  see 
that  things  have  come  to  a  strange  pass,  and  the  question 
now  is,  what  course  to  pursue.  The  miscreants  hitherto 
have  defied  all  vigilance,  and  Stirn  recommends  the  employ- 
ment of  a  regular  night-watch,  with  a  lanthorn  and 
bludgeon." 

"  That  may  protect  the  stocks,  certainly  ;  but  will  it 
keep  those  detestable  tracts  out  of  the  beer-house  ?  " 

"We  shall  shut  the  beer-house  up  the  next  sessions." 

"  The  tracts  will  break  out  elsewhere — the  humor's  in 
the  blood  ! " 

"  I've  half  a  mind  to  run  off  to  Brighton  or  Leamington 
— good  hunting  at  Leamington — for  a  year,  just  to  let  the 
rogues  see  how  they  can  get  on  without  me  ! " 

The  Squire's  lip  trembled. 

"My  dear  Mr.  Hazeldean,"  said  the  Parson,  taking  his 
friend's  hand,  "  I  don't  want  to  parade  my  superior  wisdom  ; 
but,  if  you  had  taken  my  advice,  quieta  -non  movere  !  Was 
there  ever  a  parish  so  peaceable  as  this,  or  a  country- 
gentleman  so  beloved  as  you  were,  before  you  undertook 
the  task  which  has  dethroned  kings  and  ruined  states — that 
of  wantonly  meddling  with  antiquity,  whether  for  the  pur- 
pose of  uncalled-for  repairs,  or  the  revival  of  obsolete  uses  ? " 

At  this  rebuke,  the  Squire  did  not  manifest  his  constitu- 
tional tendencies  to  choler  ;  but  he  replied  almost  meekly, 
"If  it  were  -to  do  again,  faith,  I  would  leave  the  parish  to 
the  enjoyment  of  the  shabbiest  pair  of  stocks  that  ever  dis- 
graced a  village.  Certainly  I  meant  it  for  the  best — an 
ornament  to  the  green  ;  however,  now  the  stocks  is  rebuilt, 
the  stocks  must  be  supported.  Will  Hazeldean  is  not  the 
man  to  give  way  to  a  set  of  thankless  rapscallions." 

"  I  think,"  said  the  Parson,  "  that  you  will  allow  that  the 
House  of  Tudor,  whatever  its  faults,  was  a  determined, 
resolute  dynasty  enough — high-hearted  and  strong-headed. 
A  Tudor  would  never  have  fallen  into  the  same  calamities 
as  the  poor  Stuart  did  ! " 

"  What  the  plague  has  the  House  of  Tudor  got  to  do 
with  my  stocks  ? " 


200  VF  NOVEL;    OR, 

"  A  great  deal.  Henry  VIII.  found  a  subsidy  so  unpop- 
ular that  he  gave  it  up  ;  and  the  people,  in  return,  allowed 
him  to  cut  off  as  many  heads  as  he  pleased,  besides  those  in 
his  own  family.  Good  Queen  Bess,  who,  I  know,  is  your 
idol  in  history " 

"  To  be  sure  ! — she  knighted  my  ancestor  at  Tilbury 
Fort." 

"  Good  Queen  Bess  struggled  hard  to  maintain  a  certain 
monopoly  ;  she  saw  it  would  not  do,  and  she  surrendered  it 
with  that  frank  heartiness  which  becomes  a  sovereign,  and 
makes  surrender  a  grace." 

"  Ha  !  and  you  would  have  me  give  up  the  stocks  ?  " 

"  I  would  much  rather  the  stocks  had  remained  as  it  was, 
before  you  touched  it  ;  but,  as  it  is,  if  you  could  find  a 
good  plausible  pretext — and  there  is  an  excellent  one  at 
hand  : — the  sternest  kings  open  prisons,  and  grant  favors, 
upon  joyful  occasions — now  a  marriage  in  the  royal  family 
is  of  course  a  joyful  occasion  ! — and  so  it  should  be  in  that 
of  the  King  of  Hazeldean."  Admire  that  artful  turn  in 
the  Parson's  eloquence  !  it  was  worthy  of  Riccabocca 
himself.  Indeed,  Mr.  Dale  had  profited  much  by  his 
companionship  with  that  Machiavellian  intellect. 

"A  marriage — yes;  but  Frank  has  only  just  got  into 
coat-tails  !  " 

"  I  did  not  allude  to  Frank,  but  to  your  cousin  Je- 
mima I" 


CHAPTER  XXV. 

THE  Squire  staggered  as  if  the  breath  had  been  knocked 
out  of  him,  and,  for  want  of  a  better  seat,  sat  down  on  the 
stocks. 

All  the  female  heads  in  the  neighboring  cottages  peered, 
themselves  unseen,  through  the  casements.  What  could 
the  Squire  be  about  ? — what  new  mischief  did  he  meditate  ? 
Did  he  mean  to  fortify  the  stocks  ?  Old  Gaffer  Solomons, 
who  had  an  indefinite  idea  of  the  lawful  power  of  squires, 
and  who  had  been  for  the  last  ten  minutes  at  watch  on  his 
threshold,  shook  his  head  and  said — "Them  as  a  cut  out 
the  mon  a-hanging,  as  a  put  it  in  the  Squire's  head  !  " 

"  Put  what  ? "  asked  his  grand-daughter. 

"The  gallus  !"  answered  Solomons — "he  be  a-going  to 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  201 

have  it  hung  from  the  great  elm-tree.  And  the  Parson, 
good  mon,  is  a-quoting  Scripture  agin  it — you  see  he's  a- 
taking  off  his  gloves,  and  a-putting  his  two  han's  together, 
as  he  do  when  he  pray  for  the  sick,  Jeany." 

That  description  of  the  Parson's  mien  and  manner, 
which,  with  his  usual  niceness  of  observation,  Gaffer  Solo- 
mons thus  sketched  off,  will  convey  to  you  some  idea  of  the 
earnestness  with  which  the  Parson  pleaded  the  cause  he  had 
undertaken  to  advocate.  He  dwelt  much  upon  the  sense  of 
propriety  which  the  foreigner  had  evinced  in  requesting 
that  the  Squire  might  be  consulted  before  any  formal  com- 
munication to  his  cousin  ;  and  he  repeated  Mrs.  Dale's 
assurance,  that  such  were  Riccabocca's  high  standard  of 
honor  and  belief  in  the  sacred  rights  of  hospitality,  that,  if 
the  Squire  withheld  his  consent  to  his  proposals,  the  Parson 
was  convinced  that  the  Italian  would  instantly  retract  them. 
Now,  considering  that  Miss  Hazeldean  was,  to  say  the  least, 
come  to  years  of  discretion,  and  the  Squire  had  long  since 
placed  her  property  entirely  at  her  own  disposal,  Mr.  Hazel- 
dean  was  forced  to  acquiesce  in  the  Parson's  corollary 
remark,  "  That  this  was  a  delicacy  which  could  not  be 
expected  from  every  English  pretender  to  the  lady's  hand." 
Seeing  that  he  had  so  far  cleared  ground,  the  Parson  went 
on  to  intimate,  though  with  great  tact,  that  since  Miss 
Jemima  would  probably  marry  sooner  or  later  (and,  indeed, 
that  the  Squire  could  not  wish  to  prevent  her),  it  might  be 
better  for  all  parties  concerned  that  it  should  be  with  some 
one  who,  though  a  foreigner,  was  settled  in  the  neighbor- 
hood, and  of  whose  character  what  was  known  was  certainly 
favorable,  rather  than  run  the  hazard  of  her  being  married 
for  her  money  by  some  adventurer,  or  Irish  fortune-hunter, 
at  the  watering-places  she  yearly  visited.  Then  he  touched 
lightly  on  Riccabocca's  agreeable  and  companionable  quali- 
ties ;  and  concluded  with  a  skilful  peroration  upon  the 
excellent  occasion  the  wedding  would  afford  to  reconcile 
Hall  and  Parish,  by  making  a  voluntary  holocaust  of  the 
stocks. 

As  he  concluded,  the  Squire's  brow,  before  thoughtful, 
though  not  sullen,  cleared  up  benignly.  To  say  truth,  the 
Squire  was  dying  to  get  rid  of  the  stocks,  if  he  could  but 
do  so  handsomely  and  with  dignity  ;  and  had  all  the  stars 
in  the  astrological  horoscope  conjoined  together  to  give 
Miss  Jemima  "assurance  of  a  husband,"  they  could  not  so 
have  served  her  with  the  Squire,  as  that  conjunction  be- 


202  MY  NOVEL;    OK, 

tween   the   altar   and   the   stocks   which   the    Parson    had 
effected  ! 

Accordingly,  when  Mr.  Dale  had  come  to  an  end,  the 
Squire  replied,  with  great  placidity  and  good  sense,  "  That 
Mr.  Rickeybockey  had  behaved  very  much  like  a  gentle- 
man, and  that  he  was  very  much  obliged  to  him  ;  that  he 
(the  Squire)  had  no  right  to  interfere  in  the  matter,  farther 
than  with  his  advice  ;  that  Jemima  was  old  enough  to 
choose  for  herself,  and  that,  as  the  Parson  had  implied, 
after  all,  she  might  go  farther  and  fare  worse — indeed,  the 
farther  she  went  (that  is,  the  longer  she  waited),  the  worse 
she  was  likely  to  fare.  I  own,  for  my  part,"  continued  the 
Squire,  "  that  though  I  like  Rickeybockey  very  much,  I 
never  suspected  that  Jemima  was  caught  with  his  long 
face  ;  but  there's  no  accounting  for  tastes.  My  Harry, 
indeed,  was  more  shrewd,  and  gave  me  many  a  hint,  for 
which  I  only  laughed  at  her.  Still  I  ought  to  have  thought 
it  looked  queer  when  Mounseer  took  to  disguising  himself 
by  leaving  off  his  glasses,  ha — ha !  I  wonder  what  Harry 
will  say  ;  let's  go  and  talk  to  her." 

The  Parson,  rejoiced  at  this  easy  way  of  taking  the  mat- 
ter, hooked  his  arm  into  the  Squire's,  and  they  walked 
amicably  toward  the  Hall.  But  on  coming  first  into  the 
gardens  they  found  Mrs.  Hazeldean  herself,  clipping  dead 
leaves  or  fading  flowers  from  her  rose-trees.  The  Squire 
stole  slyly  behind  her,  and  startled  her  in  her  turn  by  put- 
ting his  arm  round  her  waist,  and  saluting  her  smooth 
cheek  with  one  of  his  hearty  kisses  ;  which,  by  the  way, 
from  some  association  of  ideas,  was  a  conjugal  freedom  that 
he  usually  indulged  whenever  a  wedding  was  going  on  in 
the  village. 

"  Fie,  William  ! "  said  Mrs.  Hazeldean,  coyly,  and  blush- 
ing as  she  saw  the  Parson.  "  Well,  who's  going  to  be  mar- 
ried now  ?  " 

"  Lord,  was  there  ever  such  a  woman  ? — she's  guessed 
it!"  cried  the  Squire,  in  great  admiration.  "Tell  her  all 
about  it,  Parson." 

The  Parson  obeyed. 

Mrs.  Hazeldean,  as  the  reader  may  suppose,  showed 
much  less  surprise  than  her  husband  had  done  ;  but  she  took 
the  news  graciously,  and  made  much  the  same  answer  as 
that  which  had  occurred  to  the  Squire,  only  with  somewhat 
more  qualification  and  reserve.  "Signer  Riccabocca  had 
behaved  very  handsomely  ;  and  though  a  daughter  of  the 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  203 

Hazeldeans  of  Hazeldean  might  expect  a  much  better  mar- 
riage in  a  worldly  point  of  view,  yet  as  the  lady  in  question 
had  deferred  finding  one  so  long,  it  would  be  equally  idle 
and  impertinent  now  to  quarrel  with  her  choice — if  indeed 
she  should  decide  on  accepting  Signer  Riccabocca.  As  for 
fortune,  that  was  a  consideration  for  the  two  contracting 
parties.  Still,  it  ought  to  be  pointed  out  to  Miss  Jemima 
that  the  interest  of  her  fortune  would  afford  but  a  very 
small  income.  That  Dr.  Riccabocca  was  a  widower  was 
another  matter  for  deliberation  ;  and  it  seemed  rather  sus- 
picious that  he  should  have  been  hitherto  so  close  upon  all 
matters  connected  with  his  former  life.  Certainly  his  man- 
ners were  in  his  favor,  and  as  long  as  he  was  merely  an 
acquaintance,  and  at  most  a  tenant,  no  one  had  a  right  to 
institute  inquiries  of  a  strictly  private  nature  ;  but  that, 
when  he  was  about  to  marry  a  Hazeldean  of  Hazeldean,  it 
became  the  Squire  at  least  to  know  a  little  more  about  him — 
who  and  what  he  was.  Why  did  he  leave  his  own  country  ? 
English  people  went  abroad  to  save  ;  no  foreigner  would 
choose  England  as  a  country  in  which  to  save  money  !  She 
supposed  that  a  foreign  doctor  was  no  very  great  things  ; 
probably  he  had  been  a  professor  in  some  Italian  univer- 
sity. At  all  events,  if  the  Squire  interfered  at  all,  it  was 
on  such  points  that  he  should  request  information." 

'•  My  dear  madam,"  said  the  Parson,  "what  you  say  is 
extremely  just.  As  to  the  causes  which  have  induced  our 
friend  to  expatriate  himself,  I  think  we  need  not  look  far 
for  them.  He  is  evidently  one  of  the  many  Italian  refugees 
whom  political  disturbances  have  driven  to  a  land  of  which 
it  is  the  boast  to  receive  all  exiles  of  whatever  party.  For 
his  respectability  of  birth  and  family,  he  certainly  ought  to 
obtain  some  vouchers.  And  if  that  be  the  only  objection, 
I  trust  we  may  soon  congratulate  Miss  Hazeldean  on  a 
marriage  with  a  man  who,  though  certainly  very  poor,  has 
borne  privations  without  a  murmur  ;  has  preferred  all  hard- 
ship to  debt ;  has  scorned  to  attempt  betraying  the  young 
lady  into  any  clandestine  connection  ;  who,  in  short,  has 
shown  himself  so  upright  and  honest,  that  I  hope  my  dear 
Mr.  Hazeldean  will  forgive  him  if  he  is  only  a  doctor — 
probably  of  Laws — and  not,  as  most  foreigners  pretend  to 
be,  a  marquis  or  a  baron  at  least." 

"As  to  that,"  cried  the  Squire,  "'tis  the  best  thing  I 
know  about  Rickeybockey,  that  he  don't  attempt  to  hum- 
bug us  by  any  such  foreign  trumpery.  Thank  heaven,  the 


204  My  NOVEL;    OK, 

Hazeldeans  of  Hazeldean  were  never  tuft-hunters  and  title- 
mongers  ;  and  if  I  never  ran  after  an  English  lord,  I  should 
certainly  be  devilish  ashamed  of  a  brother-in-law  whom  I 
was  forced  to  call  markee  or  count !  I  should  feel  sure  he 
was  a  courier,  or  runaway  valley  de-sham.  Turn  up  your 
nose  at  a  doctor,  indeed,  Harry ; — pshaw,  good  English 
style  that !  Doctor  !  my  aunt  married  a  Doctor  of  Divinity 
— excellent  man — wore  a  wig,  and  was  made  a  dean  !  So 
long  as  Rickeybockey  is  not  a  doctor  of  physic,  I  don't 
care  a  button.  If  he's  that,  indeed,  it  would  be  suspicious  ; 
because,  you  see,  those  foreign  doctors  of  physic  are 
quacks,  and  tell  fortunes,  and  go  about  on  a  stage  with  a 
Merry -Andrew. " 

"  Lord,  Hazeldean !  where  on  earth  did  you  pick  up 
that  idea  ? "  said  Harry,  laughing. 

"  Pick  it  up  ! — why,  I  saw  a  fellow  myself  at  the  cattle- 
fair  last  year — when  I  was  buying  short-horns — with  a  red 
waistcoat  and  a  cocked-hat,  a  little  like  the  Parson's  shovel. 
He  called  himself  Doctor  Phoscophornio — and  sold  pills  ! 
The  Merry-Andrew  was  the  funniest  creature — in  salmon 
colored  tights —  turned  head  over  heels,  and  said  he  came 
from  Timbuctoo.  No,  no  ;  if  Rickeybockey's  a  physic 
doctor,  we  shall  have  Jemima  in  a  pink  tinsel  dress,  tramp- 
ing about  the  country  in  a  caravan  !  " 

At  this  notion  both  the  Squire  and  his  wife  laughed  so 
heartily,  that  the  Parson  felt  the  thing  was  settled,  and 
slipped  away,  with  the  intention  of  making  his  report  to 
Riccabocca. 


CHAPTER   XXVI 

IT  was  with  a  slight  disturbance  of  his  ordinary  suave 
and  well-bred  equanimity  that  the  Italian  received  the  in- 
formation, that  he  need  apprehend  no  obstacle  to  his  suit 
from  the  insular  prejudices  or  the  worldly  views  of  the 
lady's  family.  Not  that  he  was  mean  and  cowardly  enough 
to  recoil  from  the  near  and  unclouded  prospect  of  that  fe- 
licity which  he  had  left  off  his  glasses  to  behold  with  un- 
blinking naked  eyes  ; — no,  there  his  mind  was  made  up  ; 
but  he  had  met  in  life  with  much  that  inclines  a  man 
toward  misanthropy,  and  he  was  touched  not  only  by  the 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  205 

interest  in  his  welfare  testified  by  an  heretical  priest,  but  by 
the  generosity  with  which  he  was  admitted  into  a  well-born 
and  wealthy  family,  'despite  his  notorious  poverty  and  his 
foreign  descent.  He  conceded  the  propriety  of  the  only 
stipulation,  which  was  conveyed  to  him  by  the  Parson  with 
all  the  delicacy  that  became  one  long  professionally  habitu- 
ated to  deal  with  the  subtler  susceptibilities  of  mankind — 
viz.,  that  amongst  Riccabocca's  friends  or  kindred,  some 
person  should  be  found  whose  report  would  confirm  the 
persuasion  of  his  respectability  entertained  by  his  neigh- 
bors ;  he  assented,  I  say,  to  the  propriety  of  this  condition  ; 
but  it  was  not  with  alacrity  and  eagerness.  His  brow  be- 
came clouded.  The  Parson  hastened  to  assure  him  that 
the  Squire  was  not  a  man  qui  stupet  in  titiilis  (who  was  be- 
sotted with  titles),  that  he  neither  expected  nor  desired  to 
find  an  origin  and  rank  for  his  brother-in-law  above  that 
decent  mediocrity  of  condition  to  which  it  was  evident, 
from  Riccabocca's  breeding  and  accomplishments,  he  could 
easily  establish  his  claim.  "And  though,"  said  he,  smiling, 
"  the  Squire  is  a  warm  politician  in  his  own  country,  and 
would  never  see  his  sister  again,  I  fear,  if  she  married  some 
convicted  enemy  of  our  happy  constitution,  yet,  for  foreign 
politics  he  does  not  care  a  straw  ;  so  that  if,  as  I  suspect, 
your  exile  arises  from  some  quarrel  with  your  Government 
— which,  being  foreign,  he  takes  for  granted  must  be  insup- 
portable— he  would  but  consider  you  as  he  would  a  Saxon 
who  fled  from  the  iron  hand  of  William  the  Conqueror,  or 
a  Lancastrian  expelled  by  the  Yorkists  in  our  Wars  of  the 
Roses." 

The  Italian  smiled.  "  Mr.  Hazeldean  shall  be  satisfied," 
said  he  simply.  "  I  see,  by  the  Squire's  newspaper,  that  an 
English  gentleman  who  knew  me  in  my  own  country  has 
just  arrived  in  London.  I  will  write  to  him  for  a  testimo- 
nial, at  least  to  my  probity  and  character.  Probably  he  may 
be  known  to  you  by  name — nay,  he  must  be,  for  he  was  a 
distinguished  officer  in  the  late  war.  I  allude  to  Lord 
L'Estrange." 

The  Parson  started. 

"  You  know  Lord  L'Estrange  ? — a  profligate,  bad  man, 
I  fear." 

"  Profligate  ! — bad  !  "  exclaimed  Riccabocca.  "  Well, 
calumnious  as  the  world  is,  I  should  never  have  thought 
that  such  expressions  would  be  applied  to  one  who,  though 
I  knew  him  but  little — knew  him  chiefly  by  the  service  he 


206  MY  NOVEL;    OR, 

once  rendered  to  me — first  taught  me  to  love  and  revere  the 
English  name  ! " 

"  He  may  be  changed  since "     The  Parson  paused. 

"  Since  when  ? "  asked  Riccabocca,  with  evident  curi- 
osity. 

Mr.  Dale  seemed  embarrassed.  "  Excuse  me,"  said  he, 
"  it  is  many  years  ago  ;  and,  in  short,  the  opinion  I  then 
formed  of  the  nobleman  you  named  was  based  upon  circum- 
stances which  I  cannot  communicate." 

The  punctilious  Italian  bowed  in  silence,  but  he  still 
looked  as  if  he  should  have  liked  to  prosecute  inquiry. 

After  a  pause,  he  said,  "  Whatever  your  impression  re- 
pecting  Lord  L'Estrange,  there  is  nothing,  I  suppose,  which 
would  lead  you  to  doubt  his  honor,  or  reject  his  testimonial 
in  my  favor  ?  " 

"  According  to  fashionable  morality,"  said  Mr.  Dale, 
rather  precisely,  "  I  know  of  nothing  that  could  induce 
me  to  suppose  that  Lord  L'Estrange  would  not,  in  this 
instance,  speak  the  truth.  And  he  has  unquestionably  a 
high  reputation  as  a  soldier,  and  a  considerable  position 
in  the  world."  Therewith  the  Parson  took  his  leave.  A 
few  days  afterward,  Dr.  Riccabocca  enclosed  to  the 
Squire,  in  a  blank  envelope,  a  letter  he  had  received  from 
Harley  L'Estrange.  It  was  evidently  intended  for  the 
Squire's  eye,  and  to  serve  as  a  voucher  for  the  Italian's 
respectability ;  but  this  object  was  fulfilled,  not  in  the 
coarse  form  of  a  direct  testimonial,  but  with  a  tact  and 
delicacy  which  seemed  to  show  more  than  the  fine  breed- 
ing to  be  expected  from  one  in  Lord  L'Estrange's  station. 
It  evinced  that  most  exquisite  of  all  politeness  which 
comes  from  the  heart  ;  a  certain  tone  of  affectionate 
respect  (which  even  the  homely  sense  of  the  Squire  felt, 
intuitively,  proved  far  more  in  favor  of  Riccabocca  than 
the  most  elaborate  certificate  of  his  qualities  and  antece- 
dents) pervaded  the  whole,  and  would  have  sufficed  in 
itself  to  remove  all  scruples  from  a  mind  much  more 
suspicious  and  exacting  than  that  of  the  Squire  of  Hazel- 
dean.  But  lo,  and  behold  !  an  obstacle  now  occurred  to 
the  Parson,  of  which  he  ought  to  have  thought  long  before 
— viz.,  the  Papistical  religion  of  the  Italian.  Dr.  Ricca- 
bocca was  professedly  a  Roman  Catholic.  He  so  little  ob- 
truded that  fact — and,  indeed,  had  assented  so  readily  to 
any  animadversions  upon  the  superstition  and  priestcraft 
which,  according  to  Protestants,  are  the  essential  charac- 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE,  207 

teristics  of  Papistical  communities — that  it  was  not  till  the 
hymeneal  torch,  which  brings  all  faults  to  light,  was  fairly 
illumined  for  the  altar,  that  the  remembrance  of  a  faith  so 
cast  into  a  shade  burst  upon  the  conscience  of  the  Parson. 
The  first  idea  that  then  occurred  to  him  was  the  proper  and 
professional  one — viz.,  the  conversion  of  Dr.  Riccabocca. 
He  hastened  to  his  study,  took  down  from  his  shelves  long- 
neglected  volumes  of  controversial  divinity,  armed  himself 
with  an  arsenal  of  authorities,  arguments,  and  texts  ;  then, 
seizing  the  shovel-hat,  posted  off  to  the  Casino. 


CHAPTER  XXVII. 

THE  Parson  burst  upon  the  philosopher  like  an  ava- 
lanche !  He  was  so  full  of  his  subject  that  he  could  not 
let  it  out  in  prudent  driblets.  No,  he  went  souse  upon  the 
astounded  Riccabocca — 

•'  Tremendo 
Jupiter  ipse  ruens  tumultu." 

The  sage — shrinking  deeper  into  his  arm-chair,  and 
drawing  his  dressing-robe  more  closely  round  him — suffered 
the  Parson  to  talk  for  three-quarters  of  an  hour,  till,  indeed, 
he  had  thoroughly  proved  his  case ;  and,  like  Brutus, 
"  paused  for  a  reply." 

Then  said  Riccabocca,  mildly,  "  In  much  of  what  you 
have  urged  so  ably,  and  so  suddenly,  I  am  inclined  to 
agree.  But  base  is  the  man  who  formally  forswears  the 
creed  he  has  inherited  from  his  fathers,  and  professed  since 
the  cradle  up  to  years  of  maturity,  when  the  change  pre- 
sents itself  in  the  guise  of  a  bribe  ;  when,  for  such  is  human 
nature,  he  can  hardly  distinguish  or  disentangle  the  appeal 
to  his  reason  from  the  lure  to  his  interest — here  a  text,  and 
there  a  dowry  ! — here  Protestantism,  there  Jemima  !  Own, 
my  friend,  that  the  soberest  casuist  would  see  double  under 
the  inebriating  effects  produced  by  so  mixing  his  polemical 
liquors.  Appeal,  my  good  Mr.  Dale,  from  Philip  drunken 
to  Philip  sober ! — from  Riccabocca  intoxicated  with  the 
assurance  of  your  excellent  lady,  that  he  is  about  to  be  '  the 
happiest  of  men,'  to  Riccabocca  accustomed  to  his  happi- 


ao8  MY  NOVEL;    Off, 

ness,  and  carrying  it  off  with  the  seasoned  equability  of 
one  grown  familiar  with  stimulants — in  a  word,  appeal 
from  Riccabocca  the  wooer  to  Riccabocca  the  spouse.  I 
may  be  convertible,  but  conversion  is  a  slow  process  ;  court- 
ship should  be  a  quick  one — ask  Miss  Jemima.  Finaltnente, 
marry  me  first,  and  convert  me  afterward  !  " 

"You  take  this  too  jestingly,'1  began  the  Parson  ;  "and 
I  don't  see  why  with  your  excellent  understanding,  truths 
so  plain  and  obvious  should  not  strike  you  at  once." 

"Truths,"  interrupted  Riccabocca,  profoundly,  "are  the 
slowest-growing  things  in  the  world  !  It  took  fifteen  hun- 
dred years  from  the  date  of  the  Christian  era  to  produce 
your  own  Luther,  and  then  he  flung  his  Bible  at  Satan  (I 
have  seen  the  mark  made  by  the  book  on  the  wall  of  his 
prison  in  Germany),  besides  running  off  with  a  nun,  which 
no  Protestant  clergyman  would  think  it  proper  and  right 
to  do  now-a-days."  Then  he  added,  with  seriousness, 
"  Look  you,  my  dear  sir, — I  should  lose  my  own  esteem  if 
I  were  even  to  listen  to  you  now  with  becoming  attention, 
— now,  I  say,  when  you  hint  that  the  creed  I  have  professed 
may  be  in  the  way  of  my  advantage.  If  so,  I  must  keep 
the  creed  and  resign  the  advantage.  But  if,  as  I  trust — not 
only  as  a  Christian,  but  a  man  of  honor — you  will  defer 
this  discussion,  I  will  promise  to  listen  to  you  hereafter  ; 
and  though,  to  say  the  truth,  I  believe  that  you  will  not 
convert  me,  I  will  promise  you  faithfully  never  to  interfere 
with  my  wife's  religion." 

"And  any  children  you  m'ay  have?" 

"  Children  !  "  said  Dr.  Riccabocca,  recoiling — "  you  are 
not  contented  with  firing  your  pocket-pistol  right  in  my 
face  ;  you  must  also  pepper  me  all  over  with  small-shot. 
Children !  well,  if  they  are  girls,  let  them  follow  the  faith 
of  their  mother  ;  and  if  boys,  while  in  childhood,  let  them 
be  contented  with  learning  to  be  Christians  ;  and  when 
they  grow  into  men,  let  them  choose  for  themselves  which 
is  the  best  form  for  the  practice  of  the  great  principles 
which  all  sects  have  in  common." 

"  But,"  began  Mr.  Dale  again,  pulling  a  large  book  from 
his  pocket. 

Dr.  Riccabocca  flung  open  the  window,  and  jumped  out 
of  it. 

It  was  the  rapidest  and  most  dastardly  flight  you  could 
possibly  conceive  ;  but  it  was  a  great  compliment  to  the 
argumentative  powers  of  the  Parson,  and  he  felt  it  as  such. 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  209 

Nevertheless,  Mr.  Dale  thought  it  right  to  have  a  long  con- 
versation, both  with  the  Squire  and  Miss  Jemina  herself, 
upon  the  subject  which  his  intended  convert  had  so  igno- 
rainiously  escaped. 

The  Squire,  though  a  great  foe  to  Popery,  politically 
considered,  had  also  quite  as  great  a  hatred  to  renegades 
and  apostates.  And  in  his  heart  he  would  have  despised 
Riccabocca  if  he  could  have  thrown  off  his  religion  as 
easily  as  he  had  done  his  spectacles.  Therefore  he  said 
simply — "  Well,  it  is  certainly  a  great  pity  that  Rickey  - 
bockey  is  not  of  the  Church  of  England,  though,  I  take 
it,  that  would  be  unreasonable  to  expect  in  a  man  born  and 
bred  under  the  nose  of  the  Inquisition  "  (the  Squire  firmly 
believed  that  the  Inquisition  was  in  full  force  in  all  the  Ital- 
ian states,  with  whips,  racks,  and  thumb-screws  ;  and,  in- 
deed, his  chief  information  of  Italy  was  gathered  from  a 
perusal  he  had  given  in  early  youth  to  The  One-Handcd 
Monk]  ;  "  but  I  think  he  speaks  very  fairly,  on  the  whole, 
as  to  his  wife  and  children.  And  the  thing's  gone  too  far 
now  to  retract.  It's  all  your  fault  for  not  thinking  of  it  be- 
fore ;  and  I've  now  just  made  up  my  mind  as  to  the  course 
to  pursue  respecting  the — d d  stocks  ! " 

As  for  Miss  Jemima,  the  Parson  left  her  with  a  pious 
thanksgiving  that  Riccabocca  at  least  was  a  Christian,  and 
not  a  Pagan,  Mahometan,  or  Jew  ! 


CHAPTER    XXVIII. 

THERE  is  that  in  a  wedding  which  appeals  to  a  univer- 
sal sympathy.  No  other  event  in  the  lives  of  their  supe- 
riors in  rank  creates  an  equal  sensation  amongst  the  hum- 
bler classes. 

From  the  moment  the  news  that  Miss  Jemima  was  to 
be  married  had  spread  throughout  the  village,  all  the  old 
affection  for  the  Squire  and  his  House  burst  forth  the 
stronger  for  its  temporary  suspension.  Who  could  think 
of  the  stocks  in  such  a  season  ?  The  stocks  was  swept  out 
of  fashion — hunted  from  remembrance  as  completely  as  the 
question  of  Repeal  or  the  thought  of  Rebellion  from  the 
warm  Irish  heart,  when  the  fair  young  face  of  the  Royal 
Wife  beamed  on  the  sister  isle. 


210  MY  NOVEL;    OR, 

Again  cordial  curtseys  were  dropped  at  the  thresholds 
by  which  the  Squire  passed  to  his  own  farm  ;  again  the 
sun-burnt  brows  uncovered — no  more  with  sullen  ceremony 
— were  smoothed  into  cheerful  gladness  at  his  nod.  Nay, 
the  little  ones  began  again  to  assemble  at  their  ancient 
rendezvous  by  the  stocks,  as  if  either  familiarized  with  the 
phenomenon,  or  convinced  that,  in  the  general  sentiment 
of  good-will,  its  powers  of  evil  were  annulled. 

The  Squire  tasted  once  more  the  sweets  of  the  only 
popularity  which  is  much  worth  having,  and  the  loss  of 
which  a  wise  man  would  reasonably  deplore — viz.,  the  pop- 
ularity which  arises  from  a  persuasion  of  our  goodness,  and 
a  reluctance  to  recall  our  faults.  Like  all  blessings,  the 
more  sensibly  felt  from  previous  interruption,  the  Squire 
enjoyed  this  restored  popularity  with  an  exhilarated  sense 
of  existence  ;  his  stout  heart  beat  more  vigorously  ;  his 
stalwart  step  trod  more  lightly  ;  his  comely  English  face 
looked  comelier  and  more  English  than  ever  ; — you  would 
have  been  a  merrier  man  for  a  week,  to  have  come  within 
hearing  of  his  jovial  laugh. 

He  felt  grateful  to  Jemima  and  to  Riccabocca  as  the 
special  agents  of  Providence  in  this  general  integratio 
amor  is.  To  have  looked  at  him,  you  would  suppose  that 
it  was  the  Squire  who  was  going  to  be  married  a  second 
time  to  his  Harry  ! 

One  may  well  conceive  that  such  would  have  been  an 
inauspicious  moment  for  Parson  Dale's  theological  scruples. 
To  have  stopped  that  marriage — chilled  all  the  sunshine  it 
diffused  over  the  village — seen  himself  surrounded  again  by 
long  sulky  visages, — I  verily  believe,  though  a  better  friend 
of  Church  and  State  never  stood  on  a  hustings,  that,  rather 
than  court  such  a  revulsion,  the  Squire  would  have  found 
Jesuitical  excuses  for  the  marriage  if  Riccabocca  had  been 
discovered  to  be  the  Pope  in  disguise  !  As  for  the  stocks, 
its  fate  was  now  irrevocably  sealed.  In  short,  the  marriage 
was  concluded — first  privately,  according  to  the  bride- 
groom's creed,  by  a  Roman  Catholic  clergyman,  who  lived 
in  a  town  some  miles  off,  and  next  publicly  in  the  village 
church  of  Hazeldean. 

It  was  the  heartiest  rural  wedding  !  Village  girls 
strewed  flowers  on  the  way  ; — a  booth  was  placed  amidst 
the  prettiest  scenery  of  the  Park  on  the  margin  of  the  lake 
— for  there  was  to  be  a  dance  later  in  the  day  ; — an  ox  was 
roasted  whole.  Even  Mr.  Stirn — no,  Mr.  Stirn  was  not 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  211 

present,  so  much  happiness  would  have  been  the  death  of 
him  !  And  the  Papisher  too,  who  had  conjured  Lenny  out 
of  the  stocks  ;  nay,  who  had  himself  sat  in  the  stocks  for  the 
very  purpose  of  bringing  them  into  contempt — the  Papisher ! 
he  had  as  lief  Miss  Jemima  had  married  the  devil !  Indeed 
he  was  persuaded  that,  in  point  of  fact,  it  was  all  one  and 
the  same.  Therefore  Mr.  Stirn  had  asked  leave  to  go  and 
attend  his  uncle  the  pawnbroker,  about  to  undergo  a  tor- 
turing operation  for  the  stone  !  Frank  was  there,  sum- 
moned from  Eton  for  the  occasion — having  grown  two 
inches  taller  since  he  left — for  the  one  inch  of  which  nature 
was  to  be  thanked,  for  the  other  a  new  pair  of  resplend- 
ent Wellingtons.  But  the  boy's  joy  was  less  apparent 
than  that  of  others.  For  Jemima  was  a  special  favorite 
with  him,  as  she  would  have  been  with  all  boys — for  she 
was  always  kind  and  gentle,  and  made  him  many  pretty 
presents  whenever  she  came  from  the  watering-places.  And 
Frank  knew  that  he  should  miss  her  sadly,  and  thought  she 
had  made  a  very  queer  choice. 

Captain  Higginbotham  had  been  invited  ;  but,  to  the  as- 
tonishment of  Jemima,  he  had  replied  to  the  invitation  by  a 
letter  to  herself,  marked  "private  and  confidential"  "  She 
must  have  long  known,"  said  the  letter,  "  of  his  devoted  at- 
tachment to  her  !  motives  of  delicacy,  arising  from  the  nar- 
rowness of  his  income,  and  the  magnanimity  of  his  senti- 
ments, had  alone  prevented  his  formal  proposals  ;  but  now 
that  he  was  informed  (he  could  scarcely  believe  his  senses 
or  command  his  passions)  that  her  relations  wished  to  force 
her  into  a  BARBAROUS  marriage  with  a  foreigner  of  MOST  FOR- 
BIDDING APPEARANCE,  and  most  abject  circumstances,  he  lost  not 
a  moment  in  laying  at  her  feet  his  own  hand  and  fortune. 
And  he  did  this  the  more  confidently,  inasmuch  as  he  could 
not  but  be  aware  of  Miss  Jemima's  SECRET  feelings  toward 
him,  while  he  was //w^/ and  happy  to  say,  that  his  dear  and 
distinguished  cousin,  Mr.  Sharpe  Currie,  had  honored  him 
with  a  warmth  of  regard,  which  justified  the  most  brilliant 
EXPECTATIONS — likely  to  be  soon  realized — as  his  eminent  rela- 
tive had  contracted  a  very  bad  liver  complaint  in  the  service 
of  his  country,  and  could  not  last  long  !  " 

In  all  the  years  they  had  known  each  other,  Miss  Jemima, 
strange  as  it  may  appear,  had  never  once  suspected  the 
Captain  of  any  other  feelings  to  her  than  those  of  a  brother. 
To  say  that  she  was  not  gratified  by  learning  her  mistake, 
would  be  to  say  that  she  was  more  than  woman.  Indeed,  it 


212  MY  NOVEL;    OR, 

must  have  been  a  source  of  no  ignoble  triumph  to  think  that 
she  could  prove  her  disinterested  affection  to  her  dear  Ricca- 
bocca,  by  a  prompt  rejection  of  this  more  brilliant  offer. 
She  couched  the  rejection  it  is  true,  in  the  most  soothing 
terms.  But  the  Captain  evidently  considered  himself  ill 
used  ;  he  did  not  reply  to  the  letter,  and  did  not  come  to 
the  wedding. 

To  let  the  reader  into  a  secret,  never  known  to  Miss 
Jemima,  Captain  Higginbotham  was  much  less  influenced 
by  Cupid  than  by  Plutus  in  the  offer  he  had  made.  The 
Captain  was  one  of  that  class  of  gentlemen  who  read  their 
accounts  by  those  corpse-lights,  or  will-o'-the-wisps,  called 
expectations.  Ever  since  the  Squire's  grandfather  had  left 
him — then  in  short  clothes — a  legacy  of  ^500,  the  Captain 
had  peopled  the  future  with  expectations  !  He  talked  of 
his  expectations  as  a  man  talks  of  shares  in  a  Tontine  ; 
they  might  fluctuate  a  little — be  now  up  and  now  down 
— but  it  was  morally  impossible,  if  he  lived  on,  but  that 
he  should  be  a  millionaire  one  of  these  days.  Now, 
though  Miss  Jemima  was  a  good  fifteen  years  younger  than 
himself,  yet  she  always  stood  for  a  good  round  sum  in  the 
ghostly  books  of  the  Captain.  She  was  an  expectation  to 
the  full  amount  of  her  ^4,000,  seeing  that  Frank  was  an  only 
child,  and  it  would  be  carrying  coals  to  Newcastle  to 
leave  him  anything. 

Rather  than  see  so  considerable  a  cipher  suddenly 
spunged  out  of  his  visionary  ledger — rather  than  so  much 
money  should  vanish  clean  .out  of  the  family,  Captain  Hig- 
ginbotham had  taken  what  he  conceived,  if  a  desperate,  at 
least  a  certain,  step  for  the  preservation  of  his  property.  If 
the  golden  horn  could  not  be  had  without  the  heifer,  why,  he 
must  take  the  heifer  into  the  bargain.  He  had  never  formed 
to  himself  an  idea  that  a  heifer  so  gentle  would  toss  and 
fling  him  over.  The  blow  was  stunning.  But  no  one  com- 
passionates the  misfortunes  of  the  covetous,  though  few 
perhaps  are  in  greater  need  of  compassion.  And  leaving 
poor  Captain  Higginbotham  to  retrieve  his  illusory  fortunes 
as  he  best  may  among  "  the  expectations  "  which  gathered 
round  the  form  of  Mr.  Sharpe  Currie,  who  was  the  Grossest 
old  tyrant  imaginable,  and  never  allowed  at  his  table  any 
dishes  not  compounded  with  rice,  which  played  Old  Nick 
with  the  Captain's  constitutional  functions, — I  return  to  the 
wedding  at  Hazeldean,  just  in  time  to  see  the  bridegroom — 
who  looked  singularly  well  on  the  occasion — hand  the  bride 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  213 

(who,  between  sunshiny  tears  and  affectionate  smiles,  was 
really  a  very  interesting  and  even  a  pretty  bride,  as  brides 
go)  into  a  carriage  which  the  Squire  had  presented  to  them, 
and  depart  on  the  orthodox  nuptial  excursion  amidst  the 
blessings  of  the  assembled  crowd. 

It  may  be  thought  strange  by  the  unreflective  that  these 
rural  spectators  should  so  have  approved  and  blessed  the 
marriage  of  a  Hazeldean  of  Hazeldean  with  a  poor,  outland- 
ish, long-haired  foreigner ;  but,  besides  that  Riccabocca,  after 
all,  had  become  one  of  the  neighborhood,  and  was  prover- 
bially "  a  civil-spoken  gentleman,"  it  is  generally  noticeable 
that  on  wedding  occasions  the  bride  so  monopolizes  interest, 
curiosity,  and  admiration,  that  the  bridegroom  himself  goes 
for  little  or  nothing.  He  is  merely  the  passive  agent  in  the 
affair— the  unregarded  cause  of  the  general  satisfaction. 
It  was  not  Riccabocca  himself  that  they  approved  and 
blessed — it  was  the  gentleman  in  the  white  waistcoat  who 
had  made  Miss  Jemima — Madam  Rickeybockey  ! 

Leaning  on  his  wife's  arm  (for  it  was  a  habit  of  the  Squire 
to  lean  on  his  wife's  arm  rather  than  she  on  his,  when  he  was 
specially  pleased  ;  and  there  was  something  touching  in 
the  sight  of  that  strong,  sturdy  frame  thus  insensibly,  in 
hours  of  happiness,  seeking  dependence  on  the  frail  arm  of 
woman)  — leaning,  I  say,  on  his  wife's  arm,  the  Squire,  about 
the  hour  of  sunset,  walked  down  to  the  booth  by  the  lake. 

All  the  parish — young  and  old,  woman,  and  child — were 
assembled  there,  and  their  faces  seemed  to  bear  one  family 
likeness,  in  the  common  emotion  which  animated  all,  as 
they  turned  to  his  frank,  fatherly  smile.  Squire  Hazeldean 
stood  at  the  head  of  the  long  table  ;  he  filled  a  horn  with 
ale  from  the  brimming  tankard  beside  him.  Then  he  looked 
round,  and  lifted  his  hand  to  request  silence  ;  and  ascending 
the  chair,  rose  in  full  view  of  all.  Every  one  felt  that  the 
Squire  was  about  to  make  a  speech,  and  the  earnestness  of 
the  attention  was  proportioned  to  the  rarity  of  the  event  ; 
for  (though  he  was  not  unpractised  in  the  oratory  of  the 
hustings)  only  thrice  before  had  the  Squire  made  what  could 
fairly  be  called  "  a  speech  "  to  the  villagers  of  Hazeldean — 
once  on  a  kindred  festive  occasion,  when  he  had  presented 
to  them  his  bride — once  in  a  contested  election  for  the  shire, 
in  which  he  took  more  than  ordinary  interest,  and  was  not 
quite  so  sober  as  he  ought  to  have  been — once  in  a  time  of 
great  agricultural  distress,  when,  in  spite  of  reduction  of 
rents,  the  farmers  had  been  compelled  to  discard  a  large 


214  MY  NOVEL;    OR, 

number  of  their  customary  laborers  ;  and  when  the  Squire 
had  said — "  I  have  given  up  keeping  the  hounds,  because  I 
want  to  make  a  fine  piece  of  water" — that  was  the  origin  of 
the  lake, — "  and  to  drain  all  the  low  lands  round  the  Park. 
Let  every  man  who  wants  work  come  to  me  ! "  and  that  sad 
year  the  parish  rates  of  Hazeldean  were  not  a  penny  the 
heavier. 

Now,  for  the  fourth  time,  the  Squire  rose,  and  thus  he 
spoke.  At  his  right  hand,  Harry  ;  at  his  left,  Frank.  At 
the  bottom  of  the  table,  as  vice-president,  Parson  Dale,  his 
little  wife  behind  him,  only  obscurely  seen.  She  cried  read- 
ily, and  her  handkerchief  was  already  before  her  eyes. 


CHAPTER   XXIX. 

TJTE  SQUIRE'S  SPEECH. 

"  FRIENDS  and  neighbors, — I  thank  you  kindly  for  com- 
ing round  me  this  day,  and  for  showing  so  much  interest  in 
me  and  mine.  My  cousin  was  not  born  amongst  you  as  I 
was,  but  you  have  known  her  from  a  child.  It  is  a  famil- 
iar face,  and  one  that  never  frowned,  which  you  will  miss  at 
your  cottage  doors,  as  I  and  mine  will  miss  it  long  in  the 
old  Hall " 

Here  there  was  a  sob  from  some  of  the  women,  and 
nothing  was  seen  of  Mrs.  Dale  but  the  white  handkerchief. 
The  Squire  himself  paused,  and  brushed  away  a  tear  with 
the  back  of  his  hand.  Then  he  resumed,  with  a  sudden 
change  of  voice  that  was  electrical, — 

"  For  we  none  of  us  prize  a  blessing  till  we  have  lost 
it !  Now,  friends  and  neighbors  ;  a  little  time  ago,  it 
seemed  as  if  some  ill-will  had  crept  in  the  village — ill-will 
between  you  and  me,  neighbors  !— why,  that  is  not  like 
Hazeldean  ! " 

The  audience  hung  their  heads !  You  never  saw  peo- 
ple look  so  thoroughly  ashamed  of  themselves.  The  Squire 
proceeded, — 

"I  don't  say  it  was  all  your  fault;  perhaps  it  was 
mine." 

"  Noa — noa — noa,"  burst  forth  in  a  general  chorus. 

"Nay,   friends,"  continued  the  Squire,  humbly,  and  in 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  215 

one  of  those  illustrative  aphorisms  which,  if  less  subtle 
than  Riccabocca's,  were  more  within  reach  of  the  popular 
comprehension, — "  nay,  we  are  all  human,  and  every  man 
has  his  hobby  ;  sometimes  he  breaks  in  the  hobby,  and 
sometimes  the  hobby,  if  it  is  very  hard  in  the  mouth, 
breaks  in  him.  One  man's  hobby  has  an  ill  habit  of  al- 
ways stopping  at  the  public-house  !  (Laughter.)  Another 
man's  hobby  refuses  to  stir  a  peg  beyond  the  door  where 
some  buxom  lass  patted  its  neck  the  week  before — a  hobby 
I  rode  pretty  often  when  I  went  courting  my  good  wife 
here !  (Much  laughter  and  applause.)  Others  have  a 
lazy  hobby,  that  there's  no  getting  on  ;  others,  a  runaway 
hobby,  that  there's  no  stopping  ;  but,  to  cut  the  matter 
short,  my  favorite  hobby,  as  you  well  know,  is  always 
trotted  out  to  any  place  on  my  property  which  seems  to 
want  the  eye  and  hand  of  the  master.  I  hate,"  cried  the 
Squire,  warming,  "  to  see  things  neglected  and  decayed, 
and  going  to  the  dogs !  This  land  we  live  in  is  a  good 
mother  to  us,  and  we  can't  do  too  much  for  her.  It  is 
very  true,  neighbors,  that  I  owe  her  a  good  many  acres, 
and  ought  to  speak  well  of  her  ;  but  what  then  ?  I  live 
amongst  you,  and  what  I  take  from  the  rent  with  one  hand,  I 
divide  amongst  you  with  the  other.  (Low  but  assenting 
murmurs.)  Now,  the  more  I  improve  my  property,  the 
more  mouths  it  feeds.  My  great-grandfather  kept  a  Field- 
Book,  in  which  were  entered,  not  only  the  names  of  all  the 
farmers,  and  the  quantity  of  land  they  held,  but'the  average 
number  of  the  laborers  each  employed.  My  grandfather 
and  father  followed  his  example  ;  I  have  done  the  same.  I 
find,  neighbors,  that  our  rents  have  doubled  since  my  great- 
grandfather began  to  make  the  book.  Ay,  but  there  are 
more  than  four  times  the  number  of  laborers  employed  on 
the  estate,  and  at  much  better  wages,  too  !  Well,  my  men, 
that  says  a  great  deal  in  favor  of  improving  property,  and 
not  letting  it  go  to  the  dogs.  (Applause.)  And  therefore, 
neighbors,  you  will  kindly  excuse  my  hobby  ;  it  carries  grist 
to  your  mill.  (Reiterated  applause.)  Well,  but  you  will 
say,  '  What's  the  Squire  driving  at  ?'  Why  this,  my  friends : 
There  was  only  one  worn-out,  dilapidated,  tumble-down 
thing  in  the  parish  of  Hazeldean,  and  it  became  an  eyesore 
to  me  ;  so  I  saddled  my  hobby,  and  rode  at  it.  O  ho !  you 
know  what  I  mean  now  !  Yes,  but  neighbors,  you  need 
not  have  taken  it  so  to  heart.  That  was  a  scurvy  trick  of 
some  of  you  to  hang  me  in  effigy,  as  they  call  it." 


21 6  MY  NOVEL;    OK, 

"It  war'nt  you,"  cried  a  voice  in  the  crowd;  "it  war 
Nick  Stirn." 

The  Squire  recognized  the  voice  of  the  Tinker  ;  but 
though  he  now  guessed  at  the  ringleader,  on  that  day  of 
general  amnesty  he  had  the  prudence  and  magnanimity  not 
to  say,  "Stand  forth,  Sprott ;  thou  art  the  man."  Yet  his 
gallant  English  spirit  would  not  suffer  him  to  come  off  at 
the  expense  of  his  servant. 

"  If  it  was  Nick  Stirn  you  meant,"  said  he,  gravely, 
"  more  shame  for  you.  It  showed  some  pluck  to  hang  the 
master ;  but  to  hang  the  poor  servant,  who  only  thought 
to  do  his  duty,  careless  of  what  ill-will  it  brought  upon  him, 
was  a  shabby  trick, — so  little  like  the  lads  of  Hazeldean, 
that  I  suspect  the  man  who  taught  it  to  them  was  never 
born  in  the  parish.  But  let  bygones  be  bygones.  One 
thing  is  clear,  you  don't  take  kindly  to  my  new  pair  of 
stocks !  The  stocks  has  been  a  stumbling-block  and  a 
grievance,  and  there's  no  denying  that  we  went  on  very 
pleasantly  without  it.  I  may  also  say  that,  in  spite  of  it, 
we  have  been  coming  together  again  lately.  And  I  can't 
tell  you  what  good  it  did  me  to  see  your  children  playing 
again  on  the  green,  and  your  honest  faces,  in  spite  of  the 
stocks,  and  those  diabolical  tracts  you've  been  reading 
lately,  lighted  up  at  the  thought  that  something  pleasant 
was  going  on  at  the  Hall.  Do  you  know,  neighbors,  you 
put  me  in  mind  of  an  old  story  which,  besides  applying  to 
the  parish,  "all  who  are  married,  and  all  who  intend  to 
marry,  will  do  well  to  recollect.  A  worthy  couple,  named 
John  and  Joan,  had  lived  happily  together  many  a  long 
year,  till  one  unlucky  day  they  bought  a  new  bolster.  Joan 
said  the  bolster  was  too  hard,  and  John  said  that  it  was  too 
soft ;  so,  of  course,  they  quarrelled.  After  sulking  all  day, 
they  agreed  to  put  the  bolster  between  them  at  night." 
(Roars  of  laughter  amongst  the  men  ;  the  women  did  not 
know  which  way  to  look,  except,  indeed,  Mrs.  Hazeldean, 
who,  though  she  was  more  than  usually  rosy,  maintained 
her  innocent,  genial  smile,  as  much  as  to  say,  "  There  is  no 
harm  in  the  Squire's  jest.")  The  orator  resumed  : — "After 
they  had  thus  lain  apart  for  a  little  time,  very  silent  and 
sullen,  John  sneezed.  '  God  bless  you  ! '  says  Joan,  over 
the  bolster.  '  Did  you  say  God  bless  me  ? '  cries  John  ; — 
'  then  here  goes  the  bolster  ! ' '  (Prolonged  laughter  and 
tumultuous  applause.) 

"  Friends  and  neighbors,"  said  the  Squire,  when  silence 


VARIETIES   IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  217 

was  restored,  and  lifting  the  horn  of  ale,  "  I  have  the  pleas- 
ure to  inform  you  that  I  have  ordered  the  stocks  to  be  taken 
down,  and  made  into  a  bench  for  the  chimney-nook  of  our 
old  friend  Gaffer  Solomons  yonder.  But  mincl  me,  lads,  if 
ever  you  make  the  parish  regret  the  loss  of  the  stocks,  and 
the  overseers  come  to  me  with  long  faces,  and  say,  '  the 

stocks  must  be  rebuilded/  why "  Here  from  all  the 

youth  of  the  village  rose  so  deprecating  a  clamor,  that 
the  Squire  would  have  been  the  most  bungling  orator  in 
the  world,  if  he  had  said  a  word  further  on  the  subject. 
He  elevated  the  horn  over  his  head, — "  Why,  that's  my 
old  Hazeldean  again  !  Health  and  long  life  to  you  all !  " 

The  Tinker  had  sneaked  out  of  the  assembly,  and  did 
not  show  his  face  in  the  village  for  the  next  six  months. 
And  as  to  those  poisonous  tracts,  in  spite  of  their  salubrious 
labels,  "  The  Poor  Man's  Friend,"  or  "  The  Rights  of  Labor," 
you  could  no  more  have  found  one  of  them  lurking  in  the 
drawers  of  the  kitchen-dressers  in  Hazeldean,  than  you 
would  have  found  the  deadly  nightshade  on  the  flower- 
stands  in  the  drawing-room  of  the  Hall.  As  for  the  revolu- 
tionary beer-house,  there  was  no  need  to  apply  to  the 
magistrates  to  shut  it  up — it  shut  itself  up  before  the  week 
was  out. 

O  young  head  of  the  great  House  of  Hapsburg,  what  a 
Hazeldean  you  might  have  made  of  Hungary  ! — What  a 
" Moriamur pro rege  nostro"  would  have  rung  in  your  infant 
reign, — if  you  had  made  such  a  speech  as  the  Squire's  ! 


2i8  MY  NOVEL;    OR, 


BOOK   FOURTH. 


INITIAL  CHAPTER. 

COMPRISING    MR.     CAXTON's     OPINIONS     ON    THE    MATRIMONIAL 
STATE,  SUPPORTED  BY  LEARNED  AUTHORITIES. 

"  IT  was  no  bad  idea  of  yours,  Pisistratus,"  said  my 
father,  graciously,  "  to  depict  the  heightened  affections  and 
the  serious  intention  of  Signor  Riccabocca  by  a  single 
stroke — He  left  off  his  spectacles  !  Good." 

"  Yet,"  quoth  my  uncle,  "  I  think  Shakspeare  represents 
a  lover  as  falling  into  slovenly  habits,  neglecting  his  person, 
and  suffering  his  hose  to  be  ungartered,  rather  than  paying 
that  attention  to  his  outer  man.  which  induces  Signor  Ricca- 
bocca to  leave  off  his  spectacles,  and  look  as  handsome  as 
nature  will  permit  him." 

"  There  are  different  degrees  and  many  phases  of  this 
passion,"  replied  my  father.  "  Shakspeare  is  speaking  of 
an  ill-treated,  pining,  woe-begone  lover,  much  aggrieved  by 
the  cruelty  of  his  mistress — a  lover  who  has  found  it  of  no 
avail  to  smarten  himself  up,  and  has  fallen  despondently 
into  the  opposite  extreme.  Whereas  Signor  Riccabocca 
has  nothing  to  complain  of  in  the  barbarity  of  Miss  Jemima." 

"Indeed  he  has  not!"  cried  Blanche,  tossing  her  head 
— "  forward  creature  ! " 

"  Yes,  my  dear,"  said  my  mother,  trying  her  best  to  look 
stately,  "  I  am  decidedly  of  opinion  that,  in  that  respect, 
Pisistratus  has  lowered  the  dignity  of  the  sex.  Not  in- 
tentionally," added  my  mother,  mildly,  and  afraid  she  had 
said  something  too  bitter  ;  "but  it  is  very  hard  fora  man  to 
describe  us  women." 

The  Captain  nodded  approvingly  ;  Mr.  Squills  smiled  ; 
my  father  quietly  resumed  the  thread  of  his  discourse. 

"  To  continue,"  quoth  he.     "  Riccabocca  has  no  reason 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  219 

to  despair  of  success  in  his  suit,  nor  any  object  in  moving 
his  mistress  to  compassion.  He  may,  therefore,  very  prop- 
erly tie  up  his  garters  and  leave  off  his  spectacles.  What 
do  you  say,  Mr.  Squills  ? — for,  after  all,  since  love-making 
cannot  fail  to  be  a  great  constitutional  derangement,  the  ex- 
perience of  a  medical  man  must  be  the  best  to  consult." 

"Mr.  Caxton,"  replied  Squills,  obviously  flattered,  "you 
are  quite  right  ;  when  a  man  makes  love,  the  organs  of  self- 
esteem  and  desire  of  applause  are  greatly  stimulated,  and 
therefore,  of  course,  he  sets  himself  off  to  the  best  advan- 
tage. It  is  only,  as  you  observe,  when,  like  Shakspeare's 
lover,  he  has  given  up  making  love  as  a  bad  job,  and  has 
received  that  severe  hit  on  the  ganglions  which  the  cruelty 
of  a  mistress  inflicts,  that  he  neglects  his  personal  appear- 
ance ;  he  neglects  it,  not  because  he  is  in  love,  but  because 
his  nervous  system  is  depressed.  That  was  the  cause,  if  you 
remember,  with  poor  Major  Prim.  He  wore  his  wig  all  awry 
when  Susan  Smart  jilted  him  ;  but  I  set  it  right  for  him." 

"  By  shaming  Miss  Smart  into  repentance,  or  getting  him 
a  new  sweetheart  ?  "  asked  my  uncle. 

"Pooh!"  answered  Squills,  "by  quinine  and  cold 
bathing." 

"We  may  therefore  grant,"  renewed  my  father,  "that, 
as  a  general  rule,  the  process  of  courtship  tends  to  the 
spruceness,  and  even  foppery,  of  the  individual  engaged  in 
the  experiment,  as  Voltaire  has  very  prettily  proved  some- 
where. Nay,  the  Mexicans,  indeed,  were  of  opinion,  that 
the  lady  at  least  ought  to  continue  those  cares  of  her  person 
even  after  marriage.  There  is  extant,  in  Sahagun's  History 
of  New  Spain,  the  advice  of  an  Aztec  or  Mexican  mother  to 
her  daughter,  in  which  she  says — '  That  your  husband  may 
not  take  you  in  dislike,  adorn  yourself,  wash  yourself,  and 
let  your  garments  be  clean.'  It  is  true  that  the  good  lady 
adds — '  Do  it  in  moderation  ;  since,  if  every  day  you  are 
washing  yourself  and  your  clothes,  the  world  will  say  that 
you  are  over-delicate  ;  and  particular  people  will  call  you — 
TAPETZON  TINEMAXOCH  ! '  What  those  words  precisely  mean," 
added  my  father,  modestly,  "  I  cannot  say,  since  I  never 
had  the  opportunity  to  acquire  the  ancient  Aztec  language 
• — but  something  very  opprobrious  and  horrible,  no  doubt." 

"  I  dare  say  a  philosopher  like  Signor  Riccabocca,"  said 
my  uncle,  "was  not  himself  very  Tapctzon  tine — what  d'ye 
call  it  ? — and  a  good  healthy  English  wife,  that  poor  affec- 
tionate Jemima,  was  thrown  away  upon  him." 


220  MY  XOVEL:    OR, 

"Roland,"  said  my  father,  "you  don't  like  foreigners  ;  a 
respectable  prejudice,  and  quite  natural  in  a  man  who  has 
been  trying  his  best  to  hew  them  in  pieces  and  blow  them 
up  into  splinters.  But  you  don't  like  philosophers  either — 
and  for  that  dislike  you  have  no  equally  good  reason." 

"  I  only  implied  that  they  are  not  much  addicted  to 
soap  and  water,"  said  my  uncle. 

"A  notable  mistake.  Many  great  philosophers  have 
been  very  great  beaux.  Aristotle  was  a  notorious  fop. 
Buffon  put  on  his  best  laced  ruffles  when  he  sat  down  to 
write,  which  implies  that  he  washed  his  hands  first.  Pytha- 
goras insists  greatly  on  the  holiness  of  frequent  ablutions  ; 
and  Horace — who,  in  his  own  way,  was  as  good  a  philoso- 
pher as  any  the  Romans  produced — takes  care  to  let  us 
know  what  a  neat,  well-dressed,  dapper  little  gentleman  he 
was.  But  I  don't  think  you  ever  read  the  '  Apology  of 
Apuleius  ? '  ' 

"  Not  I — what  is  it  about  ?  "  asked  the  Captain. 

"  About  a  great  many  things.  It  is  that  sage's  vindi- 
cation from  several  malignant  charges — amongst  others, 
and  principally,  indeed,  that  of  being  much  too  refined  and 
effeminate  for  a  philosopher.  Nothing  can  exceed  the 
rhetorical  skill  with  which  he  excuses  himself  for  using 
— tooth-powder.  '  Ought  a  philosopher,'  he  exclaims,  '  to 
allow  anything  unclean  about  him,  especially  in  the  mouth 
— the  mouth,  which  is  the  vestibule  of  the  soul,  the  gate  of 
discourse,  the  portico  of  thought  !  Ah,  but  ^Emilianus 
[the  accuser  of  Apuleius]  never  opens  his  mouth  but  for 
slander  and  calumny — tooth-powder  would  indeed  be  un- 
becoming to  him  !  Or,  if  he  use  any.  it  will  not  be  my  good 
Arabian  tooth-powder,  but  charcoal  and  cinders.  Ay,  his 
teeth  should  be  as  foul  as  his  language  !  And  yet  even 
the  crocodile  likes  to  have  his  teeth  cleaned  ;  insects  get 
into  them,  and  horrible  reptile  though  he  be,  he  opens  his 
jaws  inoffensively  to  a  faithful  dentistical  bird,  who  volun- 
teers his  beak  for  a  tooth-pick.'  " 

My  father  was  now  warm  in  the  subject  he  had  started, 
and  soared  miles  away  from  Riccabocca  and  "  My  Novel." 
'''And  observe,"  he  exclaimed — "observe  with  what  gravity 
this  eminent  Platonist  pleads  guilty  to  the  charge  of  having 
a  mirror.  'Why,  what,' he  exclaims,  'more  worthy  of  the 
regards  of  a  human  creature  than  his  own  image?'  (nihil 
respectabilius  liowini,qnam  for  main  suam  ' )  Is  not  that  one  of 
our  children  the, rnps,t, dear  to  us  who  is  called  'the  picture 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  221 

of  his  father  ?'  But  take  what  pains  you  will  with  a  pic- 
ture, it  can  never  be  so  like  you  as  the  face  in  your  mir- 
ror !  Think  it  discreditable  to  look  with  proper  attention 
on  one's-self  in  the  glass  !  Did  not  Socrates  recommend 
such  attention  to  his  disciples — did  he  not  make  a  great 
moral  agent  of  the  speculum  ?  The  handsome,  in  admiring 
their  beauty  therein,  were  admonished  that  handsome  is 
who  handsome  does  ;  and  the  more  the  ugly  stared  at  them- 
selves, the  more  they  became  naturally  anxious  to  hide  the 
disgrace  of  their  features  in  the  loveliness  of  their  merits. 
Was  not  Demosthenes  always  at  his  speculum  ?  Did  he  not 
rehearse  his  causes  before  it  as  before  a  master  in  the  art  ? 
He  learned  his  eloquence  from  Plato,  his  dialectics  from 
Eubulides  ;  but  as  for  his  delivery — there,  he  came  to  the 
mirror ! 

"  Therefore,"  concluded  Mr.  Caxton,  returning  unex- 
pectedly to  the  subject — "therefore,  it  is  no  reason  to  sup- 
pose that  Riccabocca  is  averse  to  cleanliness  and  decent 
care  of  the  person  because  he  is  a  philosopher  ;  and,  all 
things  considered,  he  never  showed  himself  more  a  philosop- 
her than  when  he  left  off  his  spectacles  and  looked  his  best." 

"  Well,"  said  my  mother,  kindly,  "  I  only  hope  it  may 
turn  out  happily.  But  I  should  have  been  better  pleased 
if  Pisistratus  had  not  made  Dr.  Riccabocca  so  reluctant 
a  wooer." 

"Very  true,"  said  the  Captain  ;  "the  Italian  does  not 
shine  as  a  lover.  Throw  a  little  more  fire  into  him,  Pisis- 
tratus— something  gallant  and  chivalrous." 

"  Fire — gallantry — chivalry  !  "  cried  my  father,  who  had 
taken  Riccabocca  under  his  special  protection — "why,  don't 
you  see  that  the  man  is  described  as  a  philosopher  ? — and  I 
should  like  to  know  when  a  philosopher  ever  plunged  into 
matrimony  without  considerable  misgiving  and  cold  shivers. 
Indeed,  it  seems  that — perhaps  before  he  was  a  philosopher 
— Riccabocca  had  tried  the  experiment,  and  knew  what  it 
was.  Why,  even  that  plain-speaking,  sensible,  practical 
man,  Metellus  Numidicus,  who  was  not  even  a  philosopher, 
but  only  a  Roman  Censor,  thus  expressed  himself  in  an  ex- 
hortation to  the  people  to  perpetrate  matrimony — '  If,  O 
Quirites,  we  could  do  without  wives,  we  should  all  dispense 
with  that  subject  of  care  (ed  molestia  careremus)  ;  but  since 
nature  has  so  managed  it  that  we  cannot  live  with  women 
comfortably,  nor  without  them  at  all,  let  us  rather  provide 
for  the  human  race  than  our  own  temporary  felicity." 


222  MY  NOVEL;    OK, 

Here  the  ladies  set  up  a  cry  of  such  indignation,  that 
both  Roland  and  myself  endeavored  to  appease  their 
wrath  by  hasty  assurances  that  we  utterly  repudiated  the 
damnable  doctrine  of  Metellus  Numidicus. 

My  father,  wholly  unmoved,  as  soon  as  a  sullen  silence 
was  established,  recommenced  —  "  Do  not  think,  ladies," 
said  he,  "  that  you  were  without  advocates  at  that  day  ; 
there  were  many  Romans  gallant  enough  to  blame  the 
Censor  for  a  mode  of  expressing  himself  which  they  held 
to  be  equally  impolite  and  injudicious.  '  Surely,'  said 
they,  with  some  plausibility,  'if  Numidicus  wished  men  to 
marry,  he  need  not  have  referred  so  peremptorily  to  the 
disquietudes  of  the  connection,  and  thus  have  made  them 
more  inclined  to  turn  away  from  matrimony  than  given 
them  a  relish  for  it.'  But  against  these  critics  one  honest 
man  (whose  name  of  Titus  Castricius  should  not  be  for- 
gotten by  posterity)  maintained  that  Metellus  Numidicus 
could  not  have  spoken  more  properly:  'For  remark,'  said 
he,  '  that  Metellus  was  a  censor,  not  a  rhetorician.  It  be- 
comes rhetoricians  to  adorn  and  disguise,  and  make  the 
best  of  things  ;  but  Metellus,  san'ctus  vir  —  a  holy  and  blame- 
less man,  grave  and  sincere  to  wit,  and  addressing  the 
Roman  people  in  the  solemn  capacity  of  Censor  —  was 
bound  to  speak  the  plain  truth,  especially  as  he  was  treat- 
ing of  a  subject  on  which  the  observation  of  every  day  and 
the  experience  of  every  life,  could  not  leave  the  least  doubt 
upon  the  mind  of  his  audience.'  Still,  Riccabocca,  having 
decided  to  marry,  has  no  doubt  prepared  himself  to  bear 
all  the  concomitant  evils  —  as  becomes  a  professed  sage  ; 
and  I  own  I  admire  the  art  with  which  Pisistratus  has  drawn 
the  kind  of  woman  most  likely  to  suit  a  philosopher  -  " 

Pisistratus  bows  and  looks  round  complacently  ;  but  re- 
coils from  two  very  peevish  and  discontented  faces  feminine. 

MR.  CAXTON  (completing  his  sentence).  —  Not  only  as 
regards  mildness  of  temper  and  other  household  qualifica- 
tions, but  as  regards  the  very  person  of  the  object  of  his 
choice.  For  you  evidently  remember,  Pisistratus,  the 
reply  of  Bias,  when  asked  his  opinion  on  marriage  :  '"Ilroi 

efets  17  aur^pav'  KCU.   et  Ka\r]V,  e£«s   KOtvrjV    el  Srj   al(r^pa.v 


Pisistratus  tries  to  look  as  if  he  had  the  opinion  of  Bias 
by  heart,  and  nods  acquiescingly. 

MR.  CAXTON.  —  That  is,  my  dears,  "  the  woman  you  would 
marry  is  either  handsome  or  ugly  ;  if  handsome,  she  is 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  223 

koine,  viz.,  you  don't  have  her  to  yourself  ;  if  ugly,  she  is 
poine — that  is,  a'  fury."  But,  as  it  is  observed  in  Aulus 
Gellius  (whence  I  borrow  this  citation),  there  is  a  wide 
interval  between  handsome  and  ugly.  And  thus  Ennius, 
in  his  tragedy  of  Menalippus,  uses  an  admirable  expression 
to  designate  women  of  the  proper  degree  of  matrimonial 
comeliness,  such  as  a  philosopher  would  select.  He  calls 
this  degree  stata  forma — a  rational,  mediocre  sort  of  beauty, 
which  is  not  liable  to  be  either  koine  or  poine.  And 
Favorinus,  who  was  a  remarkably  sensible  man,  and  came 
from  Provence — the  male  inhabitants  of  which  district  have 
always  valued  themselves  on  their  knowledge  of  love  and 
ladies — calls  this  said  stata  forma  the  beauty  of  wives — the 
uxorial  beauty.  Ennius  says,  that  women  of  a  stata  forma 
are  always  safe  and  modest.  Now,  Jemima,  you  observe,  is 
described  as  possessing  this  stata  forma  ;  and  it  is  the  nicety 
of  your  observation  in  this  respect,  which  I  like  the  most 
in  the  whole  of  your  description  of  a  philosopher's  matri- 
monial courtship,  Pisistratus  (excepting  only  the  stroke  of 
the  spectacles),  for  it  shows  that  you  had  properly  con- 
sidered the  opinion  of  Bias,  and  mastered  all  the  counter- 
logic  suggested  in  Book  V.,  chapter  xi.,  of  Aulus  Gellius." 

"For  all  that,"  said  Blanche,  half  archly,  half  demurely, 
with  a  smile  in  the  eye  and  a  pout  of  the  lip,  "I  don't  re- 
member that  Pisistratus,  in  the  days  Avhen  he  wished  to  be 
most  complimentary,  ever  assured  me  that  I  had  a  stata 
forma— a.  rational,  mediocre  sort  of  beauty." 

"And  I  think,"  observed  my  uncle,  "that  when  he 
comes  to  his  real  heroine,  whoever  she  may  be,  he  will  not 
trouble  his  head  much  about  either  Bias  or  Aulus  Gellius." 


CHAPTER  II. 

MATRIMONY  is  certainly  a  great  change  in  life.  One  is 
astonished  not  to  find  a  notable  alteration  in  one's  friend, 
even  if  he  or  she  have  been  only  wedded  a  week.  In  the 
instance  of  Dr.  and  Mrs.  Riccabocca  the  change  was  pecu- 
liarly visible.  To  speak  first  of  the  lady,  as  in  chivalry 
bound,  Mrs.  Riccabocca  had  entirely  renounced  that  mel- 
ancholy which  had  characterized  Miss  Jemima  ;  she  became 
even  sprightly  and  gay,  and  looked  all  the  better  and  pret- 


224  MY  NOVEL;    OR, 

tier  for  the  alteration.  She  did  not  scruple  to  confess  hon- 
estly to  Mrs.  Dale,  that  she  was  now  of  opinion  that  the 
world  was  very  far  from  approaching  its  end.  But,  in  the 
meanwhile,  she  did  not  neglect  the  duty  which  the  belief 
she  had  abandoned  serves  to  inculcate — "  She  set  her  house 
in  order."  The  cold  and  penurious  elegance  that  had 
characterized  the  Casino  disappeared  like  enchantment — 
that  is,  the  elegance  remained,  but  the  cold  and  penury  fled 
before  the  smile  of  woman.  Like  Puss-in-Boots,  after  the 
nuptials  of  his  master,  Jackeymo  only  now  caught  minnows 
and  sticklebacks  for  his  own  amusement.  Jackeymo  looked 
much  plumper,  and  so  did  Riccabocca.  In  a  word,  the  fair 
Jemima  became  an  excellent  wife.  Riccabocca  secretly 
thought  her  extravagant,  but  like  a  wise  man,  declined  to 
look  at  the  house-bills,  and  ate  his  joint  in  unreproachful 
silence. 

Indeed,  there  was  so  much  unaffected  kindness  in  the 
nature  of  Mrs  Riccabocca — beneath  the  quiet  of  her 
manner,  there  beat  so  genially  the  heart  of  the  Hazeldeans 
— that  she  fairly  justified  the  favorable  anticipations  of 
Mrs.  Dale.  And  though  the  Doctor  did  not  noisily  boast 
of  his  felicity,  nor,  as  some  new-married  folks  do,  thrust  it 
insultingly  under  the  nimis  unctis  naribus — the  turned-up 
noses  of  your  surly  old  married  folks — nor  force  it  gaudily 
and  glaringly  on  the  envious  eyes  of  the  single,  you  might 
still  see  that  he  was  a  more  cheerful  and  light-hearted  man 
than  before.  His  smile  was  less  ironical,  his  politeness 
less  distinct.  He  did  not  study  Machiavelli  so  intensely — 
and  he  did  not  return  to  the  spectacles  ;  which  last  was  an 
excellent  sign.  Moreover,  the  humanizing  influence  of  the 
tidy  English  wife  might  be  seen  in  the  improvement  of  his 
outward  or  artificial  man.  His  clothes  seemed  to  fit  him 
better  ;  indeed  the  clothes  were  new.  Mrs.  Dale  no  longer 
remarked  that  the  buttons  were  off  the  wristbands,  which 
was  a  great  satisfaction  to  her.  But  the  sage  still  remained 
faithful  to  the  pipe,  the  cloak,  and  the  red  silk  umbrella. 
Mrs.  Riccabocca  had  (to  her  credit  be  it  spoken)  used  all 
becoming  and  wife-like  arts  against  these  three  remnants 
of  the  old  bachelor  Adam,  but  in  vain.  "  Anima  mia  "  (soul 
of  mine),  said  the  Doctor,  tenderly  ;  "  I  hold  the  cloak,  the 
umbrella,  and  the  pipe,  as  the  sole  relics  that  remain  to  me 
of  my  native  country.  Respect  and  spare  them." 

Mrs.  Riccabocca  was  touched,  and  had  the  good  sense 
to  perceive  that  man,  let  him  be  ever  so  much  married, 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  225 

retains  certain  signs  of  his  ancient  independence — certain 
tokens  of  his  old  identity,  which  a  wife,  the  most  despotic, 
will  do  well  to  concede.  She  conceded  the  cloak,  she  sub- 
mitted to  the  umbrella,  she  overcame  her  abhorrence  of 
the  pipe.  After  all,  considering  the  natural  villany  of  our 
sex,  she  confessed  to  herself  that  she  might  have  been 
worse  off.  But,  through  all  the  calm  and  cheerfulness  of 
Riccabocca,  a  nervous  perturbation  was  sufficiently  per- 
ceptible ;  it  commenced  after  the  second  week  of  marriage 
— it  went  on  increasing,  till  one  bright  sunny  afternoon,  as 
he  was  standing  on  his  terrace,  gazing  down  upon  the  road, 
at  which  Jackeymo  was  placed — lo,  a  stage-coach  stopped  ! 
The  Doctor  made  a  bound,  and  put  both  hands  to  his  heart 
as  if  he  had  been  shot  ;  he  then  leaped  over  the  balustrade, 
and  his  wife  from  her  window  beheld  him  flying  down  the 
hill,  with  his  long  hair  streaming  in  the  wind,  till  the  trees 
hid  him  from  her  sight. 

"Ah,"  thought  she,  with  a  natural  pang  of  conjugal 
jealousy,  "  henceforth  I  am  only  second  in  his  home.  He 
has  gone  to  welcome  his  child ! "  And  at  that  reflection 
Mrs.  Riccabocca  shed  tears. 

But  so  naturally  amiable  was  she,  that  she  hastened  to 
curb  her  emotion,  and  efface  as  well  as  she  could  the  trace 
of  a  step-mother's  grief.  When  this  was  done,  and  a  silent, 
self-rebuking  prayer  murmured  over,  the  good  woman  de- 
scended the  stairs  with  alacrity,  and  summoning  up  her 
best  smiles,  emerged  on  the  terrace. 

She  was  repaid  ;  for  scarcely  had  she  come  into  the 
open  air,  when  two  little  arms  were  thrown  around  her, 
and  the  sweetest  voice  that  ever  came  from  a  child's  lips, 
sighed  out  in  broken  English,  "Good  mamma,  love  me  a 
little." 

"  Love  you  ?  with  my  whole  heart ! "  cried  the  step- 
mother, with  all  a  mother's  honest  passion.  And  she 
clasped  the  child  to  her  breast. 

"  God  bless  you,  my  wife  !  "  said  Riccabocca,  in  a  husky 
tone. 

"  Please  take  this  too,"  added  Jackeymo,  in  Italian,  as 
well  as  his  sobs  would  let  him — and  he  broke  off  a  great 
bough  full  of  blossoms  from  his  favorite-orange-tree,  and 
thrust  it  into  his  mistress's  hand.  She  had  not  the  slight- 
est notion  what  he  meant  by  it ! 


226  MY  NOVEL;    OR, 


CHAPTER  ill. 

VIOLANTE  was  indeed  a  bewitching  child — a  child  to 
whom  I  defy  Mrs.  Caudle  herself  (immortal  Mrs.  Caudle  !) 
to  have  been  a  harsh  step-mother. 

Look  at  her  now,  as,  released  from  those  kindly  arms, 
she  stands,  still  clinging  with  one  hand  to  her  new  mamma, 
and  holding  out  the  other  to  Riccabocca, — with  those  large 
dark  eyes  swimming  in  happy  tears.  What  a  lovely  smile  ! 
•^-what  an  ingenuous,  candid  brow  !  She  looks  delicate — 
she  evidently  requires  care — she  wants  the  mother.  And 
rare  is  the  woman  who  would  not  love  her  the  better  for 
that  !  Still,  what  an  innocent,  infantine  bloom  in  those 
clear,  smooth  cheeks ! — and  in  that  slight  frame,  what 
exquisite  natural  grace  ! 

"  And  this,  I  suppose,  is  your  nurse,  darling  ? "  said 
Mrs.  Riccabocca,  observing  a  dark,  foreign-looking  woman, 
dressed  very  strangely,  without  cap  or  bonnet,  but  a  great 
silver  arrow  stuck  in  her  hair,  and  a  filagree  chain  or  neck- 
lace resting  upon  her  kerchief. 

"  Ah,  good  Anetta,"  said  Violante  in  Italian.  "  Papa, 
she  says  she  is  to  go  back  ;  but  she  is  not  to  go  back — is 
she  ? " 

Riccabocca,  who  had  scarcely  before  noticed  the  woman, 
started  at  that  question — exchanged  a  rapid  glance  with 
Jackeymo — and  then,  muttering  some  inaudible  excuse, 
approached  the  nurse,  and,  beckoning  her  to  follow  him, 
went  away  into  the  grounds.  He  did  not  return  for  more 
than  an  hour,  nor  did  the  woman  then  accompany  him 
home.  He  said  briefly  to  his  wife  that  the  nurse  was 
obliged  to  return  at  once  to  Italy,  and  that  she  would  stay 
in  the  village  to  catch  the  mail ;  that  indeed  she  would 
be  of  no  use  in  their  establishment,  as  she  could  not  speak 
a  word  of  English  ;  but  that  he  was  sadly  afraid  Violante 
would  pine  for  her.  And  Violante  did  pine  at  first.  But 
still,  to  a  child  it  is  so  great  a  thing  to  find  a  parent — to  be 
at  home — that,  tender  and  grateful  as  Violante  was,  she 
could  not  be  inconsolable  while  her  father  was  there  to 
comfort. 

For  the  first  few  days,  Riccabocca  scarcely  permitted  any 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  227 

one  to  be  with  his  daughter  but  himself.  He  would  not 
even  leave  her  alone  with  his  Jemima.  They  walked  out 
together — sat  together  for  hours  in  the  belvidere.  Then  by 
degrees  he  began  to  resign  her  more  and  more  to  Jemima's 
care  and  tuition,  especially  in  English,  of  which  language  at 
present  she  spoke  only  a  few  sentences  (previously,  perhaps, 
learned  by  heart),  so  as  to  be  clearly  intelligible. 


CHAPTER   IV. 

THERE  was  one  person  in  the  establishment  of  Dr.  Ric- 
cabocca,  who  was  satisfied  neither  with  the  marriage  of  his 
master  nor  the  arrival  of  Violante — and  that  was  our  friend 
Lenny  Fairfield.  Previous  to  the  all-absorbing  duties  of 
courtship,  the  young  peasant  had  secured  a  very  large  share 
of  Riccabocca's  attention.  The  sage  had  felt  an  interest  in 
the  growth  of  this  rude  intelligence  struggling  up  to  light. 
But  what  with  the  wooing,  and  what  with  the  wedding, 
Lenny  Fairfield  had  sunk  very  much  out  of  his  artificial 
position  as  pupil,  into  his  natural  station  of  under-gardener. 
And  on  the  arrival  of  Violante,  he  saw,  with  natural  bitter- 
ness, that  he  was  clean  forgotten,  not  only  by  Riccabocca, 
but  almost  by  Jackeymo.  It  was  true  that  the  master  still 
lent  him  books,  and  the  servant  still  gave  him  lectures  on 
horticulture.  But  Riccabocca  had  no  time  nor  inclination 
now  to  amuse  himself  with  enlightening  that  tumult  of  con- 
jecture which  the  books  created.  And  if  Jackeymo  had 
been  covetous  of  those  mines  of  gold  buried  beneath  the 
acres  now  fairly  taken  from  the  Squire  (and  good-naturedly 
added  rent-free,  as  an  aid  to  Jemima's  dower),  before  the  ad- 
vent of  the  young  lady  whose  future  dowry  the  produce  was 
to  swell — now  that  she  was  actually  under  the  eyes  of  the 
faithful  servant,  such  a  stimulus  was  given  to  his  industry 
that  he  could  think  of  nothing  else  but  the  land,  and  the 
revolution  he  designed  to  effect  in  its  natural  English  crops. 
The  garden,  save  only  the  orange-trees,  was  abandoned  en- 
tirely to  Lenny,  and  additional  laborers  were  called  in  for 
the  field-work.  Jackeymo  had  discovered  that  one  part  of 
the  soil  was  suited  to  lavender,  that  another  would  grow 
camomile.  He  had  in  his  heart  apportioned  a  beautiful  field 
of  rich  loam  to  flax ;  but  against  the  growth  of  ilax  the 


228  MY  NOVEL;    OK, 

Squire  set  his  face  obstinately.  That  most  lucrative,  per- 
haps, of  all  crops,  when  soil  and  skill  suit,  was  formerly 
attempted  in  England  much  more  commonly  than  it  is  now, 
since  you  will  find  few  old  leases  which  do  not  contain  a 
clause  prohibitory  of  flax,  as  an  impoverishment  of  the  land. 
And  though  Jackeymo  learnedly  endeavored  to  prove  to  the 
Squire  that  the  flax  itself  contained  particles  which,  if  re- 
turned to  the  soil,  repaid  all  that  the  crop  took  away,  Mr. 
Hazeldean  had  his  old-fashioned  prejudices  on  the  matter, 
which  were  insuperable.  "My  forefathers,"  quoth  he,  "did 
not  put  that  clause  in  their  leases  without  good  cause  ;  and 
as  the  Casino  lands  are  entailed  on  Frank,  I  have  no  right 
to  gratify  your  foreign  whims  at  his  expense." 

To  make  up  for  the  loss  of  the  flax,  Jackeymo  resolved 
to  convert  a  very  nice  bit  of  pasture  into  orchard  ground, 
which  he  calculated  would  bring  in  ^10  net  per  acre  by  the 
time  Miss  Violante  was  marriageable.  At  this  the  Squire 
pished  a  little  ;  but  as  it  was  quite  clear  that  the  land  would 
be  all  the  more  valuable  hereafter  for  the  fruit-trees,  he  con- 
sented to  permit  the  "grass-land"  to  be  thus  partially 
broken  up. 

All  these  changes  left  poor  Lenny  Fairfield  very  much 
to  himself — at  a  time  when  the  new  and  strange  devices 
which  the  initiation  into  book  knowledge  creates  made  it 
most  desirable  that  he  should  have  the  constant  guidance  of 
a  superior  mind. 

One  evening  after  his  work,  as  Lenny  was  returning  to 
his  mother's  cottage,  very  sullen  and  very  moody,  he  sud- 
denly came  in  contact  with  Sprott  the  Tinker. 


CHAPTER    V. 

THE  Tinker  was  seated  under  a  hedge,  hammering  away 
at  an  old  kettle — with  a  little  fire  burning  in  front  of  him — 
and  the  donkey  hard  by,  indulging  in  a  placid  doze.  Mr. 
Sprott  looked  up  as  Lenny  passed — nodded  kindly,  and 
said — 

"  Good  evenin',  Lenny ;  glad  to  hear  you  be  so  'spect- 
ably  sitivated  with  Mounseer." 

"Ay,"  answered  Lenny,  with  a  leaven  of  rancor  in  his 
recollections,  "you're  not  ashamed  to  speak  to  me  now  that 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  229 

I  am  not  in  disgrace.  But  it  was  in  disgrace,  when  it  wasn't 
my  fault,  that  the  real  gentleman  was  most  kind  to  me." 

"Ar r,  Lenny,"  said  the  Tinker,  with  a  prolonged 

rattle  in  that  said  Ar r,  which  was  riot  without  great  sig- 
nificance. "  But  you  sees  the  real  gentleman,  who  han't  got 
his  bread  to  get,  can  hafford  to  'spise  his  cracter  in  the 
world.  A  poor  Tinker  must  be  timbersome  and  nice  in  his 
'sociations.  But  sit  down  here  a  bit,  Lenny  ;  I've  summut 
to  say  to  ye  ! " 

"  To  me " 

"  To  ye.  Give  the  neddy  a  shove  out  i'  the  vay,  and  sit 
down,  I  say." 

Lenny  rather  reluctantly,  and  somewhat  superciliously, 
accepted  this  invitation. 

"  I  hears,"  said  the  tinker  in  a  voice  made  rather  indis- 
tinct by  a  couple  of  nails  which  he  had  inserted  between 
his  teeth — "  I  hears  as  how  you  be  unkimmon  fond  of 
reading.  I  ha'  sum  nice  cheap  books  in  my  bag  yonder — 
sum  as  low  as  a  penny." 

"  I  should  like  to  see  them,"  said  Lenny,  his  eyes 
sparkling. 

The  Tinker  rose,  opened  one  of  the  panniers  on  the 
ass's  back,  took  out  a  bag,  which  he  placed  before  Lenny, 
and  told  him  to  suit  himself.  The  young  peasant  desired 
no  better.  He  spread  all  the  contents  of  the  bag  on  the 
sward,  and  a  motley  collection  of  food  for  the  mind  was 
there — food  and  poison — serpentes  avibus — good  and  evil. 
Here  Milton's  Paradise  Lost,  there  The  Age  of  Reason — 
here  Methodist  Tracts,  there  True  Principles  of  Socialism 
—Treatises  on  Useful  Knowledge  by  sound  learning  actua- 
ted by  pure  benevolence — Appeals  to  Operatives  by  the 
shallowest  reasoners,  instigated  by  the  same  ambition  that 
had  moved  Eratosthenes  to  the  conflagration  of  a  temple  ; 
works  of  fiction  admirable  as  Robinson  Crusoe,  or  innocent 
as  the  Old  English  Baron  ;  besides  coarse  translations  of 
such  garbage  as  had  rotted  away  the  youth  of  France 
under  Louis  Quinze.  This  miscellany  was  an  epitome,  in 
short,  of  the  mixed  World  of  Books,  of  that  vast  City  of 
the  Press,  with  its  palaces  and  hovels,  its  aqueducts  and 
sewers — which  opens  all  alike  to  the  naked  eye  and  the 
curious  mind  of  him  to  whom  you  say,  in  the  Tinker's  care- 
less phrase,  "  Suit  yourself." 

But  it  is  not  the  first  im  pulse  of  a  nature,  healthful  and 
still  pure,  to  settle  in  the  hovel  and  lose  itself  amidst  the 


230  MY  NOVEL;    OR, 

sewers  ;  and  Lenny  Fairfield  turned  innocently  over  the 
bad  books,  and  selecting  two  or  three  of  the  best,  brought 
them  to  the  Tinker,  and  asked  the  price. 

"Why,"  said  Mr.  Sprott,  putting  on  his  spectacles, 
"  you  have  taken  the  werry  dearest ;  them  'ere  be  much 
cheaper,  and  more  hinterestin'." 

"But  I  don't  fancy  them,"  answered  Lenny;  "I  don't 
understand  what  they  are  about,  and  this  seems  to  tell  one 
how  the  steam-engine  is  made,  and  has  nice  plates  ;  and 
this  is  Robinson  Crusoe,  which  Parson  Dale  once  said  he 
would  give  me — I'd  rather  buy  it  out  of  my  own  money." 

"Well,  please  yourself,"  quoth  the  Tinker;  "you  shall 
have  the  books  for  four  bob,  and  you  can  pay  me  next 
month." 

"  Four  bobs — four  shillings  ?  it  is  a  great  sum,"  said 
Lenny  ;  "  but  I  will  lay  by,  as  you  are  kind  enough  to 
trust  me  ;  good  evening,  Mr.  Sprott." 

"Stay  a  bit,"  said  the  Tinker;  "I'll  just  throw  you 
these  two  little  tracts  into  the  bargain  ;  they  be  only  a 
shilling  a  dozen,  so  'tis  but  tuppence — and  when  you  has 
read  those,  vy,  you'll  be  a  reglar  customer." 

The  Tinker  tossed  to  Lenny  Nos.  i  and  2  of  Appeals 
to  Operatives,  and  the  peasant  took  them  up  gratefully. 

The  young  knowledge-seeker  went  his  way  across  the 
green  fields,  and  under  the  still  autumn  foliage  of  the 
hedge-rows.  He  looked  first  at  one  book,  then  at  another  ; 
he  did  not  know  on  which  to  settle. 

The  Tinker  rose  and  made  a  fire  with  leaves,  and  furze, 
and  sticks,  some  dry  and  some  green. 

Lenny  has  now  opened  No.  i  of  the  tracts  ;  they  are 
the  shortest  to  read,  and  don't  require  so  much  effort  of 
the  mind  as  the  explanation  of  the  steam-engine. 

The  Tinker  has  set  on  his  grimy  glue-pot,  and  the  glue 
simmers. 


CHAPTER    VI. 

As  Violante  became  more  familiar  with  her  new  home, 
and  those  around  her  became  more  familiar  with  Violante, 
she  was  remarked  for  a  certain  stateliness  of  manner  and 
bearing,  which,  had  it  been  less  evidently  natural  and 
inborn,  would  have  seemed  misplaced  in  the  daughter  of 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  231 

a  forlorn  exile,  and  would  have  been  rare  at  so  early  an 
age  among  children  of  the  loftiest  pretensions.  It  was 
with  the  air  of  a  little  princess  that  she  presented  her 
tiny  hand  to  a  friendly  pressure,  or  submitted  her  calm 
clear  cheek  to  a  presuming  kiss.  Yet  withal  she  was  so 
graceful,  and  her  very  stateliness  was  so  pretty  and  capti- 
vating, that  she  was  not  the  less  loved  for  all  her  grand 
airs.  And,  indeed,  she  deserved  to  be  loved  ;  for  though 
she  was  certainly  prouder  than  Mr.  Dale  could  approve 
of,  her  pride  was  devoid  of  egotism  ;  and  that  is  a  pride 
by  no  means  common.  She  had  an  intuitive  forethought 
for  others  ;  you  could  see  that  she  was  capable  of  that 
grand  woman-heroism,  abnegation  of  self  ;  and  though 
she  was  an  original  child,  and  often  grave  and  musing, 
with  a  tinge  of  melancholy,  sweet,  but  deep  in  her  charac- 
ter, still  she  was  not  above  the  happy,  genial  merriment  of 
childhood — only  her  silver  laugh  was  more  attuned,  and 
her  gestures  more  composed,  than  those  of  children  habitu- 
ated to  many  playfellows  usually  are.  Mrs.  Hazeldean 
liked  her  best  when  she  was  grave,  and  said  "  she  would 
become  a  very  sensible  woman."  Mrs.  Dale  liked  her  best 
when  she  was  gay,  and  said  "  she  was  born  to  make  many 
a  heart  ache  ;"  for  which  Mrs.  Dale  was  properly  reproved 
by  the  Parson.  Mrs.  Hazeldean  gave  her  a  set  of  garden 
tools  ;  Mrs.  Dale  a  picture-book  and  a  beautiful  doll.  For 
a  long  time  the  book  and  the  doll  had  the  preference.  But 
Mrs.  Hazeldean  having  observed  to  Riccabocca  that  the 
poor  child  looked  pale,  and  ought  to  be  a  good  deal  in  the 
open  air,  the  wise  father  ingeniously  pretended  to  Violante 
that  Mrs.  Riccabocca  had  taken  a  great  fancy  to  the 
picture-book,  and  that  he  should  be  very  glad  to  have 
the  doll,  upon  which  Violante  hastened  to  give  them  both 
away,  and  was  never  so  happy  as  when  mamma  (as  she 
called  Mrs.  Riccabocca)  was  admiring  the  picture-book,  and 
Riccabocca  with  austere  gravity  dandled  the  doll.  Then 
Riccabocca  assured  her  that  she  could  be  of  great  use  to 
him  in  the  garden  ;  and  Violante  instantly  put  into  move- 
ment her  spade,  hoe,  and  wheel-barrow. 

This  last  occupation  brought  her  into  immediate  con- 
tact with  Mr.  Leonard  Fairneld  ;  and  that  personage  one 
morning,  to  his  great  horror,  found  Miss  Violante  had 
nearly  exterminated  a  whole  celery-bed,  which  she  had 
ignorantly  conceived  to  be  a  crop  of  weeds. 

Lenny  was  extremely  angry.     He  snatched  away  the  hoe, 


232  MY  NOVEL;    OR, 

and  said  angrily,  "You  must  not  do  that,  miss  ;  I'll  tell  your 
papa  if  you " 

Violante  drew  herself  up,  and  never  having  been  so 
spoken  to  before,  at  least  since  her  arrival  in  England,  there 
was  something  comic  in  the  surprise  of  her  large  eyes,  as 
well  as  something  tragic  in  the  dignity  of  her  offended 
mien.  "  It  is  very  naughty  of  you,  miss,"  continued  Leon- 
ard in  a  milder  tone,  for  he  was  both  softened  by  the  eyes 
and  awed  by  the  mien,  "  and  I  trust  you  will  not  do  it 
again." 

"  Non  capiseo  "  (I  don't  understand),  murmured  Violante, 
and  the  dark  eyes  filled  with  tears.  At  that  moment,  up 
came  Jackeymo ;  and  Violante,  pointing  to  Leonard,  said, 
with  an  effort  not  to  betray  her  emotion,  ^  II  fanciullo  <? 
molto  grossolano  "  (he  is  a  very  rude  boy). 

Jackeymo  turned  to  Leonard  with  the  look  of  an  en- 
raged tiger.  "  How  you  dare,  scum  of  de  earth  that  you 
are,"  cried  he,*  "how  you  dare  make  cry  the  signorina  ?  " 
And  his  English  not  supplying  familiar  vituperatives  suf- 
ficiently, he  poured  out  upon  Lenny  such  a  profusion  of 
Italian  abuse,  that  the  boy  turned  red  and  white,  in  a  breath, 
with  rage  and  perplexity. 

Violante  took  instant  compassion  upon  the  victim  she 
had  made,  and,  with  true  feminine  caprice,  now  began  to 
scold  Jackeymo  for  his  anger,  and,  finally  approaching 
Leonard,  laid  her  hand  on  his  arm,  and  said  with  a  kindness 
at  once  child-like  and  queenly,  and  in  the  prettiest  imagin- 
able mixture  of  imperfect  English  and  soft  Italian,  to  which 
I  cannot  pretend  to  do  justice,  and  shall  therefore  translate  : 
"  Don't  mind  him.  I  dare  say  it  was  all  my  fault,  only  I  did 
not  understand  you  ;  are  not  these  things  weeds  ?  " 

"No,  my  darling  signorina,"  said  Jackeymo  in  Italian, 
looking  ruefully  at  the  celery-bed,  "  they  are  not  weeds,  and 
they  sell  very  well  at  this  time  of  the  year.  But  still  if  it 
amuses  you  to  pluck  them  up,  I  should  like  to  see  who's  to 
prevent  it." 

Lenny  walked  away.  He  had  been  called  "  the  scum  of 
the  earth,"  by  a  foreigner  too  !  He  had  again  been  ill-treated 
for  doing  what  he  conceived  his  duty.  He  was  again  feel- 
ing the  distinction  between  rich  and  poor,  and  he  now 
fancied  that  that  distinction  involved  deadly  warfare,  for  he 

*  It  need  scarcely  be  observed  that  Jackeymo,  in  his  conversations  with  his  master  or  Vio- 
lante, or  his  conferences  with  himself,  employs  his  native  language,  which  is  therefore  trans- 
lated without  the  blunders  that  he  is  driven  to  commit  when  compelled  to  trust  himself  to  the 
tongue  of  the  country  in  which  he  is  a  sojourner. 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  233 

had  read  from  beginning  to  end  those  two  damnable  tracts 
which  the  Tinker  had  presented  to  him.  But  in  the  midst 
of  all  the  angry  disturbance  of  his  mind,  he  felt  the  soft 
touch  of  the  infant's  hand,  the  soothing  influence  of  her 
conciliating  words,  and  he  was  half  ashamed  that  he  had 
spoken  so  roughly  to  a  child. 

Still,  not  trusting  himself  to  speak,  he  walked  away,  and 
sat  down  at  a  distance.  "I  don't  see,"  thought  he,  "why 
there  should  be  rich  and  poor,  master  and  servant."  Lenny, 
be  it  remembered,  had  not  heard  the  Parson's  Political 
Sermon. 

An  hour  after,  having  composed  himself,  Lenny  returned 
to  his  work.  Jackeymo  was  no  longer  in  the  garden  ;  he 
had  gone  to  the  fields  ;  but  Riccabocca  was  standing  by  the 
celery-bed,  and  holding  the  red  silk  umbrella  over  Violante 
as  she  sat  on  the  ground,  looking  up  at  her  father  with  those 
eyes  already  so  full  of  intelligence,  and  love,  and  soul. 

"Lenny,"  said  Riccabocca,  "my  young  lady  has  been 
telling  me  that  she  has  been  very  naughty,  and  Giacomo 
very  unjust  to  you.  Forgive  them  both." 

Lenny's  sullenness  melted  in  an  instant ;  the  reminis- 
cences of  tracts  Nos.  i  and  2, 

"  Like  the  baseless  fabric  of  a  vision, 
Left  not  a  wreck  behind." 

He  raised  his  eyes,  swimming  with  all  his  native  goodness 
toward  the  wise  man,  and  dropped  them  gratefully  on  the 
infant  peace-maker.  Then  he  turned  away  his  head  and 
fairly  wept.  The  '  Parson  was  right :  "  O  ye  poor,  have 
charity  for  the  rich  ;  O  ye  rich,  respect  the  poor." 


CHAPTER   VII. 

Now  from  that  day  the  humble  Lenny  and  regal  Vio- 
lante became  great  friends.  With  what  pride  he  taught  her 
to  distinguish  between  celery  and  weeds — and  how  proud 
too  was  she  when  she  learned  that  she  was  useful ' !  There  is 
not  a  greater  pleasure  you  can  give  children,  especially 
female  children,  tha'n  to  make  them  feel  they  are  already  of 
value  in  the  world,  and  serviceable  as  well  as  protected. 


234  MY  NOVEL;    OR, 

Weeks  and  months  rolled  away,  and  Lenny  still  read,  not 
only  the  books  lent  him  by  the  Doctor,  but  those  he  bought 
of  Mr.  Sprott.  As  for  the  bombs  and  shells  against  religion 
which  the  Tinker  carried  in  his  bag,  Lenny  was  not  induced 
to  blow  himself  up  with  them.  He  had  been  reared  from 
his  cradle  in  simple  love  and  reverence  for  the  Divine 
Father,  and  the  tender  Savior,  whose  life  beyond  all  epics  of 
mortal  heroism,  no  being  whose  infancy  has  been  taught  to 
supplicate  the  Merciful  and  adore  the  Holy,  yea,  even 
t'hough  his  later  life  may  be  entangled  amidst  the  thorns  of 
some  desolate  pyrrhonism,  can  ever  hear  reviled  and  scoffed 
without  a  shock  to  the  conscience  and  a  revolt  to  the  heart. 
As  the  deer  recoils  by  instinct  from  the  tiger,  as  the  very 
look  of  the  scorpion  deters  you  from  handling  it,  though 
you  never  saw  a  scorpion  before,  so  the  very  first  line  in 
some  ribald  profanity  on  which  the  Tinker  put  his  black 
finger,  made  Lenny's  blood  run  cold.  Safe,  too,  was  the 
peasant  boy  from  any  temptation  in  works  of  a  gross  and 
licentious  nature,  not  only  because  of  the  happy  ignorance 
of  his  rural  life,  but  because  of  a  more  enduring  safeguard 
— genius !  Genius,  that,  manly,  robust,  healthful  as  it  be,  is 
long  before  it  lose  its  instinctive  Dorian  modesty  ;  shame- 
faced, because  so  susceptible  to  glory — genius,  that  loves  in- 
deed to  dream,  but  on  the  violet  bank,  not  the  dunghill. 
Wherefore,  even  in  the  error  of  the  senses,  it  seeks  to  escape 
from  the  sensual  into  worlds  of  fancy,  subtle  and  refined. 
But  apart  from  the  passions,  true  genius  is  the  most  practical 
of  all  human  gifts.  Like  the  Apollo  whom  the  Greek 
worshipped  as  its  type,  even  Arcady  is  its  exile,  not  its 
home.  Soon  weary  of  the  dalliance  of  Tempc,  it  ascends  to 
its  mission — the  Archer  of  the  silver  bow,  the  guide  of  the 
car  of  light.  Speaking  more  plainly,  genius  is  the  enthusi- 
asm for  self-improvement  ;  it  ceases  or  sleeps  the  moment 
it  desist  from  seeking  some  object  which  it  believes  of  value, 
and  by  that  object  it  insensibly  connects  its  self-improve- 
ment with  the  positive  advance  of  the  world.  At  present 
Lenny's  genius  had  no  bias  that  was  not  to  the  Positive  and 
Useful.  It  took  the  direction  natural  to  its  sphere,  and  the 
wants  therein — viz.,  to  the  arts  which  we  call  mechanical. 
He  wanted  to  know  about  steam-engines  and  Artesian  wells  ; 
and  to  know  about  them  it  was  necessary  to  know  some- 
thing of  mechanics  and  hydrostatics  ;  so  he  bought  popular 
elementary  works  on  those  mystic  sciences,  and  set  all  the 
powers  of  his  mind  at  work  on  experiments. 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  235 

Noble  and  generous  spirits  are  ye,  who,  with  small  care 
for  fame,  and  little  reward  from  pelf,  have  opened  to  the  in- 
tellects of  the  poor  the  portals  of  wisdom  !  I  honor  and 
revere  ye  ;  only  do  not  think  ye  have  done  all  that  is  need- 
ful. Consider,  I  pray  ye,  whether  so  good  a  thoice  from 
the  Tinker's  bag  would  have  been  made  by  a  boy  whom  re- 
ligion had  not  scared  from  the  pestilent,  and  genius  had 
not  led  to  the  self-improving.  And  Lenny  did  not  wholly 
escape  from  the  mephitic  portions  of  the  motley  elements 
from  which  his  awakening  mind  drew  its  nurture.  Think 
not  it  was  all  pure  oxygen  that  the  panting  lip  drew  in. 
No  ;  there  were  still  those  inflammatory  tracts.  Political  I 
do  not  like  to  call  them,  for  politics  means  the  art  of  gov- 
ernment, and  the  tracts  I  speak  of  assailed  all  government 
which  mankind  has  hitherto  recognized.  Sad  rubbish,  per- 
haps, were  such  tracts  to  you,  O  sound  thinker,  in  your 
easy-chair  !  Or  to  you  practised  statesman,  at  your  post  on 
the  Treasury  Bench — to  you,  calm  dignitary  of  a  learned 
Church — or  to  you,  my  lord  judge,  who  may  often  have 
sent  from  your  bar  to  the  dire  Orcus  of  Norfolk's  Isle  the 
ghosts  of  men  whom  that  rubbish,  falling  simultaneously  on 
the  bumps  of  acquisitiveness  and  combativeness,  hath  un- 
timely slain  !  Sad  rubbish  to  you  !  But  seems  it  such  rub- 
bish to  the  poor  man,  to  whom  it  promises  a  paradise  on  the 
easy  terms  of  upsetting  a  world  ?  For  ye  see,  those  "Ap- 
peals to  Operatives"  represent  that  same  world-upsetting  as 
the  simplest  thing  imaginable — a  sort  of  two-and-two-make 
four  proposition.  The  poor  have  only  got  to  set  their 
strong  hands  to  the  axle,  and  heave  a-hoy  !  and  hurrah  for 
the  topsy-turvy  !  Then,  just  to  put  a  little  wholesome  rage 
into  the  heave-a-hoy  !  it  is  so  facile  to  accompany  the  elo- 
quence of  "  Appeals  "  with  a  kind  of  stir-the-bile-up  statis- 
tics— "  Abuses  of  the  Aristocracy  " — "  Jobs  of  the  Priest- 
hood " — "  Expenses  of  the  Army  kept  up  for  Peers' 
younger  sons" — "Wars  contracted  for  the  villanous  pur- 
pose of  raising  the  rents  of  the  land-owners  " — all  arithme- 
tically dished  up,  and  seasoned  with  tales  of  every  gentle- 
man who  has  committed  a  misdeed,  every  clergyman  who 
has  dishonored  his  cloth  ;  as  if  such  instances  were  fair 
specimens  of  average  gentlemen  and  ministers  of  religion  ! 
All  this  passionately  advanced  (and  observe,  never  answered, 
for  that  literature  admits  no  controversialists,  and  the  writer 
has  it  all  his  own  way)  may  be  rubbish  ;  but  it  is  out  of 


236  MY  NOVEL;    OR, 

such  rubbish  that  operatives  build  barricades  for  attack,  and 
legislators  prisons  for  defence. 

Our  poor  friend  Lenny  drew  plenty  of  this  stuff  from  the 
Tinker's  bag.  He  thought  it  very  clever  and  very  eloquent ; 
and  he  supposed  the  statistics  were  as  true  as  mathematical 
demonstrations. 

A  famous  knowledge-diffuser  is  looking  over  my  shoul- 
der, and  tells  me,  "  Increase  education,  and  cheapen  good 
books,  and  all  this  rubbish  will  disappear  !  "  Sir,  I  don't 
believe  a  word  of  it.  If  you  printed  Ricardo  and  Adam 
Smith  at  a  farthing  a  volume,  I  still  believe  that  they  would 
be  as  little  read  by  the  operatives  as  they  are  now-a-days  by  a 
very  large  proportion  of  highly  cultivated  men.  I  still  believe 
that,  while  the  press  works,  attacks  on  the  rich,  and  propo- 
sitions for  heave-a-hoys,  will  always  form  a  popular  portion 
of  the  Literature  of  Labor.  There's  Lenny  Fairfield  read- 
ing a  treatise  on  hydraulics,  and  constructing  a  model  for  a 
fountain  into  the  bargain  ;  but  that  does  not  prevent  his  ac- 
quiescence in  any  proposition  for  getting  rid  of  a  National 
Debt,  which  he  certainly  never  agreed  to  pay,  and  which  he 
is  told  makes  sugar  and  tea  so  shamefully  dear.  No,  I  tell 
you  what  does  a  little  counteract  these  eloquent  incentives 
to  break  his  own  head  against  the  strong  walls  of  the  Social 
System — it  is,  that  he  has  two  eyes  in  that  head,  which 
are  not  always  employed  in  reading.  And,  having  been 
told  in  print  that  masters  are  tyrants,  parsons  hypocrites  or 
drones  in  the  hive,  and  land-owners  vampires  and  blood- 
suckers, he  looks  out  into  the  little  world  around  him,  and, 
first,  he  is  compelled  to  acknowledge  that  his  master  is  not 
a  tyrant  (perhaps  because  he  is  a  foreigner  and  a  philoso- 
pher, and,  for  what  I  and  Lenny  know,  a  republican).  But 
then  Parson  Dale,  though  High  Church  to  the  marrow,  is 
neither  hypocrite  nor  drone.  He  has  a  very  good  living,  it 
is  true — much  better  than  he  ought  to  have,  according  to 
the  "  political "  opinions  of  those  tracts  !  but  Lenny  is 
obliged  to  confess  that,  if  Parson  Dale  were  a  penny  the 
poorer,  he  would  do  a  pennyworth's  less  good  ;  and,  com- 
paring one  parish  with  another,  such  as  Rood  Hall  and  Ha- 
zeldean,  he  is  dimly  aware  that  there  is  no  greater  CIVILIZER 
than  a  person  tolerably  well  off.  Then,  too,  Squire  Hazel- 
dean,  though  as  arrant  a  Tory  as  ever  stood  upon  shoe- 
leather,  is  certainly  not  a  vampire  nor  blood-sucker.  He 
does  not  feed  on  the  public  ;  a  great  many  of  the  public 
feed  on  him  ;  and,  therefore,  his  practical  experience  a  little 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  237 

staggers  and  perplexes  Lenny  Fairfield  as  to  the  gospel  ac- 
curacy of  his  theoretical  dogmas.  Masters,  parsons,  and 
land-owners  !  having,  at  the  risk  of  all  popularity,  just  giv- 
en a  coup  de  patte  to  certain  sages  extremely  the  fashion  at 
present,  I  am  not  going  to  let  you  off  without  an  admoni- 
tory flea  in  the  ear.  Don't  suppose  that  any  mere  scribbling 
and  typework  will  suffice  to  answer  the  scribbling  and 
typework  set  at  work  to  demolish  you — write  down  that 
rubbish  you  can't — live  it  down  you  may.  If  you  are  rich, 
like  Squire  Hazeldean,  do  good  with  your  money  ;  if  you  are 
poor,  like  Signer  Riccabocca,  do  good  with  your  kindness. 

See  !  there  is  Lenny  now  receiving  his  week's  wages  ; 
and  though  Lenny  knows  that  he  can  get  higher  wages  in 
the  very  next  parish,  his  blue  eyes  are  sparkling  with  grati- 
tud?,  not  at  the  chink  of  the  money,  but  at  the  poor  exile's 
friendly  talk  on  things  apart  from  all  service  ;  while 
Violante  is  descending  the  steps  from  the  terrace,  charged 
by  her  mother-in-law  with  a  little  basket  of  sago,  and  such 
like  delicacies,  for  Mrs.  Fairfield,  who  has  been  ailing  the 
last  few  days. 

Lenny  will  see  the  Tinker  as  he  goes  home,  and  he  will 
buy  a  most  Demosthenean  "Appeal" — a  tract  of  tracts, 
upon  the  Propriety  of  Strikes,  and  the  Avarice  of  Masters. 
But,  somehow  or  other,  I  think  a  few  words  from  Signer 
Riccabocca,  that  did  not  cost  the  Signor  a  farthing,  and  the 
sight  of  his  mother's  smile  at  the  contents  of  the  basket, 
which  cost  very  little,  will  serve  to  neutralize  the  effects  of 
that  "  Appeal,"  much  more  efficaciously  than  the  best  article 
a  Brougham  or  a  Mill  could  write  on  the  subject. 


CHAPTER   VIII. 

SPRING  had  come  again  ;  and  one  beautiful  May  day, 
Leonard  Fairfield  sat  beside  the  little  fountain  which  he  had 
now  actually  constructed  in  the  garden.  The  butterflies 
were  hovering  over  the  belt  of  flowers  which  he  had  placed 
around  his  fountain,  and  the  birds  were  singing  overhead. 
Leonard  Fairfield  was  resting  from  his  day's  work,  to  enjoy 
his  abstemious  dinner,  beside  the  cool  play  of  the  sparkling 
waters,  and,  with  the  yet  keener  appetite  of  knowledge,  he 
devoured  his  book  as  he  munched  his  crusts. 


238  MY  NOVEL;    OR, 

A  penny  tract  is  the  shoeing-horn  of  literature  !  it 
draws  on  a  great  many  books,  and  some  too  tight  to  be  very 
useful  in  walking.  The  penny  tract  quotes  a  celebrated 
writer — you  long  to  read  him  ;  it  props  a  startling  assertion 
by  a  grave  authority — you  long  to  refer  to  it.  During  the 
nights  of  the  past  winter,  Leonard's  intelligence  had  made 
vast  progress  !  he  had  taught  himself  more  than  the 
elements  of  mechanics,  and  put  to  practice  the  principles 
he  had  acquired,  not  only  in  the  hydraulical  achievement  of 
the  fountain,  and  in  the  still  more  notable  application  of 
science,  commenced  on  the  stream  in  which  Jackeymo  had 
fished  for  minnows,  and  which  Lenny  had  diverted  to  the 
purpose  of  irrigating  two  fields,  but  in  various  ingenious 
contrivances  for  the  facilitation  or  abridgment  of  labor, 
which  had  excited  great  wonder  and  praise  in  the  neighbor- 
hood. On  the  other  hand,  those  rabid  little  tracts,  which 
dealt  so  summarily  with  the  destinies  of  the  human  race, 
even  when  his  growing  reason,  and  the  perusal  of  works 
more  classical  or  more  logical,  had  led  him  to  perceive  that 
they  were  illiterate,  and  to  suspect  that  they  jumped  from 
premises  to  conclusions  with  a  celerity  very  different  from 
the  careful  ratiocination  of  mechanical  science,  had  still,  in 
the  citations  and  references  wherewith  they  abounded,  lured 
him  on  to  philosophers  more  specious  and  more  perilous. 
Out  of  the  Tinker's  bag  he  had  drawn  a  translation  of  Con- 
dorcet's  Progress  of  Man,  and  another  of  Rousseau's  Social 
Contract.  Works  so  eloquent  had  induced  him  to  select 
from  the  tracts  in  the  Tinker's  miscellany  those  which 
abounded  most  in  professions  of  philanthropy,  and  predic- 
tions of  some  coming  Golden  Age,  to  which  old  Saturn's 
was  a  joke — tracts  so  mild  and  mother-like  in  their  language, 
that  it  required  a  much  more  practical  experience  than 
Lenny's  to  perceive  that  you  would  have  to  pass  a  river  of 
blood  before  you  had  the  slightest  chance  of  setting  foot  on 
the  flowery  banks  on  which  they  invited  you  to  repose — 
tracts  which  rouged  poor  Christianity  on  the  cheeks, 
clapped  a  crown  of  innocent  daffodillies  on  her  head,  and 
set  her  to  dancing  a  pas  de  zephyr  in  the  pastoral  ballet  in 
which  St.  Simon  pipes  to  the  flock  he  shears  ;  or  having 
first  laid  it  down  as  a  preliminary  axiom  that 

"  The  cloud-capt  towers,  the  gorgeous  palaces, 
The  solemn  temples,  the  great  globe  itself— 
Yea,  all  which  it  inherit,  shall  dissolve," 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  239 

substituted  in  place  thereof  Monsieur  Fourier's  symmetrical 
phalanstere,  or  Mr.  Owen's  architectural  parallelogram.  It 
was  with  some  such  tract  that  Lenny  was  seasoning  his 
crusts  and  his  radishes,  when  Riccabocca,  bending  his  long 
dark  face  over  the  student's  shoulder,  said  abruptly — 

"  JDiavolo,  my  friend  !  what  on  earth  have  you  got  there  ! 
Just  let  me  look  at  it,  will  you  ? " 

Leonard  rose  respectfully,  and  colored  deeply  as  he  sur-. 
rendered  the  tract  to  Riccabocca. 

The  wise  man  read  the  first  page  attentively,  the  second 
more  cursorily,  and  only  ran  his  eye  over  the  rest.  He  had 
gone  through  too  vast  a  range  of  problems  political,  not  to 
have  passed  over  that  venerable  Pans  Asinorum  of  Socialism, 
on  which  Fouriers  and  St.  Simons  sit  straddling,  and  cry 
aloud  that  they  have  arrived  at  the  last  boundary  of  know- 
ledge ! 

"  All  this  is  as  old  as  the  hills,"  quoth  Riccabocca,  ir- 
reverently ;  "  but  the  hills  stand  still,  and  this — there  it 
goes  !  "  and  the  sage  pointed  to  a  cloud  emitted  from  his 
pipe.  "  Did  you  ever  read  Sir  David  Brewster  on  Optical 
Delusions  ?  No  !  Well,  I'll  lend  it  to  you.  You  will  find 
therein  a  story  of  a  lady  who  always  saw  a  black  cat  on  her 
hearth-rug.  The  black  cat  existed  only  in  her  fancy,  but 
the  hallucination  was  natural  and  reasonable — eh — what  do 
you  think  ?  " 

"Why,  sir,"  said  Leonard,  not  catching  the  Italian's 
meaning,  "  I  don't  exactly  see  that  it  was  natural  and 
reasonable." 

"  Foolish  boy,  yes  !  because  black  cats  are  things  pos- 
sible and  known.  But  who  ever  saw  upon  earth  a  com- 
munity of  men  such  as  sit  on  the  hearth-rugs  of  Messrs. 
Owen  and  Fourier  ?  If  the  lady's  hallucination  was  not 
reasonable,  what  is  his  who  believes  in  such  visions  as 
these  ? " 

Leonard  bit  his  lip. 

"  My  dear  boy,"  cried  Riccabocca,  kindly,  "  the  only 
thing  sure  and  tangible  to  which  these  writers  would  lead 
you,  lies  at  the  first  step,  and  that  is  what  is  commonly 
called  a  Revolution.  Now,  I  know  what  that  is.  I  have 
gone,  not  indeed  through  a  revolution,  but  an  attempt  at 
one." 

Leonard  raised  his  eyes  toward  his  master  with  a  look 
of  profound  respect,  and  great  curiosity. 

"Yes,"  added  Riccabocca,  and  the  face  on  which  the 


240  My  NOVEL;    Off, 

boy  gazed  exchanged  its  usual  grotesque  and  sardonic 
expression  for  one  animated,  noble,  and  heroic.  "  Yes,  not 
a  revolution  for  chimeras,  but  for  that  cause  which  the 
coldest  allow  to  be  good,  and  which,  when  successful, 
all  time  approves  as  divine — the  redemption  of  our  native 
soil  from  the  rule  of  the  foreigner  !  I  have  shared  in  such 
an  attempt.  And,"  continued  the  Italian,  mournfully,  "  re- 
calling now  all  the  evil  passions  it  arouses,  all  the  ties  it 
dissolves,  all  the  blood  that  it  commands  to  flow,  all  the 
healthful  industry  it  arrests,  all  the  madmen  that  it  arms,  all 
the  victims  that  it  dupes,  I  question  whether  one  man  really 
honest,  pure,  and  humane,  who  has  once  gone  through  such 
an  ordeal,  would  ever  hazard  it  again,  unless  he  was  as- 
sured that  the  victory  was  certain — ay,  and  the  object  for 
which  he  fights  not  to  be  wrested  from  his  hands  amidst  the 
uproar  of  the  elements  that  the  battle  had  released." 

The  Italian  paused,  shaded  his  brow  with  his  hand,  and 
remained  long  silent.  Then  gradually  assuming  his  ordi- 
nary tone,  he  continued — 

"  Revolutions  that  have  no  definite  objects  made  clear 
by  the  positive  experience  of  history  ;  revolutions,  in  a 
word,  that  aim  less  at  substituting  one  law  or  one  dynasty 
for  another,  than  at  changing  the  whole  scheme  of  society, 
have  been  little  attempted  by  real  statesmen.  Even  Ly- 
curgus  is  proved  to  be  a  myth  who  never  existed.  Such 
organic  changes  are  but  in  the  day-dreams  of  philosophers 
who  lived  apart  from  the  actual  world,  and  whose  opinions 
(though  generally  they  were  very  benevolent,  good  sort  of 
men,  and  wrote  in  an  elegant  poetical  style)  one  would  no 
more  take  on  a  plain  matter  of  life,  than  one  would  look 
upon  Virgil's  Eclogues  as  a  faithful  picture  of  the  ordinary 
pains  and  pleasures  of  the  peasants  who  tend  our  sheep. 
Read  them  as  you  would  read  poets,  and  they  are  de- 
lightful. But  attempt  to  shape  the  world  according  to  the 
poetry,  and  fit  yourself  for  a  mad-house.  The  farther  off 
the  age  is  from  the  realization  of  such  projects,  the  more 
these  poor  philosophers  have  indulged  them.  Thus,  it  was 
amidst  the  saddest  corruption  of  court  manners  that  it  be- 
came the  fashion  in  Paris  to  sit  for  one's  picture,  with  a 
crook  in  one's  hand,  as  Alexis  or  Daphne.  Just  as  liberty 
was  fast  dying  out  of  Greece,  and  the  successors  of  Alex- 
ander were  founding  their  monarchies,  and  Rome  was 
growing  up  to  crush  in  its  iron  grasp  all  states  save  its 
own,  Plato  withdraws  his  eyes  from  the  world  to  open  them 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  241 

in  his  dreamy  Atlantis.  Just  in  the  grimmest  period  of 
English  history,  with  the  axe  hanging  over  his  head,  Sir 
Thomas  More  gives  you  his  Utopia.  Just  when  the  world 
is  to  be  the  theatre  of  a  new  Sesostris,  the  sages  of  France 
tell  you  that  the  age  is  too  enlightened  for  war,  that  man  is 
henceforth  to  be  governed  by  pure  reason,  and  live  in  a 
paradise.  Very  pretty  reading  all  this  to  a  man  like  me, 
Lenny,  who  can  admire  and  smile  at  it.  But  to  you,  to  the 
man  who  has  to  work  for  his  living,  to  the  man  who  thinks 
it  would  be  so  much  more  pleasant  to  live  at  his  ease  in  a 
phalanstere  than  to  work  eight  or  ten  hours  a-day ;  to 
the  man  of  talent,  and  action,  and  industry,  whose  future  is 
invested  in  that  tranquillity  and  order  of  a  state  in  which 
talent,  and  action,  and  industry,  are  a  certain  capital ; — 
why,  Messrs.  Coutts,  the  great  bankers,  had  better  en- 
courage a  theory  to  upset  the  system  of  banking  !  What- 
ever disturbs  society,  yea,  even  by  a  causeless  panic,  much 
more  by  an  actual  struggle,  falls  first  upon  the  market  of 
labor,  and  thence  affects  prejudicially  every  department  of 
intelligence.  In  such  times  the  arts  are  arrested  ;  literature 
is  neglected ;  people  are  too  busy  to  read  anything  save  ap- 
peals to  their  passions.  And  capital,  shaken  in  its  sense  of 
security,  no  longer  ventures  boldly  through  the  land,  call- 
ing forth  all  the  energies  of  toil  and  enterprise,  and  extend- 
ing to  every  workman  his  reward.  Now,  Lenny,  take  this 
piece  of  advice.  You  are  young,  clever,  and  aspiring  ;  men 
rarely  succeed  in  changing  the  world  ;  but  a  man  seldom 
fails  of  success,  if  he  lets  the  world  alone,  and  resolves  to 
make  the  best  of  it.  You  are  in  the  midst  of  the  great  crisis 
of  your  life  ;  it  is  the  struggle  between  the  new  desires 
knowledge  excites,  and  that  sense  of  poverty,  which  those 
desires  convert  either  into  hope  and  emulation,  or  into  envy 
and  despair.  I  grant  that  it  is  an  up-hill  work  that  lies  be- 
fore you  ;  but  don't  you  think  it  is  always  easier  to  climb  a 
mountain  than  it  is  to  level  it  ?  These  books  call  on  you  to 
level  the  mountain  ;  and  that  mountain  is  the  property  of 
other  people,  subdivided  amongst  a  great  many  proprietors, 
and  protected  by  law.  At  the  first  stroke  of  the  pickaxe,  it 
is  ten  to  one  but  what  you  are  taken  up  for  a  trespass.  But 
the  path  up  the  mountain  is  a  right  of  way  uncontested. 
You  may  be  safe  at  the  summit,  before  (even  if  the  owners 
are  fools  enough  to  let  you)  you  could  have  levelled  a  yard. 
Cospetto  !  "  quoth  the  doctor,  "  it  is  more  than  two  thousand 


242  MY  NOVEL;    OR, 

years   ago  since    poor    Plato   began    to    level    it,    and    the 
mountain  is  as  high  as  ever !  " 

Thus  saying,  Riccabocca  came  to  the  end  of  his  pipe, 
and  stalking  thoughtfully  away,  he  left  Leonard  Fairfield 
trying  to  extract  light  from  the  smoke. 


CHAPTER  IX. 

SHORTLY  after  this  discourse  of  Riccabocca's,  an  incident 
occurred  to  Leonard  that  served  to  carry  his  mind  into  new 
directions.  One  evening,  when  his  mother  was  out,  he  was 
at  work  on  a  new  mechanical  contrivance,  and  had  the  mis- 
fortune to  break  one  of  the  instruments  which  he  employed. 
Now,  it  will  he  remembered  that  his  father  had  been  the 
Squire's  head  carpenter  ;~tbe  widow  had  carefully  hoarded 
the  tools  of  his  craft,  \vhich  had  belonged  to  her  poor  Mark  ; 
and  though  she  occasionally  lent  them  to  Leonard,  she  would 
not  give  them  up  to  his  service.  Amongst  these,  Leonard 
knew  that  he  should  find  the  one  that  he  wanted ;  and  being 
much  interested  in  his  contrivance,  he  could  not  wait  till 
his  mother's  return.  The  tools,  with  other  little  relics  of  the 
lost,  were  kept  in  a  large  trunk  in  Mrs.  Fairfield's  sleeping- 
room  ;  the  trunk  wras  not  locked,  and  Leonard  went  to  it 
without  ceremony  or  scruple.  In  rummaging  for  the  instru- 
ment, his  eye  fell  upon  a  bundle  of  MSS.  ;  and  he  suddenly 
recollected  that  when  he  was  a  mere  child,  and  before  he 
much  knew  the  difference  between  verse  and  prose,  his 
mother  had  pointed  to  these  MSS.,  and  said,  "One  day  or 
other,  when  you  can  read  nicely,  I'll  let  you  look  at  these, 
Lenny.  My  poor  Mark  wrote  such  verses — ah,  he  was  a 
schollard  \"  Leonard,  reasonably  enough,  thought  that 
tho  time  had  now  arrived  when  he  was  worthy  the  privilege  of 
reading  the  paternal  effusions,  and  he  took  forth  the  MSS. 
with  a  keen  but  melancholy  interest.  He  recognized  his 
father's  hand-writing,  which  he  had  often  seen  before  in 
account-books  and  memoranda,  and  read  eagerly  some  tri- 
fling poems,  which  did  not  show  much  genius,  nor  much 
mastery  of  language  and  rhythm — such  poems,  in  short,  as 
a  self-educated  man,  with  poetic  taste  and  feeling,  rather 
than  poetic  inspiration  or  artistic  culture,  might  compose 
with  credit,  but  not  for  fame.  But  suddenly,  as  he  turned 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  243 

over  these  "  Occasional  Pieces,"  Leonard  came  to  others  in 
a  different  handwriting — a  woman's  handwriting, — small, 
and  fine,  and  exquisitely  formed.  He  had  scarcely  read  six 
lines  of  these  last,  before  his  attention  was  irresistibly  chained. 
They  were  of  a  different  order  of  merit  from  poor  Mark's  ; 
they  bore  the  unmistakable  stamp  of  genius.  Like  the  poetry 
of  women  in  general,  they  were  devoted  to  personal  feeling  ; 
they  were  not  the  mirror  of  a  world,  but  reflections  of  a 
solitary  heart.  Yet  this  is  the  kind  of  poetry  most  pleasing 
to  the  young.  And  the  verses  in  question  had  another 
attraction  for  Leonard  ;  they  seemed  to  express  some  struggle 
akin  to  his  own, — some  complaint  against  the  actual  condi- 
tion of  the  writer's  life, — some  sweet,  melodious  murmurs 
at  fortune.  For  the  rest,  they  were  characterized  by  a  vein 
of  sentiment  so  elevated,  that  if  written  by  a  man  it  would 
have  run  into  exaggeration  ;  written  by  a  woman,  the  ro- 
mance was  carried  off  by  so  many  genuine  revelations  of 
sincere,  deep,  pathetic  feeling,  that  it  was  always  natural, 
though  true  to  a  nature  for  which  you  would  not  augur 
happiness. 

Leonard  was  still  absorbed  in  the  perusal  of  these  poems, 
when  Mrs.  Fairfield  entered' the  room. 

"  What  have  you  been  about,  Lenny — searching  in  my 
box  ? " 

"  I  came  to  look  for  my  father's  bag  of  tools,  mother, 
and  I  found  these  papers,  which  you  said  I  might  read  some 
day." 

"  I  doesn't  wonder  you  did  not  hear  me  when  I  came  in," 
said  the  widow,  sighing.  "  I  used  to  sit  still  for  the  hour 
together,  when  my  poor  Mark  read  his  poems  to  me.  There 
was  such  a  pretty  one  about  the  '  Peasant's  Fireside,'  Lenny  ; 
have  you  got  hold  of  that  ? " 

"Yes,  dear  mother  ;  and  I  remarked  the  allusion  to  you  ; 
it  brought  tears  to  my  eyes.  But  these  verses  are  not  my 
father's, — whose  are  they  ?  They  seem  in  a  woman's  hand- 
writing." 

Mrs.  Fairfield  looked, — changed  color, — grew  faint,  and 
seated  herself. 

"  Poor,  poor  Nora  !  "  said  she,  falteringly.  "  I  did  not 
know  as  they  were  there  ;  Mark  kep  'em  ;  they  got  among 
his " 

LEONARD. — Who  was  Nora? 

MRS.  FAIRFIELD. — Who  ? — child — who  ?  Nora  was — was 
my — own  sister. 


244  MY  NOVEL;    OR, 

LEONARD  (in  great  amaze,  contrasting  his  ideal  of  the 
writer  of  these  musical  lines,  in  that  graceful  hand,  with  his 
homely,  uneducated  mother,  who  could  neither  read  nor 
write). — Your  sister  ! — is  it  possible  ?  My  aunt,  then.  How 
comes  it  you  never  spoke  of  her  before  ?  Oh  !  you  should 
be  so  proud  of  her,  mother. 

MRS.  FAIRFIELD  (clasping  her  hands). — We  were  proud 
of  her,  all  of  us — father,  mother — all !  She  was  so  beauti- 
ful and  so  good,  and  not  proud  she  !  though  she  looked  like 
the  first  lady  in  the  land.  Oh  !  Nora,  Nora  ! 

LEONARD  (after  a  pause). — But  she  must  have  been  highly 
educated  ? 

MRS.  FAIRFIELD. — 'Deed  she  was  ! 

LEONARD. — How  was  that  ? 

MRS.  FAIRFIELD  (rocking  herself  to  and  fro  in  her  chair). 
— Oh  !  my  Lady  was  her  godmother — Lady  Lansmere  I 
mean, — and  took  a  fancy  to  her  when  she  was  that  high  ! 
and  had  her  to  stay  at  the  Park,  and  wait  on  her  Ladyship  ; 
and  then  she  put  her  to  school,  and  Nora  was  so  clever,  that 
nothing  would  do  but  she  must  go  to  London  as  a  governess. 
But  don't  talk  of  it,  boy  ! — don't  talk  of  it  ! 

LEONARD. — Why  not,  mother  ?  What  has  become  of 
her  ? — where  is  she  ? 

MRS.  FAIRFIELD  (bursting  into  a  paroxysm  of  tears). — In 
her  grave — in  her  cold  grave  !  Dead,  dead  ! 

Leonard  was  inexpressibly  grieved  and  shocked.  It  is 
the  attribute  of  the  poet  to  seem  always  living, — always  a 
friend.  Leonard  felt  as  if  some  one  very  dear  had  been 
suddenly  torn  from  his  heart.  He  tried  to  console  his 
mother  ;  but  her  emotion  was  contagious,  and  he  wept  with 
her. 

"  And  how  long  has  she  been  dead  ?  "  he  asked,  at  last, 
in  mournful  accents. 

"  Many's  the  long  year — many  ;  but,"  added  Mrs.  Fair- 
field,  rising,  and  putting  her  tremulous  hand  on  Leonard's 
shoulder,  "  you'll  just  never  talk  to  me  about  her — I 
can't  bear  it — it  breaks  my  heart  ;  I  can  bear  better  to  talk 
of  Mark.  Come  down  stairs — come." 

"May  I  not  keep  these  verses,  mother  ?     Do  let  me." 

"  Well,  well,  those  bits  o'  paper  be  all  she  left  behind  her. 
Yes,  keep  them,  but  put  back  Mark's.  Are  they  all  here  ? — 
sure  ?  "  And  the  widow,  though  she  could  not  read  her  hus- 
band's verses,  looked  jealously  at  the  MSS.  written  in  his 
irregular  large  scrawl,  and,  smoothing  them  carefully,  re- 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  245 

placed  them  in  the  trunk,  and  resettled  over  them  some 
sprigs  of  lavender,  which  Leonard  had  unwittingly  dis- 
turbed. 

"  But,"  said  Leonard,  as  his  eye  again  rested  on  the 
beautiful  handwriting  of  his  lost  aunt — "  but  you  call  her 
Nora — I  see  she  signs  herself  L." 

"  Leonora  was  her  name.  I  said  she  was  my  lady's  god- 
child. We  called  her  Nora  for  short — 

"  Leonora — and  I  am  Leonard — is  that  how  I  came  by 
the  name  ? " 

"Yes,  yes — do  hold  your  tongue,  boy,"  sobbed  poor  Mrs. 
Fairfield  ;  and  she  could  not  be  soothed  nor  coaxed  into 
continuing  or  renewing  a  subject  which  was  evidently  asso- 
ciated with  insupportable  pain. 


CHAPTER  X. 

IT  is  difficult  to  exaggerate  the  effect  that  this  discovery 
produced  on  Leonard's  train  of  thought.  Some  one  belong- 
ing to  his  own  humble  race  had,  then,  preceded  him  in  his 
struggling  flight  toward  the  loftier  regions  of  Intelligence 
and  Desire.  It  was  like  the  mariner  amidst  unknown  seas, 
who  finds  carved  upon  some  desert  isle  a  familiar  household 
name.  And  this  creature  of  genius  and  of  sorrow — whose 
existence  he  had  only  learned  by  her  song,  and  whose  death 
created  in  the  simple  heart  of  her  sister,  so  passionate  a 
grief,  after  the  lapse  of  so  many  years — supplied  to  the 
romance  awaking  in  his  young  heart  the  ideal  which  it  un- 
consciously sought.  He  was  pleased  to  hear  that  she  had 
been  beautiful  and  good.  He  paused  from  his  books  to 
muse  on  her,  and  picture  her  image  to  his  fancy.  That 
there  was  some  mystery  in  her  fate  was  evident  to  him  ;  and 
while  that  conviction  deepened  his  interest,  the  mystery  it- 
self, by  degrees,  took  a  charm  which  he  was  not  anxious  to  dis- 
pel. He  resigned  himself  to  Mrs.  Fairfield's  obstinate  silence. 
He  was  contented  to  rank  the  dead  amongst  those  holy  and 
ineffable  images  which  we  do  not  seek  to  unveil.  Youth 
and  Fancy  have  many  secret  hoards  of  idea  which  they  do 
not  desire  to  impart,  even  to  those  most  in  their  confidence. 
I  doubt  the  depth  of  feeling  in  any  man  who  has  not  certain 
recesses  in  his  soul  into  which  none  may  enter. 


246  MY  NOVEL;    OR, 

Hitherto,  as  I  have  said,  the  talents  of  Leonard  Fairfield 
had  been  more  turned  to  tilings  positive  than*to  the  ideal  ; 
to  science  and  investigation  of  fact  than  to  poetry,  and 
that  airier  truth  in  which  poetry  has  its  element.  He  had 
read  our  greater  poets,  indeed,  but  without  thought  of  im- 
itating ;  and  rather  from  the  general  curiosity  to  inspect  all 
celebrated  monuments  of  the  human  mind,  than  from  that 
especial  predilection  for  verse  which  is  too  common  in  child- 
hood and  youth  to  be  any  sure  sign  of  a  poet.  But  now 
these  melodies,  unknown  to  all  the  world  beside,  rang  in  his 
ear,  mingled  with  his  thoug  hts — set,  as  it  were,  his  whole 
life  to  music.  He  read  poetry  with  a  different  sentiment — 
it  seemed  to  him  that  he  had  discovered  its  secret.  And  so 
reading,  the  passion  seized  him,  and  "  the  numbers  came." 

To  many  minds,  at  the  commencement  of  our  grave  and 
earnest  pilgrimage,  I  am  Vandal  enough  to  think  that  the 
indulgence  of  poetic  taste  and  reverie  does  great  and 
lasting  harm  ;  that  it  serves  to  enervate  the  character,  give 
false  ideas  of  life,  impart  the  semblance  of  drudgery  to  the 
noble  toils  and  duties  of  the  active  man.  All  poetry  would 
not  do  this — not,  for  instance,  the  Classical,  in  its  diviner 
masters — not  the  poetry  of  Homer,  of  Virgil,  of  Sophocles 
— not,  perhaps,  even  that  of  the  indolent  Horace.  But  the 
poetry  which  youth  usually  loves  and  appreciates  the  best — 
the  poetry  of  mere,  sentiment — does  so  in  minds  already 
over-predisposed  to  the  sentiment,  and  which  require  brac- 
ing to  grow  into  healthful  manhood. 

On  the  other  hand,  even  this  latter  kind  of  poetry,  which 
is  peculiarly  modern,  does  suit  many  minds  of  another 
mould — minds  which  our  modern  life,  with  its  hard  positive 
forms;1  tends  to  produce.  And  as  in  certain  climates  plants 
and  herbs,  particularly  adapted  as  antidotes  to  those  diseases 
most  prevalent  in  the  atmosphere,  are  profusely  sown,  as  it 
were,  by  the  benignant  providence  of  nature — so  it  may  be 
that  the  softer  and  more  romantic  species  of  poetry,  which 
comes  forth  in  harsh,  money-making,  unromantic  times,  is 
intended  as  curatives  and  counter-poisons.  The  world  is  so 
much  with  us,  now-a-days,  that  we  need  have  something 
that  prates  to  us,  albeit  even  in  too  fine  an  euphuism,  of  the 
moon  and  stars. 

Certes,  to  Leonard  Fairfield,  at  that  period  of  his  intel- 
lectual life,  the  softness  of  out  Helicon  descended  as  healing 
dews.  In  his  turbulent  and  unsettled  ambition,  in  his  vague 
grapple  with  the  giant  forms  of  political  truths,  in  his  bias 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  247 

toward  the  application  of  science  to  immediate  practical 
purposes,  this  lovely  vision  of  the  Muse  came  in  the  white 
robe  of  the  Peacemaker  ;  and  with  upraised  hand,  pointing 
to  serene  skies,  she  opened  to  him  fair  glimpses  of  the  Beau- 
tiful, which  is  given  to  Peasant  as  to  Prince — showed  to  him 
that  on  the  surface  of  the  earth  there  is  something  nobler 
than  fortune — that  he  who  can  view  the  world  as  a  poet  is 
always  at  soul  a  king  ;  while  to  practical  purpose  itself,  that 
larger  and  more  profound  invention,  which  poetry  stimu- 
lates, supplied  the  grand  design  and  the  subtle  view — lead- 
ing him  beyond  the  mere  ingenuity  of  the  mechanic,  and 
habituating  him  to  regard  the  inert  force  of  the  matter  at  his 
command  with  the  ambition  of  the  Discoverer.  But  above 
all,  the  discontent  that  was  within  him  finding  a  vent,  not 
in  deliberate  war  upon  this  actual  world,  but  through  the 
purifying  channels  of  song — in  the  vent  itself  it  evaporated, 
it  was  lost.  By  accustoming  ourselves  to  survey  all  things 
with  the  spirit  that  retains  and  reproduces  them  only  in 
their  lovelier  or  grander  aspects,  avast  philosophy  of  tolera- 
tion for  what  we  before  gazed  on  with  scorn  or  hate  insen- 
sibly grows  upon  us.  Leonard  looked  into  his  heart  after 
the  Enchantress  had  breathed  upon  it ;  and  through  the 
mists  of  the  fleeting  and  tender  melancholy  which  betrayed 
where  she  had  been,  he  beheld  a  new  sum  of  delight  and 
joy  dawning  over  the  landscape  of  human  life. 

Thus,  though  she  was  dead  and  gone  from  his  actual 
knowledge,  this  mysterious  kinswoman  —  "a  voice,  and 
nothing  more " — had  spoken  to  him,  soothed,  elevated, 
cheered,  attuned  each  discord  into  harmony;  and,  if  now 
permitted  from  some  serener  sphere  to  behold  the  life  that 
her  soul  thus  strangely  influenced,  verily  with  yet  holier 
joy,  the  saving  and  lovely  spirit  might  have  glided  onward 
in  the  Eternal  Progress. 

We  call  the  large  majority  of  human  lives  obscure.  Pre- 
sumptuous that  we  are  !  How  know  we  what  lives  a  single 
thought  retained  from  the  dust  of  nameless  graves  may 
have  lighted  to  renown  ? 


248  MY  NOVEL;    OR, 


CHAPTER  XL 

IT  was  about  a  year  after  Leonard's  discovery  of  the 
family  MSS.  that  Parson  Dale  borrowed  the  quietest  pad 
mare  in  the  Squire's  stables,  and  set  out  on  an  equestrian 
excursion.  He  said  that  he  was  bound  on  business  con- 
nected with  his  old  parishioners  of  Lansmere  ;  for,  as  it  has 
been  incidentally  implied  in  a  previous  chapter,  he  had 
been  connected  with  that  borough  town  (and,  I  may  here 
add,  in  the  capacity  of  curate)  before  he  had  been  inducted 
into  the  living  of  Hazeldean. 

It  was  so  rarely  that  the  Parson  stirred  from  home, 
that  this  journey  to  a  town  more  than  twenty  miles  off  was 
regarded  as  a  most  daring  adventure,  both  at  the  Hall  and 
at  the  Parsonage.  Mrs.  Dale  could  not  sleep  the  whole 
previous  night  with  thinking  of  it  ;  and  though  she  had 
naturally  one  of  her  worst  nervous  headaches  on  the  event- 
ful morn,  she  yet  suffered  no  hands  less  thoughtful  than 
her  own  to  pack  up  the  saddle-bags  which  the  Parson  had 
borrowed  along  with  the  pad.  Nay,  so  distrustful  was  she 
of  the  possibility  of  the  good  man's  exerting  the  slightest 
common  sense  in  her  absence,  that  she  kept  him  close  at 
her  side  while  she  was  engaged  in  that  same  operation  of 
packing  up — showing  him  the  exact  spot  in  which  the 
clean  shirt  was  put,  and  how  nicely  the  old  slippers  were 
packed  up  in  one  of  his  own  sermons.  She  implored  him 
not  to  mistake  the  sandwiches  for  his  shaving-soap,  and 
made  him  observe  how  carefully  she  had  provided  against 
such  confusion,  by  placing  them  as  far  apart  from  each 
other  as  the  nature  of  saddle-bags  will  admit.  The  poor 
Parson — who  was  really  by  no  means  an  absent  man,  but 
as  little  likely  to  shave  himself  with  sandwiches  and  lunch 
upon  soap  as  the  most  common-place  mortal  may  be — lis- 
tened with  conjugal  patience,  and  thought  that  man  never 
had  such  a  wife  before  ;  nor  was  it  without  tears  in  his  own 
eyes  that  he  tore  himself  from  the  farewell  embrace  of  his 
weeping  Carry. 

I  confess,  however,  that  it  was  with  some  apprehension 
that  he  set  his  foot  in  the  stirrup,  and  trusted  his  person 
to  the  mercies  of  an  unfamiliar  animal.  For,  whatever 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  249 

might  be  Mr.  Dale's  minor  accomplishments  as  man  and 
parson,  horsemanship  was  not  \i\$  forte  ;  indeed,  I  doubt  if 
he  had  taken  the  reins  in  his  hand  more  than  twice  since  he 
had  been  married. 

The  Squire's  surly  old  groom,  Mat,  was  in  attendance 
with  the  pad  ;  and  to  the  Parson's  gentle  inquiry  whether 
Mat  was  quite  sure  that  the  pad  was  quite  safe,  replied  la- 
conically, "  Oi,  oi,  give  her  her  head  !  " 

"  Give  her  her  head  ! "  repeated  Mr.  Dale,  rather  amazed, 
for  he  had  not  the  slightest  intention  of  taking  away  that 
part  of  the  beast's  frame  so  essential  to  its  vital  economy — 
"  Give  her  her  head  !  " 

"  Oi,  oi  ;  and  don't  jerk  her  up  like  that,  or  she'll  fall  a 
doincing  on  her  hind-legs." 

The  Parson  instantly  slackened  the  reins  ;  and  Mrs. 
Dale — who  had  tarried  behind  to  control  her  tears — now 
running  to  the  door  for  "  more  last  words,"  he  waved  his 
hand  with  courageous  amenity,  and  ambled  forth  into  the 
lane. 

Our  equestrian  was  absorbed  at  first  in  studying  the 
idiosyncrasies  of  the  pad-mare,  and  trying  thereby  to  arrive 
at  some  notion  of  her  general  character  :  guessing,  for  in- 
stance, why  she  raised  one  ear  and  laid  down  the  other  ; 
why  she  kept  bearing  so  close  to  the  left  that  she  brushed 
his  leg  against  the  hedge  ;  and  why,  when  she  arrived  at  a 
little  side-gate  in  the  fields,  which  led  toward  the  home- 
farm,  she  came  to  a  full  stop,  and  fell  to  rubbing  her  nose 
against  the  rail — an  occupation  from  which  the  Parson, 
finding  all  civil  remonstrances  in  vain,  at  length  diverted 
her  by  a  timorous  application  of  the  whip. 

This  crisis  on  the  road  fairly  passed,  the  pad  seemed  to 
comprehend  that  she  had  a  journey  before  her,  and  giving 
a  petulant  whisk  of  her  tail,  quickened  her  amble  into  a 
short  trot,  which  soon  brought  the  Parson  into  the  high- 
road, and  nearly  opposite  the  Casino. 

Here,  sitting  on  the  gate  which  led  to  his  abode,  and 
shaded  by  his  umbrella,  he  beheld  Dr.  Riccabocca. 

The  Italian  lifted  his  eyes  from  the  book  he  was  reading, 
and  stared  hard  at  the  Parson  ;  and  he — not  venturing  to 
withdraw  his  wThole  attention  from  the  pad  (who,  indeed, 
set  up  both  her  ears  at  the  apparition  of  Riccabocca,  and 
evinced  symptoms  of  that  surprise  and  superstitious  repug- 
nance at  unknown  objects,  which  goes  by  the  name  of 
"shying") — looked  askance  at  Riccabocca. 


250  MY  NOVEL;    OR, 

"Don't  stir,  please,"  said  the  Parson,  "or  I  fear  you'll 
alarm  this  creature  ;  it  seems  a  nervous,  timid  thing  ; — soho 
— gently — gently." 

And  he  fell  to  patting  the  mare  with  great  unction. 

The  pad,  thus  encouraged,  overcame  her  first  natural 
astonishment  at  the  sight  of  Riccabocca  and  the  red  um- 
brella ;  and  having  before  been  at  the  Casino  on  sundry 
occasions,  and  sagaciously  preferring  places  within  the 
range  of  her  experience  to  bournes  neither  cognate  nor 
conjecturable,  she  moved  gravely  up  toward  the  gate  on 
which  the  Italian  sat ;  and  after  eyeing  him  a  moment — as 
much  as  to  say,  "  I  wish  you  would  get  off," — came  to  a 
dead  lock. 

"  Well,"  said  Riccabocca,  "  since  your  horse  seems 
more  disposed  to  be  polite  to  me  than  yourself,  Mr.  Dale, 
I  take  the  opportunity  of  your  present  involuntary  pause 
to  congratulate  you  on  your  elevation  in  life,  and  to  breathe 
a  friendly  prayer  that  pride  may  not  have  a  fall !  " 

"  Tut,"  said  the  Parson,  affecting  an  easy  air,  though 
still  contemplating  the  pad,  who  appeared  to  have  fallen 
into  a  quiet  doze,  "  it  is  true  that  I  have  not  ridden  much 
of  late  years,  and  the  Squire's  horses  are  very  high-fed  and 
spirited  ;  but  there  is  no  more  harm  in  them  than  their 
master  when  one  once  knows  their  ways." 

"  Chi  va' piano,  va  sano, 
E  chi  va  sano  va  lontano," 

said  Riccabocca,  pointing  to  the  saddle-bags.  "  You  go 
slowly,  therefore  safely;  and  he  who  goes  safely  may  go 
far.  You  seem  prepared  for  a  journey  ?" 

"I  am,"  said  the  Parson;  "and  on  a  matter  that  con- 
cerns you  a  little." 

"  Me  !  "  exclaimed  Riccabocca — "  concerns  me  !  " 

"  Yes,  so  far  as  the  chance  of  depriving  you  of  a  servant 
whom  you  like  and  esteem  affects  you." 

"  Oh,"  said  Riccabocca,  "  I  understand  ;  you  have  hinted 
to  me  very  often  that  I,  or  knowledge,  or  both  together, 
have  unfitted  Leonard  Fairfield  for  service." 

"  I  did  not  say  that  exactly  ;  I  said  that  you  had  fitted 
him  for  something  higher  than  service.  But  do  not  repeat 
this  to  him.  And  I  cannot  yet  say  more  to  you,  for  I  am 
very  doubtful  as  to  the  success  of  my  mission  ;  and  it  will 
not  do  to  unsettle  poor  Leonard  until  we  are  sure  that  we 
can  improve  his  condition." 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  251 

"  Of  that  you  can  never  be  sure."  quoth  the  wise  man, 
shaking  his  head  ;  "  and  I  can't  say  that  I  am  unselfish 
enough  not  to  bear  you  a  grudge  for  seeking  to  decoy 
away  from  me  an  invaluable  servant — faithful,  steady,  in- 
telligent, and "  added  Riccabocca,  warming  as  he  ap- 
proached the  climacteric  adjective  "  exceedingly  cheap  ! 
Nevertheless — go,  and  Heaven  speed  you.  I  am  not  an 
Alexander,  to  stand  between  man  and  the  sun." 

"  You  are  a  noble,  great-hearted  creature,  Signor  Ricca- 
bocca, in  spite  of  your  cold-blooded  proverbs  and  villan- 
ous  books."  The  Parson,  as  he  said  this,  brought  down 
the  whip-hand  with  so  indiscreet  an  enthusiasm  on  the  pad's 
shoulder,  that  the  poor  beast,  startled  out  of  her  inno- 
cent doze,  made  a  bolt  forward,  which  nearly  precipitated 
Riccabocca  from  his  seat  on  the  stile,  and  then  turning 
round — as  the  Parson  tugged  desperately  at  the  rein — 
caught  the  bit  between  her  teeth,  and  set  off  at  a  canter. 
The  Parson  lost  both  his  stirrups  ;  and  when  he  regained 
them  (as  the  pad  slackened  her  pace),  and  had  time  to 
breathe  and  look  about  him,  Riccabocca  and  the  Casino 
were  both  out  of  sight. 

"  Certainly,"  quoth  Parson  Dale,  as  he  settled  himself 
with  great  complacency,  and  a  conscious  triumph  that  he 
was  still  on  the  pad's  back — "certainly  it  is  true  'that  the 
noblest  conquest  ever  made  by  man  was  that  of  the  horse  ;' 
a  fine  creature  it  is — a  very  fine  creature — and  uncommonly 
difficult  to  sit  on,  especially  without  stirrups."  Firmly  in 
his  stirrups  the  Parson  planted  his  feet ;  and  the  heart  with-1- 
in  him  was  very  proud. 


CHAPTER  XII. 

THE  borough  town  of  Lansmere  was  situated  in  the 
county  adjoining  that  which  contained  the  village  of  Hazel- 
dean.  Late  at  noon  the  Parson  crossed  the  little  stream 
which  divided  the  two  shires,  and  came  to  an  inn  which 
was  placed  at  an  angle  where  the  great  main  road  branched 
off  into  two  directions — the  one  leading  toward  Lansmere, 
the  other  going  more  direct  to  London.  At  this  inn  the 
pad  stopped,  and  put  down  both  ears  with  the  air  of  a  pad 
who  has  made  up  her  mind  to  bait.  And  the  Parson  him- 


252  MY  NOVEL;    OR, 

self,  feeling  very  warm  and  somewhat  sore,  said  to  the 
pad  benignly,  "  It  is  just — thou  shalt  have  corn  and  wa- 
ter ! " 

Dismounting,  therefore,  and  finding  himself  very  stiff, 
as  soon  as  he  reached  terra  fir  ma,  the  Parson  consigned  the 
pad  to  the  ostler,  and  walked  into  the  sanded  parlor  of  the 
inn,  to  repose  himself  on  a  very  hard  Windsor  chair. 

He  had  been  alone  rather  more  than  half  an  hour, 
reading  a  county  newspaper  which  smelt  much  of  tobacco, 
and  trying  to  keep  off  the  flies  that  gathered  round  him 
in  swarms,  as  if  they  had  never  before  seen  a  parson,  and 
were  anxious  to  ascertain  how  the  flesh  of  one  tasted, — 
when  a  stage-coach  stopped  at  the  inn.  A  traveller  got  out 
with  his  carpet-bag  in  his  hand,  and  was  shown  into  the 
sanded  parlor. 

The  Parson  rose  politely,  and  made  a  bow. 

The  traveller  touched  his  hat,  without  taking  it  off — 
looked  at  Mr.  Dale  from  top  to  toe — then  walked  to  the 
window,  and  whistled  a  lively  impatient  tune,  then  strode 
toward  the  fire-place  and  rang  the  bell  ;  then  stared  again 
at  the  Parson  ;  and  that  gentleman  having  courteously 
laid  down  the  newspaper,  the  traveller  seized  it,  threw 
himself  into  a  chair,  flung  one  of  his  legs  over  the  table, 
tossed  the  other  up  on  the  mantelpiece,  and  began  read- 
ing the  paper,  while  he  tilted  the  chair  on  its  hind-legs 
with  so  daring  a  disregard  to  the  ordinary  position  of 
chairs  and  their  occupants,  that  the  shuddering  Parson  ex- 
pected every  moment  to  see  him  come  down  on  the  back  of 
his  skull. 

Moved,  therefore,  to  compassion,  Mr.  Dale  said  mildly — 

"  Those  chairs  are  very  treacherous,  sir.  I'm  afraid 
you'll  be  down." 

"  Eh  !  "  said  the  traveller,  looking  up  much  astonished 
— "  Eh  !  down  ? — oh,  you're  satirical,  sir." 

"  Satirical,  sir  ?  upon  my  word,  no ! "  exclaimed  the 
Parson,  earnestly. 

"  I  think  every  free-born  man  has  a  right  to  sit  as  he 
pleases  in  his  own  house,"  resumed  the  traveller,  with 
warmth  ;  "  and  an  inn  is  his  own  house,  I  guess,  so  long 
as  he  pays  his  score.  Betty,  rny  dear." 

For  the  chambermaid  had  now  replied  to  the  bell. 

"  I  han't  Betty,  sir  ;  do  you  want  she  ?  " 

"No,  Sally — cold  brandy-and-water — and  a  biscuit." 

"  I  han't  Sally,  either,"  muttered  the  chambermaid  ;  but 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  253 

the  traveller,  turning  round,  showed  so  smart  a  neck-cloth 
and  so  comely  a  face,  that  she  smiled,  colored,  and  went 
her  way. 

The  traveller  now  rose,  and  flung  down  the  paper.  He 
took  out  a  penknife,  and  began  paring  his  nails.  Sud- 
denly desisting  from  this  elegant  occupation,  his  eye  caught 
sight  of  the  Parson's  shovel-hat,  which  lay  on  a  chair  in 
the  corner. 

"You're  a  clergyman,  I  reckon,  sir,"  said  the  traveller, 
with  a  slight  sneer. 

Again  Mr.  Dale  bowed — bowed  in  part  deprecatingly — 
in  part  with  dignity.  It  was  a  bow  that  said,  "  No  offence, 
sir,  but  I  am  a  clergyman,  and  I'm  not  ashamed  of  it." 

"  Going  far  ?  "  asked  the  traveller. 

PARSON — Not  very. 

TRAVELLER. — In  a  chase  or  fly  ?  If  so,  and  we  are  going 
the  same  way — halves. 

PARSON. — Halves  ? 

TRAVELLER. — Yes,  I'll  pay  half  the  damage — pikes  in- 
clusive. 

PARSON. — You  are  very  good,  sir.  But  [spoken  with 
pride]  I  am  on  horseback. 

TRAVELLER. — On  horseback  !  Well,  I  should  not  have 
guessed  that  !  You  don't  look  like  it.  Where  did  you  say 
you  were  going  ? 

"  I  did  not  say  where  I  was  going,  sir,"  said  the  Parson 
dryly,  for  he  was  much  offended  at  that  vague  and  ungram- 
matical  remark  applicable  to  his  horsemanship,  that  "  he 
did  not  look  like  it." 

"  Close  !  "  said  the  traveller,  laughing  ;  "  an  old  traveller, 
I  reckon." 

The  Parson  made  no  reply,  but  he  took  up  his  shovel- 
hat,  and,  with  a  bow  more  majestic  than  the  previous  one, 
\valked  out  to  see  if  his  pad  had  finished  her  corn. 

The  animal  had  indeed  finished  all  the  corn  afforded  to 
her,  which  was  not  much,  and  in  a  few  minutes  more  Mr. 
Dale  resumed  his  journey.  He  had  performed  about  three 
miles,  when  the  sound  of  wheels  behind  him  made  him 
turn  his  head,  and  he  perceived  a  chase  driven  very  fast, 
while  out  of  the  windows  thereof  dangled  strangely  a  pair 
of  human  legs.  The  pad  began  to  curvet  as  the  post- 
horses  rattled  behind,  and  the  Parson  had  only  an  indis- 
tinct vision  of  a  human  face  supplanting  those  human  legs. 
The  traveller  peered  out  at  him  as  he  whirled  by — saw  Mr. 


254  MY  NOVEL;    OR, 

Dale  tossed  up  and  down  on   the  saddle,  and   cried   out, 
"How's  the  leather?" 

"  Leather!  "  soliloquized  the  Parson,  as  the  pad  recom- 
posed  herself.  "  What  does  he  mean  by  that  ?  Leather  !  a 
very  vulgar  man.  But  I  got  rid  of  him  cleverly." 

.  Mr.  Dale  arrived  without  farther  adventure  at  Lans- 
mere.  He  put  up  at  the  principal  inn — refreshed  himself 
by  a  general  ablution — and  sat  down  with  good  appetite 
to  his  beef-steak  and  pint  of  port. 

The  Parson  was  a  better  judge  of  the  physiognomy  of 
man  than  that  of  the  horse  ;  and  after  a  satisfactory  glance 
at  the  civil  smirking  landlord,  who  removed  the  cover  and 
set  on  the  wine,  he  ventured  on  an  attempt  at  conversation. 
"Is  my  lord  at  the  Park  ?  " 

LANDLORD  (still  more  civilly  than  before). — No,  sir  ;  his 
lordship  and  my  lady  have  gone  to  town  to  meet  Lord 
L'Estrange." 

"  Lord  L'Estrange  ?     He  is  in  England,  then?" 

"Why,  so  I  heard,"  replied  the  landlord;  "but  we 
never  see  him  here  now.  I  remember  him  a  very  pretty 
young  man.  Every  one  was  fond  of  him  and  proud  of  him. 
But  what  pranks  he  did  play  when  he  was  a  lad  !  We 
hoped  he  would  come  in  for  our  boro'  some  of  these  days, 
but  he  has  taken  to  foreign  parts — more's  the  pity.  I  am  a 
reg'lar  Blue,  sir,  as  I  ought  to  be.  The  Blue  candidate  al- 
ways does  me  the  honor  to  come  to  the  Lansmere  Arms. 
'Tis  only  the  low  party  puts  up  with  the  Boar,"  added  the 
landlord,  with  a  look  of  ineffable  disgust.  "  I  hope  you  like 
the  wine,  sir  ?  " 

"Very  good,  and  seems  old." 

"  Bottled  these  eighteen  years,  sir.  I  had  in  the  cask 
for  the  great  election  of  Dashmore  and  Egerton.  I  have 
little  left  of  it,  and  I  never  give  it  but  to  old  friends  like — 
for,  I  think,  sir,  though  you  be  grown  stout,  and  look  more 
grand,  I  may  say  that  I've  had  the  pleasure  of  seeing  you 
before." 

"  That's  true,  I  dare  say,  though  I  fear  I  was  never  a 
very  good  customer." 

"  Ah,  it  is  Mr.  Dale,  then  !  I  thought  so  when  you  came 
into  the  hall.  I  hope  your  lady  is  quite  well,  and  the 
Squire,  too  ;  fine  pleasant-spoken  gentleman  ;  no  fault  of 
his,  if  Mr.  Egerton  went  wrong.  Well,  we  have  never  seen 
him— I  mean  Mr.  Egerton — since  that  time.  I  don't  wonder 
he  stays  away  ;  but  my  lord's  son,  who  was  brought  up 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  255 

here,  it  an't  nat'ral  like  that  he  should  turn  his  back   on 
us! " 

Mr.  Dale  made  no  reply,  and  the  landlord  was  about  to 
retire,  when  the  Parson,  pouring  out  another  glass  of  port, 
said — "  There  must  be  great  changes  in  the  parish.  Is  Mr. 
Morgan,  the  medical  man,  still  here  ? " 

"  No,  indeed  ;  he  took  out  his  ploma  after  you  left,  and 
became  a  real  doctor  ;  and  a  pretty  practice  he  had  too, 
when  he  took,  all  of  a  sudden,  to  some  new-fangled  way  of 
physicking  ; — I  think  they  call  it  homy — something." 

"  Homoeopathy  ? " 

"  That's  it — something  against  all  reason  ;  and  so  he 
lost  his  practice  here  and  went  up  to  Lunnun.  I've  not 
heard  of  him  since." 

"Do  the  Avenels  still  reside  in  their  old  house  ?" 

"  Oh,  yes  ; — and  are  pretty  well  off,  I  hear  say.  John 
is  always  poorly  ;  though  he  still  goes  now  and  then  to  the 
Odd  Fellows,  and  takes  his  glass ;  but  his  wife  comes  and 
fetches  him  away  before  he  can  do  himself  any  harm." 

"  Mrs.  Avenel  is  the  same  as  ever  ? " 

"  She  holds  her  head  higher,  I  think,"  said  the  land- 
lord, smiling.  "  She  was  always — not  exactly  proud  like, 
but  what  I  calls  gumptious." 

"  I  never  heard  that  word  before,"  said  the  Parson, 
laying  down  his  knife  and  fork.  "  Bumptious,  indeed, 
though  I  believe  it  is  not  in  the  dictionary,  has  crept  into 
familiar  parlance,  especially  amongst  young  folks  at  school 
and  college." 

"  Bumptious  is  bumptious,  and  gumptious  is  gump- 
tious," said  the  landlord,  delighted  to  puzzle  a  parson. 
"  Now,  the  town  beadle  is  bumptious,  and  Mrs.  Avenel 
is  gumptious." 

"  She  is  a  very  respectable  woman,"  said  Mr.  Dale, 
somewhat  rebukingly. 

"  In  course,  sir  ;  all  gumptious  folks  are  ;  they  value 
themselves  on  their  respectability,  and  looks  down  on 
their  neighbors." 

PARSON    (still    philologically    occupied).— Gumptious — 
gumptious.     I  think  I  remember  the  substantive   at  school 
— not    that  my  master  taught  it    to    me.     "Gumption,"- 
it  means  cleverness. 

LANDLORD  (doggedly). — There's  gumption  and  gump- 
tious !  Gumption  is  knowing  ;  but  when  I  say  that  sum 
un  is  gumptious,  I  mean — though  that's  more  vulgar  like 


256  MY  NOVEL;    OK, 

— sum  un  who  does  not  think  small  beer  of  hisself.  You 
take  me,  sir  ?  " 

"I  think  I  do,"  said  the  Parson,  half-smiling.  "I  be- 
lieve the  Avenels  have  only  two  of  their  children  alive 
still— their  daughter,  who  married  Mark  Fairfield,  and  a 
son  who  went  to  America  ? " 

"Ah,  but  he  made  his  fortune  there,  and  has  come  back." 

"  Indeed  !  I'am  very  glad  to  hear  it.  He  has  settled 
at  Lansmere  ?  " 

"  No,  sir.  I  hear  as  he's  bought  a  property  a  long  way 
off.  But  he  comes  to  see  his  parents  pretty  often — so 
John  tells  me — but  I  can't  say  that  I  ever  see  him.  I  fancy 
Dick  doesn't  like  to  be  seen  by  folks  who  remember  him 
playing  in  the  kennel." 

"  Not  unnatural,"  said  the  Parson,  indulgently  ;  "  but 
he  visits  his  parents  ;  he  is  a  good  son  at  all  events,  then  ? " 

"  I've  nothing  to  say  against  him.  Dick  was  a  wild 
chap  before  he  took  himself  off.  I  never  thought  he 
would  make  his  fortune ;  but  the  Avenels  are  a  clever  set. 
Do  you  remember  poor  Nora — the  Rose  of  Lansmere, 
as  they  called  her  ?  Ah,  no,  I  think  she  went  up  to  Lun- 
nun  afore  your  time,  sir." 

"Humph  !"  said  the  Parson,  dryly.  "Well,  I  think  you 
may  take  away  now.  It  will  be  dark  soon,  and  I'll  just 
stroll  out  and  look  about  me." 

"  There's  a  nice  tart  coming,  sir." 

"Thank  you,  I've  dined." 

The  Parson  put  on  his  hat  and  sallied  forth  into  the 
streets.  He  eyed  the  houses  on  either  hand  with  that 
melancholy  and  wistful  interest  with  which,  in  middle  life, 
men  revisit  scenes  familiar  to  them  in  youth — surprised 
to  find  either  so  little  change  or  so  much,  and  recalling, 
by  fits  and  snatches,  old  associations  and  past  emotions. 
The  long  High  Street  which  he  threaded  now  began  to 
change  its  bustling  character,  and  slide,  as  it  were  gradu- 
ally, into  the  high-road  of  a  suburb.  On  the  left,  the 
houses  gave  way  to  the  moss-grown  pales  of  Lansmere 
Park  ;  to  the  right,  though  houses  still  remained,  they 
were  separated  from  each  other  by  gardens,  and  took  the 
pleasing  appearance  of  villas — such  villas  as  retired  trades- 
men or  their  widows,  old  maids,  and  half-pay  officers, 
select  for  the  evening  of  their  days. 

Mr.  Dale  looked  at  these  villas  with  the  deliberate 
attention  of  a  man  awakening  his  power  of  memory,  and 


VARIETIES  IN   ENGLISH  LIFE.  257 

at  last  stopped  before  one,  almost  the  last  on  the  road, 
and  which  faced  the  broad  patch  of  sward  that  lay  before 
the  lodge  of  Lansmere  Park.  An  old  pollard  oak  stood 
near  it,  and  from  the  oak  there  came  a  low  discordant 
sound  ;  it  >was  the  hungry  cry  of  young  ravens,  awaiting 
the  belated  return  of  the  parent  bird.  Mr.  Dale  put  his 
hand  to  his  brow,  paused  a  moment,  and  then,  with  a 
hurried  step,  passed  through  the  little  garden,  and  knocked 
at  the  door.  A  light  was  burning  in  the  parlor,  and  Mr. 
Dale's  eye  .caught  through  the  window  a  vague  outline 
of  three  forms.  There  was  an  evident  bustle  within  at 
the  sound  of  the  knock.  One  of  the  forms  rose  and  dis- 
appeared. A  very  prim,  neat,  middle-aged  maid-servant 
now  appeared  at  the  threshold,  and  austerely  inquired  the 
visitor's  business. 

"  I  want  to  see  Mr.  or  Mrs.  Avenel.  Say  that  I  have 
come  many  miles  to  see  them  ;  and  take  in  this  card." 

The  maid-servant  took  the  card,  and  half  closed  the 
door.  At  least  three  minutes  elapsed  before  she  reap- 
peared. 

"  Missis  says  it's  late,  but  walk  in." 

The  Parson  accepted  the  not  very  gracious  invitation, 
stepped  across  the  little  hall,  and  entered  the  little  parlor. 

Old  John  Avenel,  a  mild-looking  man,  who  seemed 
slightly  paralytic,  rose  slowly  from  his  arm-chair.  Mrs. 
Avenel,  in  an  awfully  stiff,  clean,  Calvinistical  cap,  and  a 
gray  dress,  every  fold  of  which  bespoke  respectability  and 
staid  repute — stood  erect  on  the  floor,  and  fixing  on  the 
Parson  a  cold  and  cautious  eye,  said — 

"  You  do  the  like  of  us  great  honor,  Mr.  Dale — take  a 
chair!  You  call  upon  business?" 

"Of  which  I  apprised  Mr.  Avenel,  by  letter." 

"  My  husband  is  very  poorly." 

"  A  poor  creature  !"  said  John,  feebly,  and  as  if  in  com- 
passion of  himself.  "  I  can't  get  about  as  I  used  to  do. 
But  it  ben't  near  election  time,  be  it,  sir  ?" 

"  No,  John,"  said  Mrs.  Avenel,  placing  her  husband's 
arm  within  her  own.  ''You  must  lie  down  a  bit,  while  I 
talk  to  the  gentleman." 

"I'm  a  real  good  Blue,"  said  poor  John  ;  "but  I  ain't 
quite  the  man  I  was  ; "  and  leaning  heavily  on  his  wife  he 
left  the  room,  turning  round  at  the  threshold,  and  saying 
with  great  urbanity — "  Anything  to  oblige,  sir!  " 

Mr.    Dale    was    much  touched.     He   had  remembered 


25 3  MY  NOVEL;    OR, 

John  Avenel  the  comeliest,  the  most  active,  and  the  most 
cheerful  man  in  Lansmere  ;  great  at  glee-club  and  cricket 
(though  then  somewhat  stricken  in  years),  greater  in  ves- 
tries ;  reputed  greatest  in  elections. 

"Last  scene  of  all,"  murmured  the  Parson  ;  "and  oh 
well,  turning  from  the  poet,  may  we  cry  with  the  disbeliev- 
ing philosopher,  '  Poor,  poor  humanity  ! '  "  * 

In  a  few  minutes  Mrs.  Avenel  returned.  She  took  a 
chair  at  some  distance  from  the  Parson's,  and,  resting  one 
hand  on  the  elbow  of  the  chair,  while  with  the  other  she 
stiffly  smoothed  the  stiff  gown,  she  said — 

"  Now,  sir." 

That  "  Now,  sir,"  had  in  its  sound  something  sinister  and 
warlike.  This  the  shrewd  Parson  recognized  with  his  usual 
tact.  He  edged  his  chair  nearer  to  Mrs.  Avenel,  and  plac- 
ing his  hand  on  hers — 

^  Yes,  now  then,  as  friend  to  friend." 


CHAPTER  XIII. 

MR.  DALE  had  been  more  than  a  quarter  of  an  hour  con- 
versing with  Mrs.  Avenel,  and  had  seemingly  made  little 
progress  iu  the  object  of  his  diplomatic  mission,  for  now, 
slowly  drawing  on  his  gloves,  he  said — 

"  I  grieve  to  think,  Mrs.  Avenel,  that  you  should  have 
so  hardened  your  heart — yes — you  must  pardon  me —  it  is 
my  vocation  to  speak  stern  truths.  You  cannot  say  that  I 
have  not  kept  faith  witli  you,  but  I  must  now  invite  you  to 
remember  that  I  specially  reserved  to  myself  the  right  of 
exercising  a  discretion  to  act  as  I  judged  best,  for  the  child's 
interests,  on  any  future  occasion  ;  and  it  was  upon  this 
understanding  that  you  gave  me  the  promise,  which  you 
would  now  evade,  of  providing  for  him  when  he  came  into 
manhood." 

"  I  say  I  will  provide  for  him.  I  say  that  you  may 
'prentice  him  in  any  distant  town,  and  by-and-by  we  will 
stock  a  shop  for  him.  What  would  you  have  more,  sir, 
from  folks  like  us,  who  have  kept  shop  ourselves  ?  It  ain't 
reasonable  what  you  ask,  sir." 

*  Mr.  Dale  probably  here  alludes  t-i  Lord   Bolingbroke's  ejaculation  as  he  stood  by  the 
dying  Pope  ;  but  his  memory  does  not  serve  him  with  the  exact  words. 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  259 

"My  dear  friend,"  said  the  Parson,  "what  I  ask  of  you 
at  present  is  but  to  see  him — to  receive  him  kindly— to 
listen  to  his  conversation — to  judge  for  yourselves.  We  can 
have  but  a  common  object—  that  your  grandson  should  suc- 
ceed in  life,  and  do  you  credit.  Now,  I  doubt  very  much 
whether  we  can  effect  this  by  making  him  a  small  shop- 
keeper." 

"  And  has  Jane  Fairfield,  who  married  a  common  car- 
penter, brought  him  up  to  despise  small  shopkeepers  ? " 
exclaimed  Mrs.  Avenel,  angrily. 

"  Heaven  forbid  !  Some  of  the  first  men  in  England 
have  been  the  sons  of  small  shopkeepers.  "  But  is  it  a  crime 
in  them,  or  in  their  parents,  if  their  talents  have  lifted  them 
into  such  rank  or  renown  as  the  haughtiest  duke  might 
envy  ?  England  were  not  England  if  a  man  must  rest 
where  his  father  began." 

"  Good  ! "  said,  or  rather  grunted,  an  approving  voice, 
but  neither  Mrs.  Avenel  nor  the  Parson  heard  it. 

"All  very  fine,"  said  Mrs.  Avenel,  bluntly.  "But  to 
send  a  boy  like  that  to  the  university — where's  the  money 
to  come  from  ?  " 

"My dear  Mrs.  Avenel,"  said  the  Parson,  coaxingly,  "the 
cost  need  not  be  great  at  a  small  college  at  Cambridge  ;  and 
if  you  will  pay  half  the  expense,  I  will  pay  the  other  half. 
I  have  no  children  of  my  own,  and  can  afford  it." 

u  That's  very  handsome  in  you,  sir,"  said  Mrs.  Avenel, 
somewhat  touched,  yet  still  not  graciously.  "  But  the  money 
is  not  the  only  point." 

"Once  at  Cambridge,"  continued  Mr.  Dale,  speaking 
rapidly,  "at  Cambridge,  where  the  studies  are  mathemati- 
cal— that  is,  of  a  nature  for  which  he  has  shown  so  great  an 
aptitude  —  and  I  have  no  doubt  he  will  distinguish  himself; 
if  he  does,  he  will  obtain,  on  leaving,  what  is  called  a  fellow- 
ship— that  is,  a  collegiate  dignity  accompanied  by  an  income 
on  which  he  could  maintain  himself  until  he  made  his  way 
in  life.  Come,  Mrs.  Avenel,  you  are  well  off  ;  you  have  no 
relations  nearer  to  you  in  want  of  your  aid.  Your  son,  I 
hear,  has  been  very  fortunate." 

"Sir,"  said  Mrs.  Avenel,  interrupting  the  Parson,  "it  is 
not  because  my  son  Richard  is  an  honor  to  us,  and  is  a 
good  son,  and  has  made  his  fortin,  that  we  are  to  rob  him  of 
what  we  have  to  leave,  and  give  it  to  a  boy  whom  we  know 
nothing  about,  and  who,  in  spite  of  what  you  say,  can't 
bring  upon  us  any  credit  at  all." 


260  MY  NOVEL;    OR, 

"  Why  ?     I  don't  see  that." 

"  Why  !  "  exclaimed  Mrs.  Avenel,  fiercely — "  why  !  you 
know  why.  No,  I  don't  want  him  to  rise  in  life  ;  I  don't 
want  folks  to  be  speiring  and  asking  about  him.  I  think  it 
is  a  very  wicked  thing  to  have  put  fine  notions  in  his  head, 
and  I  am  sure  my  daughter  Fairfield  could  not  have  done  it 
herself.  And  now,  to  ask  me  to  rob  Richard,  and  bring  out 
a  great  boy — who's  been  a  gardener  or  ploughman,  or  such 
like — to  disgrace  a  gentleman  who  keeps  his  carriage,  as 
my  son  Richard  does — I  would  have  you  to  know,  sir. — No  ! 
I  won't  do  it,  and  there's  an  end  of  the  matter." 

During  the  last  two  or  three  minutes,  and  just  before 
that  approving  "good  "  had  responded  to  the  Parson's  pop- 
ular sentiment,  a  door  communicating  with  an  inner  room 
had  been  gently  opened,  and  stood  ajar ;  but  this  incident 
neither  party  had  even  noticed.  But  now  the  door  was 
thrown  boldly  open,  and  the  traveller  whom  the  Parson 
had  met  at  the  inn  walked  up  to  Mr.  Dale,  and  said,  "  No  ! 
that's  not  the  end  of  the  matter.  You  say  the  boy's  a 
'cute,  clever  lad  ?" 

"  Richard,  have  you  been  listening  ? "  exclaimed  Mrs. 
Avenel. 

"Well,  I  guess,  yes — the  last  few  minutes." 

"  And  what  have  you  heard  ?" 

"Why,  that  this  reverend  gentleman  thinks  so  highly  of 
my  sister  Fairfield's  boy,  that  he  offers  to  pay  half  of  his 
keep  at  college.  Sir,  I'm  very  much  obliged  to  you,  and 
there's  my  hand,  if  you'll  take  it." 

The  Parson  jumped  up  overjoyed,  and  with  a  triumphant 
glance  toward  Mrs.  Avenel,  shook  hands  heartily  with  Mr. 
Richard. 

"  Now,"  said  the  latter,  "  just  put  on  your  hat,  sir,  and 
take  a  stroll  with  me,  and  we'll  discuss  the  thing  business- 
like. Women  don't  understand  business ;  never  talk  to 
women  on  business." 

With  these  words,  Mr.  Richard  drew  out  a  cigar-case, 
selected  a  cigar,  which  he  applied  to  the  candle,  and  walked 
into  the  hall. 

Mrs.  Avenel  caught  hold  of  the  Parson.  "  Sir,  you'll  be 
on  your  guard  with  Richard.  Remember  your  promise." 

"  He  does  not  know  all,  then  ? " 

"  He  ?  No  !  And  you  see  he  did  not  overhear  more 
than  what  he  says.  I'm  sure  you're  a  gentleman,  and  won't 
go  against  your  word." 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  261 

"  My  word  was  conditional ;  but  I  will  promise  you  never 
to  break  the  silence  without  more  reason  than  I  think  there 
is  here  for  it.  Indeed,  Mr.  Richard  Avenel  seems  to  save 
all  necessity  for  that." 

"  Are  you  coming,  sir  ?  "  cried  Richard,  as  he  opened  the 
street-door. 


CHAPTER  XIV. 

THE  Parson  joined  Mr.  Richard  Avenel  on  the  road.  It 
was  a  fine  night,  and  the  moon  clear  and  shining. 

"  So  then,"  said  Mr.  Richard,  thoughtfully,  "  poor  Jane, 
who  was  always  the  drudge  of  the  family,  has  contrived  to 
bring  up  her  son  well ;  and  the  boy  is  really  what  you  say, 
eh  ? — could  make  a  figure  at  college  ?" 

"I  am  sure  of  it,"  said  the  Parson,  hooking  himself  on  to 
the  arm  which  Mr.  Avenel  proffered. 

"  I  should  like  to  see  him,"  said  Richard.  "  Has  he  any 
manner?  Is  he  genteel  ?  or  a  mere  country  lout?" 

"  Indeed,  he  speaks  with  so  much  propriety,  and  has  so 
much  modest  dignity  about  him,  that  there's  many  a  rich 
gentleman  who  would  be  proud  of  such  a  son." 

"  It  is  odd,"  observed  Richard,  "what  difference  there  is 
in  families.  There's  Jane,  now — who  can't  read  nor  write, 
and  was  just  fit  to  be  a  workman's  wife — had  not  a  thought 
above  her  station  ;  and  when  I  think  of  my  poor  sister  Nora 
— you  would  not  believe  it,  sir,  but  she  was  the  most  elegant 
creature  in  the  world — yes,  even  as  a  child  (she  was  but  a 
child  when  I  went  off  to  America).  And  often,  as  I  was 
getting  on  in  life,  often  I  used  to  say  to  myself,  '  My  little 
Nora  shall  be  a  lady  after  all.'  Poor  thing — but  she  died 
young." 

Richard's  voice  grew  husky. 

The  Parson  kindly  pressed  the  arm  on  which  he  leaned, 
and  said,  after  a  pause — 

"Nothing  refines  us  like  education,  sir.  I  believe  your 
sister  Nora  had  received  much  instruction,  and  had  the 
talents  to  profit  by  it ;  it  is  the  same  with  your  nephew." 

"  I'll  see  him,"  said  Richard,  stamping  his  foot  firmly  on 
the  ground,  "  and  if  I  like  him,  I'll  be  as  good  as  a  father  to 
him.  Look  you,  Mr. — what's  your  name,  sir?" 


262  MY  NOVEL;    OR, 

"  Dale." 

"Mr.  Dale,  look  you,  I'm  a  single  man.  Perhaps  I  may 
marry  some  day  ;  perhaps  I  shan't.  I'm  not  going  to  throw 
myself  away.  If  I  can  get  a  lady  of  quality,  why — but  that's 
neither  here  nor  there  ;  meanwhile  I  should  be  glad  of  a 
nephew  whom  I  need  not  be  ashamed  of.  You  see,  sir,  I  am 
a  new  man,  the  builder  of  my  own  fortunes  ;  and  though  I 
have  picked  up  a  little  education — I  don't  well  know  how — 
as  I  scrambled  on,  still,  now  I  come  back  to  the  old  country, 
I'm  well  aware  that  I  am  not  exactly  a  match  for  those  d — d 
aristocrats  ;  don't  show  so  well  in  a  drawing-room  as  I  could 
wish.  I  could  be  a  Parliament  man  if  I  liked,  but  I  might 
make  a  goose  of  myself  ;  so,  all  things  considered,  if  I  can 
get  a  sort  of  junior  partner  to  do  the  polite  work,  and  show 
off  the  goods,  I  think  the  house  of  Avenel  and  Co.  might 
become  a  pretty  considerable  honor  to  the  Britishers.  You 
understand  me,  sir  ?  " 

"  Oh,  very  well,"  answered  Mr.  Dale,  smiling,  though 
rather  gravely. 

"Now,"  continued  the  New  Man,  "I'm  not  ashamed  to 
have  risen  in  life  by  my  own  merits  ;  and  I  don't  disguise 
what  I've  been.  And  when  I'm  in  my  own  grand  house,  I'm 
fond  of  saying,  '  I  landed  in  New  York  with  £10  in  my 
purse,  and  here  I  am!'  But  it  would  not  do  to  have  the 
old  folks  with  me.  People  take  you  with  all  your  faults  if 
you're  rich  ;  but  they  won't  swallow  your  family  into  the 
bargain.  So  if  I  don't  have  at  my  house  my  own  father 
and  mother,  whom  I  love  dearly,  and  should  like  to  see 
sitting  at  table,  with  my  servants  behind  their  chairs,  I  could 
still  less  have  sister  Jane.  I  recollect  her  very  well,  and  she 
can't  have  got  genteeler  as  she's  grown  older.  Therefore  I 
beg  you'll  not  set  her  on  coming  after  me  ;  it  would  not  do 
by  any  manner  of  means.  Don't  say  a  word  about  me  to 
her.  But  send  the  boy  down  here  to  his  grandfather,  and 
I'll  see  him  quietly,  you  understand." 

"  Yes,  but  it  will  be  hard  to  separate  her  from  her  boy." 

"Stuff!  all  boys  are  separated  from  their  parents  when 
they  go  into  the  world.  So  that's  settled.  Now,  just  tell 
me.  I  know  the  old  folks  always  snubbed  Jane — that  is, 
mother  did.  My  poor  dear  father  never  snubbed  any  of  us. 
Perhaps  mother  has  not  behaved  well  to  Jane.  But  we 
must  not  blame  her  for  that ;  you  see  this  is  how  it  happened. 
There  were  a  good  many  of  us,  while  father  and  mother  kept 
shop  in  the  High  Street,  so  we  were  all  to  be  provided  for 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  263 

anyhow  ;  and  Jane,  being  very  useful  and  handy  at  work, 
got  a  place  when  she  was  a  little  girl,  and  had  no  time  for 
learning.  Afterward  my  father  made  a  lucky  hit,  in  getting 
my  Lord  Lansmere's  custom  after  an  election,  in  which  he 
did  a  great  deal  for  the  Blues  (for  which  he  was  a  famous 
electioneer,  my  poor  father).  My  Lady  stood  godmother  to 
Nora  ;  and  then  all  my  brothers,  and  two  of  my  sisters,  died 
off,  and  father  retired  from  business  ;  and  when  he  took 
Jane  from  service,  she  was  so  common-like  that  mother  could 
not  help  contrasting  her  with  Nora.  You  see  Jane  was  their 
child  when  they  were  poor  little  shop-people,  with  their 
heads  scarce  above  water  ;  and  Nora  was  their  child  when 
they  were  well  off,  and  had  retired  from  trade,  and  lived 
genteel  ;  so  that,  makes  a  great  difference.  And  mother  did 
not  quite  look  on  her  as  on  her  own  child.  But  it  was  Jane's 
own  fault  ;  for  mother  would  have  made  it  up  with  her  if 
she  had  married  the  son  of  our  neighbor  the  great  linen- 
draper,  as  she  might  have  done  ;  but  she  would  take  Mark 
Fairfield,  a  common  carpenter.  Parents  like  best  those  of 
their  children  who  succeed  best  in  life.  Natural.  Why, 
they  did  not  care  for  me  till  I  came  back  the  man  I  am. 
But  to  return  to  Jane.  I'm  afraid  they've  neglected  her. 
How  is  she  off  ?  " 

"  She  earns  her  livelihood,  and  is  poor,  but  contented." 

"Ah,  just  be  good  enough  to  give  her  this"  (and  Rich- 
ard took  a  bank  note  of  ^50  from  his  pocket-book).  "You 
can  say  the  old  folks  sent  it  to  her ;  or  that  it  is  a  present 
from  Dick,  without  telling  her  he  has  come  back  from 
America." 

"My  dear  sir,"  said  the  Parson,  "I  am  more  and  more 
thankful  to  have  made  your  acquaintance.  This  is  a  very 
liberal  gift  of  yours  ;  but  your  best  plan  will  be  to  send  it 
through  your  mother.  For,  though  I  don't  want  to  betray 
any  confidence  you  place  in  me,  I  should  not  know  what  to 
answer  if  Mrs.  Fairfield  began  to  question  me  about,  her 
brother.  I  never  had  but  one  secret  to  keep,  and  I  hope  I 
shall  never  have  another.  A  secret  is  very  like  a  lie  ! " 

"  You  had  a  secret  then  !  "  said  Richard,  as  he  took  back 
the  bank-note.  He  had  learned,  perhaps  in  America,  to  be 
a  very  inquisitive  man.  He  added  point-blank,  "  Pray,  what 
was  it  ? " 

"Why,  what  it  would  not  be  if  I  told  you,"  said  the  Par- 
son, with  a  forced  laugh — "  a  secret !  " 

"Well,  I  guess  we're  in  aland  of  liberty.     Do  as  you 


264  MY  NOVEL;    OR, 

like.  Now,  I  dare  say  you  think  me  a  very  odd  fellow  to 
come  out  of  my  shell  to  you  in  this  off-hand  way.  But  I 
liked  the  look  of  you,  even  when  we  were  at  the  inn  together. 
And  just  now  I  was  uncommonly  pleased  to  find  that,  though 
you  are  a  parson,  you  don't  want  to  keep  a  man's  nose  down 
to  a  shop-board,  if  he  has  anything  in  him.  You're  not  one 
of  the  aristocrats " 

"Indeed,"  said  the  Parson,  with  imprudent  warmth,  "it 
is  not  the  character  of  the  aristocracy  of  this  country  to 
keep  people  down.  They  make  way  amongst  themselves 
for  any  man,  whatever  his  birth,  who  has  the  talent  and 
energy  to  aspire  to  their  level.  That's  the  especial  boast  of 
the  British  constitution,  sir  ! " 

"  Oh,  you  think  so,  do  you  ! "  said  Mr.  Richard,  looking 
sourly  at  the  Parson.  "  I  dare  say  those  are  the  opinions  in 
which  you  have  brought  up  the  lad.  Just  keep  him  your- 
self, and  let  the  aristocracy  provide  for  him  !  " 

The  Parson's  generous  and  patriotic  warmth  evaporated 
at  once,  at  this  sudden  inlet  of  cold  air  into  the  conversa- 
tion. He  perceived  that  he  had  made  a  terrible  blunder  ; 
and,  as  it  was  not  his  business  at  that  moment  to  vindicate 
the  British  constitution,  but  to  serve  Leonard  Fairfield,  he 
abandoned  the  cause  of  the  aristocracy  with  the  most  pol- 
troon and  scandalous  abruptness.  Catching  at  the  arm 
which  Mr.  Avenel  had  withdrawn  from  him,  he  exclaimed — 

"  Indeed,  sir,  you  are  mistaken  ;  I  have  never  attempted 
to  influence  your  nephew's  political  opinions.  On  the  con- 
trary, if,  at  his  age,  he  can  be  said  to  have  formed  any 
opinions,  I  am  greatly  afraid — that  is,  I  think  his  opinions 
are  by  no  means  sound — that  is,  constitutional.  I  mean,  I 
mean — "  And  the  poor  Parson,  anxious  to  select  a  word 
that  would  not  offend  his  listener,  stopped  short  in  lament- 
able confusion  of  idea. 

Mr.  Avenel  enjoyed  his  distress  for  a  moment,  with  a 
saturnine  smile,  and  then  said — 

"Well,  I  calculate  he's  a  Radical.  Natural  enough,  if  he 
has  not  got  a  sixpence  to  lose — all  come  right  by  and  by.  I'm 
not  a  Radical — at  least  not  a  Destructive — much  too  clever  a 
man  for  that,  I  hope.  But  I  wish  to  see  things  very  differ- 
ent from  wThat  they  are.  Don't  fancy  that  I  want  the 
common  people,  who've  got  nothing,  to  pretend  to  dictate 
to  their  betters,  because  I  hate  to  see  a  parcel  of  fellows, 
who  are  called  lords  and  squires,  trying  to  rule  the  roast.  I 
think,  sir,  that  it  is  men  like  me  who  ought  to  be  at  the  top 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  265 

of  the  tree  !  and  that's  the  long  and  the  short  of  it.     What 
do  you  say?" 

"  I've  not  the  least  objection,"  said  the  crestfallen  Par- 
son, basely.  But,  to  do  him  justice,  I  must  add,  that  he  did 
not  the  least  know  what  he  was  saying ! 


CHAPTER   XV. 

UNCONSCIOUS  of  the  ch.ange  in  his  fate  which  the  diplo- 
macy of  the  Parson  sought  to  effect,  Leonard  Fairfield  was 
enjoying  the  first  virgin  sweetness  of  fame  ;  for  the  princi- 
pal town  in  his  neighborhood  had  followed  the  then  growing 
fashion  of  the  age,  and  set  up  a  Mechanics'  Institute  ;  and 
some  worthy  persons  interested  in  the  formation  of  that  pro- 
vincial Athenaeum  had  offered  a  prize  for  the  best  Essay  on 
the  Diffusion  of  Knowledge, — a  very  trite  subject,  on  which 
persons  seem  to  think  they  can  never  say  too  much,  and  on 
which  there  is,  nevertheless,  a  great  deal  yet  to  be  said. 
This  prize  Leonard  Fairfield  had  recently  won.  His  Essay 
had  been  publicly  complimented  by  a  full  meeting  of  the 
Institute  ;  it  had  been  printed  at  the  expense  of  the  Society, 
and  had  been  rewarded  by  a  silver  medal— delineative  of 
Apollo  crowning  Merit  (poor  Merit  had  not  a  rag  to  his 
back  ;  but  Merit,  left  only  to  the  care  of  Apollo,  never  is  too 
good  a  customer  to  the  tailor  !).  And  the  "  County  Gazette  " 
had  declared  that  Britain  had  produced  another  prodigy  in 
the  person  of  Dr.  Riccabocca's  self-educated  gardener. 

Attention  was  now  directed  to  Leonard's  mechanical  con- 
trivances. The  Squire,  ever  eagerly  bent  on  improvements, 
had  brought  an  engineer  to  inspect  the  lad's  system  of  irri- 
gation, and  the  engineer  had  been  greatly  struck  by  the 
simple  means  by  which  a  very  considerable  technical  diffi- 
culty had  been  overcome.  The  neighboring  farmers  now 
called  Leonard  "  Mr.  Fairfield,"  and  invited  him,  on  equal 
terms,  to  their  houses.  Mr.  Stirn  had  met  him  on  the  high 
road,  touched  his  hat,  and  hoped  that  "  he  bore  no  malice." 
All  this,  I  say,  was  the  first  sweetness  of  fame  ;  and  if  Leon- 
ard Fairfield  comes  to  be  a  great  man,  he  will  never  find 
such  sweets  in  the  after-fruit.  It  was  this  success  which  had 
determined  the  Parson  on  the  step  which  he  had  just  taken, 
and  which  he  had  long  before  anxiously  meditated.  For, 


2o6  MY  XOVEL;    OR, 

during  the  last  year  or  so,  he  had  renewed  his  old  intimacy 
with  the  widow  and  the  boy  ;  and  he  had  noticed,  with  great 
hope  and  great  fear,  the  rapid  growth  of  an  intellect,  which 
now  stood  out  from  the  lowly  circumstances  that  surrounded 
it  in  bold  and  unharmonizing  relief. 

It  was  the  evening  after  his  return  home  that  the  Parson 
strolled  up  to  the  Casino.  He  put  Leonard  Fairfield's  Prize 
Essay  in  his  pocket.  For  he  felt  that  he  could  not  let  the 
young  man  go  forth  into  the  world  without  a  preparatory 
lecture,  and  he  intended  to  scourge  poor  Merit  with  the  very 
laurel  wreath  which  it  had  received  from  Apollo.  But  in 
this  he  wanted  Riccabocca's  assistance  ;  or  rather  he  feared 
that,  if  he  did  not  get  the  Philosopher  on  his  side,  the  Phil- 
osopher might  undo  all  the  work  of  the  Parson. 


CHAPTER  XVI. 

A  SWEET  sound  came  through  the  orange  boughs,  and 
floated  to  the  ears  of  the  Parson,  as  he  wound  slowly  up 
the  gentle  ascent — so  sweet,  so  silvery,  he  paused  in  delight 
— unaware,  wretched  man  !  that  he  was  thereby  conniving 
at  Papistical  errors.  Soft  it  came  and  sweet ;  softer  and 
sweeter — " Avz  Maria!"  Violante  was  chanting  the  evening 
hymn  to  the  Virgin  Mother.  The  Parson  at  last  distin- 
guished the  sense  of  the  words,  and  shook  his  head  with 
the  pious  shake  of  an  orthodox  Protestant.  He  broke  from 
the  spell  resolutely,  and  walked  on  with  a  sturdy  step. 
Gaining  the  terrace,  he  found  the  little  family  seated  under 
an  awning.  Mrs.  Riccabocca  knitting  ;  the  Signer  with  his 
arms  folded  on  his  breast  ;  the  book  he  had  been  reading  a 
few  moments  before  had  fallen  on  the  ground,  and  his  dark 
eyes  were  soft  and  dreamy.  Violante  had  finished  her  hymn, 
and  seated  herself  on  the  ground  between  the  two,  pillow- 
ing her  head  on  her  step-mother's  lap,  but  with  her  hand 
resting  on  her  father's  knee,  and  her  gaze  fixed  fondly  on 
his  face. 

"Good  evening,"  said  Mr.  Dale.  Violante  stole  up  to 
him,  and,  pulling  him  so  as  to  bring  his  ear  nearer  to  her 
lip,  whispered, — "Talk  to  papa,  do — and  cheerfully  ;  he  is 
sad." 

She  escaped  from  him  as  she  said  this,  and  appeared  to 


VARIETIES   IN   ENGLISH  LIFE.  267 

busy  herself  with  watering  the  flowers  arranged  on  stands 
round  the  awning.  But  she  kept  her  swimming,  lustrous 
eyes  wistfully  on  her  father. 

"How  fares  it  with  you,  my  dear  friend  ?"  said  the  Par- 
son, kindly,  as  he  rested  his  hand  on  the  Italian's  shoulder. 
"You  must  not  let  him  get  out  of  spirits,  Mrs.  Riccabocca." 

"  I  am  very  ungrateful  to  her  if  I  ever  am  so,"  said  the 
poor  Italian,  with  all  his  natural  gallantry.  Many  a  good 
wife,  who  thinks  it  is  a  reproach  to  her  if  her  husband  is 
ever  "  out  of  spirits,"  might  have  turned  peevishly  from 
that  speech,  more  elegant  than  sincere,  and  so  have  made 
bad  worse.  But  Mrs.  Riccabocca  took  her  husband's  prof- 
fered hand  affectionately,  and  said  with  great  naivete — 

"You  see  I  am  so  stupid,  Mr.  Dale  ;  I  never  knew  I  was 
so  stupid  till  I  married.  But  I  am  very  glad  you  are  come. 
You  can  get  on  some  learned  subject  together,  and  then  he 
will  not  miss  so  much  his " 

"His  what  ?"  asked  Riccabocca,  inquisitively. 

"  His  country.  Do  you  think  that  I  cannot  semetimes 
read  your  thoughts  ? " 

"  Very  often.  But  you  did  not  read  them  just  then. 
The  tongue  touches  where  the  tooth  aches,  but  the  best 
dentist  cannot  guess  at  the  tooth  unless  one  open  one's 
mouth. — Basta  !  Can  we  offer  you  some  wine  of  our  own 
making,  Mr.  Dale  ?— it  is  pure." 

"I'd  rather  have  some  tea,"  quoth  the  parson,  hastily. 

Mrs.  Riccabocca,  too  pleased  to  be  in  her  natural  ele- 
ment of  domestic  use,  hurried  into  the  house  to  prepare  our 
natural  beverage.  And  the  Parson,  sliding  into  her  chair, 
said — 

"  But  you  are  dejected,  then  ?  Fie  !  If  there's  a  virtue 
in  the  world  at  which  we  should  always  aim,  it  is  cheer- 
fulness." 

"  I  don't  dispute  it,"  said  Riccabocca,  with  a  heavy  sigh. 
"  But  though  it  is  said  by  some  Greek,  who,  I  think,  is 
quoted  by  your  favorite  Seneca,  that  a  wise  man  carries  his 
country  with  him  at  the  soles  of  his  feet,  he  can't  carry  also 
the  sunshine  over  his  head." 

"I  tell  you  what  it  is,"  said  the  Parson,  bluntly,  "you 
would  have  a  much  keener  sense  of  happiness  if  you  had 
much  less  esteem  for  philosophy." 

"  Cospetto  !  "  said  the  Doctor,  rousing  himself.  "Just  ex- 
plain, will  you  ?" 

"  Does  not  the  search  after  wisdom  induce  desires  not 


268  MY  NOVEL;    OR, 

satisfied  in  this  small  circle  to  which  your  life  is  confined  ? 
It  is  not  so  much  your  country  for  which  you  yearn,  as  it 
is  for  space  to  your  intellect,  employment  for  your  thoughts, 
career  for  your  aspirations." 

"  You  have  guessed  at  the  tooth  which  aches. '  said  Ric- 
cabocca  with  admiration.  • 

"  Easy  to  do  that,"  answered  the  Parson.  "  Our  wisdom- 
teeth  come  last,  and  give  us  the  most  pain.  And  if  you 
would  just  starve  the  mind  a  littie,  and  nourish  the  heart 
more,  you  would  be  less  of  a  philosopher  and  more  of  a — 
The  Parson  had  the  word  "Christian "  at  the  tip  of  his 
tongue  ;  he  suppressed  a  word  that,  so  spoken,  would  have 
been  exceedingly  irritating,  and  substituted,  with  inelegant 
antithesis,  "  and  more  of  a  happy  man  !  " 

"  I  do  all  I  can  with  my  heart,"  quoth  the  Doctor. 

"  Not  you  !  For  a  man  writh  such  a  heart  as  yours  should 
never  feel  the  want  of  the  sunshine.  My  friend,  we  live  in 
an  age  of  over-mental  cultivation.  We  neglect  too  much 
the  simple,  healthful  outer  life,  in  which  there  is  so  much 
positive  joy.  In  turning  to  the  world  within  us,  we  grow 
blind  to  this  beautiful  world  without;  in  studying  ourselves 
as  men,  we  almost  forget  to  look  up  to  heaven,  and  warm  to 
the  smile  of  God." 

The  philosopher  mechanically  shrugged  his  shoulders, 
as  he  always  did  when  another  man  moralized — especially 
if  the  moralizer  were  a  priest  ;  but  there  was  no  irony  in 
his  smile,  as  he  answered,  thoughtfully — 

"  There  is  some  truth  in  what  you  say.  I  own  that  we 
live  too  much  as  if  we  were  all  brain.  Knowledge  has  its 
penalties  and  pains,  as  well  as  its  prizes." 

"That  is  just  what  I  want  you  to  say  to  Leonard." 

"  How  have  you  settled  the  object  of  your  journey  ?  " 

'•'  I  will  tell  you  as  we  walk  down  to  him  after  tea.  At 
present,  I  am  rather  too  much  occupied  with  you." 

"  Me  ?  The  tree  is  formed — try  only  to  bend  the  young 
twig  !  " 

"  Trees  are  trees,  and  twigs  twigs,"  said  the  Parson,  dog- 
matically ;  "  but  man  is  always  growing  till  he  falls  into  the 
grave.  I  think  I  have  heard  you  say  that  you  once  had  a 
narrow  escape  of  a  prison  ?  " 

"  Very  narrow." 

"  Just  suppose  that  you  were  now  in  that  prison,  and  that 
a  fairy  conjured  up  the  prospect  of  this  quiet  home  in  a  safe 
land  ;  that  you  saw  the  orange-trees  in  flower,  felt  the  eve- 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  269 

ning  breeze  on  your  cheek  ;  beheld  your  child  gay  or  sad, 
as  you  smiled  or  knit  your  brow  ;  that  within  this  phantom 
home  was  a  woman,  not,  indeed,  all  your  young  romance 
might  have  dreamed  of,  but  faithful  and  true,  every  beat  of 
her  heart  all  your  own — would  you  not  cry  from  the  depth  of 
the  dungeon,  '  O  fairy  !  such  a  change  were  a  paradise.' 
Ungrateful  man  !  you  want  interchange  for  your  mind,  and 
your  heart  should  suffice  for  all  !  " 

Riccabocca  was  touched  and  silent. 

"  Come  hither,  my  child,"  said  Mr.  Dale,  turning  round 
to  Violante,  who  still  stood  among  the  flowers,  out  of  hear- 
ing, but  with  watchful  eyes.  "Come  hither,"  he  said,  open- 
ing his  arms. 

Violante  bounded  forward,  and  nestled  to  the  good  man's 
heart. 

"  Tell  me,  Violante,  when  you  are  alone  in  the  fields  or 
the  garden,  and  have  left  your  father  looking  pleased  and 
serene,  so  that  you  have  no  care  for  him  at  your  heart, — 
tell  me,  Violante,  though  you  are  alone,  with  the  flowers 
below,  and  the  birds  singing  over-head,  do  you  feel  that  life 
itself  is  happiness  or  sorrow?" 

"  Happiness ! "  answered  Violante,  half  shutting  her 
eyes,  and  in  a  measured  voice. 

."  Can  you  explain  what  kind  of  happiness  it  is  ?  " 

"  Oh  no,  impossible  !  and  it  is  never  the  same.  Some- 
times it  is  so  still — so  still,  and  sometimes  so  joyous,  that  I 
long  for  wings  to  fly  up  to  God,  and  thank  him  !  " 

"O  friend,"  said  the  Parson,  "this  is  the  true  sympathy 
between  life  and  nature,  and  thus  we  should  feel  ever,  did 
we  take  more  care  to  preserve  the  health  and  innocence  of 
a  child.  We  are  told  that  we  must  become  as  children  to 
enter  into  the  kingdom  of  heaven  ;  methinks  we  should 
also  become  as  children  to  know  what  delight  there  is  in  our 
heritage  of  earth  !  " 


CHAPTER   XVII. 

THE  maid-servant  (for  Jackeymo  was  in  the  fields) 
brought  the  table  under  the  awning,  and  with  the  English 
luxury  of  tea,  there  were  other  drinks  as  cheap  and  as 
grateful  on  summer  evenings — drinks  which  Jackeymo  had 


270  MY  NOVEL;    OR, 

retained  and  taught  from  the  customs  of  the  south — un- 
ebriate  liquors,  pressed  from  cooling  fruits,  sweetened  with 
honey,  and  deliciously  iced  ;  ice  should  cost  nothing  in  a 
country  in  which  one  is  frozen  up  half  the  year  !  And 
Jackeymo,  too,  had  added  to  our  good,  solid,  heavy  English 
bread,  preparations  of  wheat  much  lighter,  and  more  pro- 
pitious to  digestion — with  those  crisp grissini,  which  seemed 
to  enjoy  being  eaten,  they  make  so  pleasant  a  noise  between 
one's  teeth. 

The  Parson  esteemed  it  a  little  treat  to  drink  tea  with 
the  Riccaboccas.  There  was  something  of  elegance  and 
grace,  in  that  homely  meal  at  the  poor  exile's  table,  which 
pleased  the  eye  as  well  as  taste.  And  the  very  utensils, 
plain  Wedgewood  though  they  Avere,  had  a  classical  sim- 
plicity which  made  Mrs.  Hazeldean's  old  India  delf,  and 
Mrs.  Dale's  best  Worcester  china,  look  tawdry  and  bar- 
barous in  comparison.  For  it  was  Flaxman  who  gave  de- 
signs to  Wedgewood,  and  the  most  truly  refined  of  all  our 
manufactures  in  porcelain  (if  we  do  not  look  to  the  mere 
material)  is  in  the  reach  of  the  most  thrifty. 

The  little  banquet  was  at  first  rather  a  silent  one  ;  but 
Riccabocca  threw  off  his  gloom,  and  became  gay  and  ani- 
mated. Then  poor  Mrs.  Riccabocca  smiled,  and  pressed 
the  grissins ;  and  Violante,  forgetting  all  her  stateliness, 
laughed  and  played  tricks  on  the  Parson,  stealing  away  his 
cup  of  warm  tea  when  his  head  was  turned,  and  substituting 
iced  cherry  juice.  Then  the  Parson  got  up  and  ran  after 
Violante,  making  angry  faces,  and  Violante  dodged  beauti- 
fully, till  the  Parson,  fairly  tired  out,  was  too  glad  to  cry 
"  Peace,"  and  come  back  to  the  cherry  juice.  Thus  time 
rolled  on,  till  they  heard  afar  the  stroke  of  the  distant 
church  clock,  and  Mr.  Dale  started  up  and  cried  "But  we 
shall  be  too  late  for  Leonard.  Come,  naughty  little  girl, 
get  your  father  his  hat." 

"And  umbrella!"  said  Riccabocca,  looking  up  at  the 
cloudless  moonlit  sky. 

"  Umbrella  against  the  stars  ?"  asked  the  Parson,  laugh- 
ing. 

"The  stars  are  no  friends  of  mine,"  said  Riccabocca, 
"  and  one  never  knows  what  may  happen!  " 

The  Philosopher  and  the  Parson  walked  on  amicably. 

"You  have  done  me  good,"  said  Riccabocca,  "but  I 
hope  I  am  not  always  so  unreasonably  melancholic  as  you 
seem  to  suspect.  The  evenings  will  sometimes  appear  long, 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  271 

and  dull  too,  to  a  man  whose  thoughts  on  the  past  are  al- 
most his  sole  companions." 

"  Sole  companions  ? — your  child  ?  " 

"  She  is  so  young." 

"  Your  wife  ?  " 

"  She  is  so ,"  the  bland  Italian  appeared  to  check 

some  disparaging  adjective,  and  mildly  added,  "  so  good,  I 
allow  ;  but  you  must  own  that  she  and  I  cannot  have  much 
in  common." 

"  I  own  nothing  of  the  sort.  You  have  your  house  and 
your  interests,  your  happiness  and  your  lives,  in  common. 
We  men  are  so  exacting,  we  expect  to  find  ideal  nymphs 
and  goddesses  when  we  condescend  to  marry  a  mortal ;  and 
if  we  did,  our  chickens  would  be  boiled  to  rags,  and  our 
mutton  come  up  as  cold  as  a  stone." 

"Per  Bacco,  you  are  an  oracle,"  said  Riccabocca,  laugh- 
ing. "  But  I  am  not  so  sceptical  as  you  are.  I  honor  the 
fair  sex  too  much.  There  are  a  great  many  women  who 
realize  the  ideal  of  men  to  be  found  in — the  poets  !  " 

"There's  my  dear  Mrs.  Dale,"  resumed  the  Parson,  not 
heeding  this  sarcastic  compliment  to  the  sex,  but  sinking 
his  voice  into  a  whisper,  and  looking  round  cautiously — 
"There's  my  dear  Mrs.  Dale,  the  best  woman  in  the  world 
— an  angel,  I  would  say,  if  the  word  was  not  profane  ; 
BUT — 

"  What's  the  BUT  ?  "  asked  the  Doctor,  demurely. 

"BuT  I  too  might  say  that  'she  and  I  have  not  much  in 
common,'  if  I  were  only  to  compare  mind  to  mind,  and 
when  my  poor  Carry  says  something  less  profound  than 
Madame  de  Stael  might  have  said,  smile  on  her  in  con- 
tempt from  the  elevation  of  logic  and  Latin.  Yet  when  I 
remember  all  the  little  sorrows  and  joys  that  we  have 
shared  together,  and  feel  how  solitary  I  should  have  been 
without  her — oh,  then,  I  am  instantly  aware  that  there  is 
between  us  in  common  something  infinitely  closer  and 
better  than  if  the  same  course  of  study  had  given  us  the 
equality  of  ideas  ;  and  I  was  forced  to  brace  myself  for  a 
combat  of  intellect,  as  I  am  when  I  fall  in  with  a  tiresome 
sage  like  yourself.  I  don't  pretend  to  say  that  Mrs.  Ricca- 
bocca is  a  Mrs.  Dale,"  added  the  Parson,-  with  lofty  candor 
—  "  there  is  but  one  Mrs.  Dale  in  the  world  ;  but  still,  you 
have  drawn  a  prize  in  the  wheel  matrimonial !  Think  of 
Socrates,  and  yet  he  was  content  even  with  his — Xantippe  !  " 

Dr.  Riccabocca  called  to  mind  Mrs.  Dale's  "little  tem- 


272  MY  NOVEL;    OR, 

pers,"  and  inly  rejoiced  that  no  second  Mrs.  Dale  had  ex- 
isted to  fall  to  his  own  lot.  His  placid  Jemima  gained  by 
the  contrast.  Nevertheless,  he  had  the  ill  grace  to  reply, 
"  Socrates  was  a  man  beyond  all  imitation  ! — Yet  I  believe 
that  even  he  spent  very  few  of  his  evenings  at  home.  But 
revenons  d  nos  moutons,  we  are  nearly  at  Mrs.  Fairfield's 
cottage,  and  you  have  not  yet  told  me  what  you  have 
settled  as  to  Leonard." 

The  Parson  halted,  took  Riccabocca  by  the  button,  and 
informed  him,  in  very  few  words,  that  Leonard  was  to  go  to 
Lansmere  to  see  some  relations  there,  who  ha.d  the  fortune, 
if  they  had  the  will,  to  give  full  career  to  his  abilities. 

"The  great  thing,  in  the  meanwhile,"  said  the  Parson, 
"  would  be  to  enlighten  him  a  little  as  to  what  he  calls — 
enlightenment." 

"Ah!"  said  Riccabocca,  diverted,  and  rubbing  his 
hands,  "I  shall  listen  with  interest  to  what  you  say  on  that 
subject." 

"  And  must  aid  me  :  for  the  first  step  in  this  modern 
march  of  enlightenment  is  to  leave  the  poor  Parson  behind  ; 
and  if  one  calls  out  '  Hold  !  and  look  at  the  sign-post,'  the 
traveller  hurries  on  the  faster,  saying  to  himself,  '  Pooh, 
pooh! — that  is  only  the  cry  of  the  Parson!'  But  my 
gentleman,  when  he  doubts  me,  will  listen  to  you — you're  a 
philosopher  !" 

"We  philosophers  are  of  some  use  now  and  then,  even 
to  Parsons  !" 

"If  you  were  not  so  conceited  a  set  of  deluded  poor 
creatures  already,  I  would  say  '  Yes,'  "  replied  the  Parson 
generously  ;  and,  taking  hold  of  Riccabocca's  umbrella,  he 
applied  the  brass  handle  thereof,  by  way  of  a  knocker,  to 
the  cottage-door. 


CHAPTER   XVIII. 

CERTAINLY  it  is  a  glorious  fever  that  desire  To  Know ! 
And  there  are  few  sights  in  the  moral  world  more  sublime 
than  that  which  many  a  garret  might  afford,  if  Asmodeus 
would  bare  the  roofs  to  our  survey — viz.,  a  brave,  patient, 
earnest  human  being  toiling  his  own  arduous  way,  athwart 
the  iron  walls  of  penury,  into  the  magnificent  Infinite, 
which  is  luminous  with  starry  souls. 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  273 

So  there  sits  Leonard  the  Self-taught  in  the  little  cottage 
alone  :  for,  though  scarcely  past  the  hour  in  which  great 
folks  dine,  it  is  the  hour  in  which  small  folks  go  to  bed, 
and  Mrs.  Fairfield  has  retired  to  rest,  while  Leonard  has 
settled  to  his  books. 

He  had  placed  his  table  under  the  lattice,  and  from 
time  to  time  he  looked  up  and  enjoyed  the  stillness  of  the 
moon.  Well  for  him  that,  in  reparation  for  those  hours 
stolen  from  night,  the  hardy  physical  labor  commenced 
with  dawn.  Students  would  not  be  the  sad  dyspeptics  they 
are,  if  they  worked  as  many  hours  in  the  open  air  as  my 
scholar-peasant.  But  even  in  him  you  could  see  that  the 
mind  had  begun  a  little  to  affect  the  frame.  They  who 
task  the  intellect  must  pay  the  penalty  with  the  body.  Ill, 
believe  me,  would  this  work-day  world  get  on  if  all  within 
it  were  hard-reading,  studious  animals,  playing  the  deuce 
with  the  ganglionic  apparatus. 

Leonard  started  as  he  heard  the  knock  at  the  door ;  the 
Parson's  well-known  voice  reassured  him.  In  some  surprise 
he  admitted  his  visitors. 

"  We  are  come  to  talk  to  you,  Leonard,"  said  Mr.  Dale, 
"but  I  fear  we  shall  disturb  Mrs.  Fairfield." 

"  Oh  no,  sir !  the  door  to  the  staircase  is  shut,  and  she 
sleeps  soundly." 

"Why,  this  is  a  French  book — do  you  read  French, 
Leonard  ?  "  asked  Riccabocca. 

"  I  have  not  found  French  difficult,  sir.  Once  over  the 
grammar,  and  the  language  is  so  clear  ;  it  seems  the  very 
language  for  reasoning." 

u  True,  Voltaire  said  justly,  '  Whatever  is  obscure  is  not 
French,'  "  observed  Riccabocca. 

"  I  wish  I  could  say  the  same  of  English,"  muttered  the 
Parson. 

"  But  what  is  this  ? — Latin  too  ? — Virgil  ?  " 

"  Yes,  sir.  But  I  find  I  make  little  way  there  without  a 
master.  I  fear  I  must  give  it  up  "  (and  Leonard  sighed). 

The  two  gentlemen  exchanged  looks  and  seated  them- 
selves. The  young  peasant  remained  standing  modestly, 
and  in  his  air  and  mien  there  was  something  that  touched 
the  heart  while  it  pleased  the  eye.  He  was  no  longer  the 
timid  boy  who  had  shrunk  from  the  frown  of  Mr.  Stirn,  nor 
that  rude  personation  of  simple  physical  strength,  roused  to 
undisciplined  bravery,  which  had  received  its  downfall  on 
the  village-green  of  Hazeldean.  The  power  of  thought  was 


274  MY  NOVEL;    OR, 

on  his  brow — somewhat  inquiet  still,  but  mild  and  earnest. 
The  features  had  attained  that  refinement  which  is  often  at- 
tributed to  race,  but  comes,  in  truth,  from  elegance  of  idea, 
whether  caught  from  our  parents  or  learned  from  books. 
In  his  rich  brown  hair,  thrown  carelessly  from  his  temples, 
and  curling  almost  to  the  shoulders — in  his  large  blue  eye, 
which  was  deepened  to  the  hue  of  the  violet  by  the  long 
dark  lash — in  that  firmness  of  lip,  which  comes  from  the 
grapple  with  difficulties,  there  was  considerable  beauty,  but 
no  longer  the  beauty  of  the  mere  peasant.  And  yet  there 
was  still  about  the  whole  countenance  that  expression  of 
goodness  and  purity  which  a  painter  would  give  to  his  ideal 
of  the  peasant  lover — such  as  Tasso  would  have  placed  in 
the  Aminta,  or  Fletcher  have  admitted  to  the  side  of  the 
Faithful  Shepherdess. 

"  You  must  draw  a  chair  here,  and  sit  down  between  us, 
Leonard,"  said  the  Parson. 

"  If  any  one,"  said  Riccabocca,  "  has  a  right  to  sit,  it  is 
the  one  who  is  to  hear  the  sermon  ;  and  if  any  one  ought  to 
stand,  it  is  the  one  who  is  about  to  preach  it." 

"  Don't  be  frightened,  Leonard,"  said  the  Parson,  gra- 
ciously ;  "  it  is  only  a  criticism,  not  a  sermon  ;  "  and  he  pulled 
out  Leonard's  Prize  Essay. 


CHAPTER   XIX. 

PARSON. — You  take  for  your  motto  this  aphorism*  — 
"Knowledge  is  Power." — BACON.  ' 

RICCABOCCA.  —  Bacon  make  such  an  aphorism!  The 
last  man  in  the  world  to  have  said  anything  so  pert  and  so 
shallow. 

LEONARD  (astonished). — Do  you  mean  to  say,  sir,  that 
that  aphorism  is  not  in  Lord  Bacon  ?  Why,  I  have  seen  it 
quoted  as  his  in  almost  every  newspaper,  and  in  almost  every 
speech  in  favor  of  popular  education. 

*  This  aphorism  has  been  probably  assigned  to  Lord  Bacon  upon  the  mere  authority  of  the 
index  to  his  works.  It  is  the  aphorism  of  the  index  maker,  certainly  not  of  the  great  master 
of  inductive  philosophy.  Bacon  has,  it  is  true,  repeatedly  dwelt  on  the  power  of  knowledge, 
but  with  so  many  explanations  and  distinctions,  that  nothing  could  be  more  unjust  to  his 
general  meaning  than  the  attempt  to  cramp  into  a  sentence  what  it  costs  him  a  volume  to 
define.  Thus,  if  in  one  page  he  appears  to  confound  knowledge  with  power,  in  another  he 
sets  them  in  the  strongest  antithesis  10  each  other  ;  as  follows — "  Adeo,  signanter  Deus  opera 
p. 'tentiae  et  sapientiae  discriminavit."  But  it  would  be  as  unfair  to  Bacon  to  convert  into  an 
aphorism  the  sentence  that  discriminates  between  knowledge  and  power,  as  it  is  to  convert 
into  an  aphorism  any  sentence  that  confounds  them. 


VARIETIES   IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  275 

RICCABOCCA. — Then  that  should  be  a  warning  to  you 
never  again  to  fall  into  the  error  of  the  would-be  scholar — 
viz.,  quote  second-hand.  Lord  Bacon  wrote  a  great  book  to 
show  in  what  knowledge  is  power,  how  that  power  should 
be  denned,  in  what  it  might  be  mistaken.  And,  pray,  do 
you  think  so  sensible  a  man  ever  would  have  taken  the 
trouble  to  write  a  great  book  upon  the  subject,  if  he  could 
have  packed  up  all  he  had  to  say  into  the  portable  dogma, 
"  Knowledge  is  power  ?  "  Pooh  !  no  cuch  aphorism  is  to  be 
found  in  Bacon  from  the  first  page  of  his  writings  to  the 
last. 

PARSON  (candidly). — Well,  /  supposed  it  was  Lord 
Bacon's,  and  I  am  very  glad  to  hear  that  the  aphorism  has 
not  the  sanction  of  his  authority. 

LEONARD  (recovering  his  surprise).— But  why  so  ? 

PARSON. — Because  it  either  says  a  great  deal  too  much, 
or  just — nothing  at  all. 

LEONARD. — At  least,  sir,  it  seems  to  me  undeniable. 

PARSON. — Well,  grant  that  it  is  undeniable.  Does  it 
prove  much  in  favor  of  knowledge  ?  Pray,  is  not  ignorance 
power  too  ? 

RICCABOCCA. — And  a  power  that  has  had  much  the  best 
end  of  the  quarter-staff. 

PARSON. — All  evil  is  power,  and  does  its  power  make  it 
anything  the  better  ? 

RICCABOCCA. — Fanaticism  is  power — and  a  power  that 
has  often  swept  away  knowledge  like  a  whirlwind.  The 
Mussulman  burns  the  library  of  a  world — and  forces  the 
Koran  and  the  sword  from  the  schools  of  Byzantium  to  the 
colleges  of  Hindostan. 

PARSON  (bearing  on  with  a  new  column  of  illustration). 
—Hunger  is  power.  The  barbarians,  starved  out  of  their 
forests  by  their  own  swarming  population,  swept  into  Italy 
and  annihilated  letters.  The  Romans,  however  degraded, 
had  more  knowledge,  at  least,  than  the  Gaul  and  the 
Visigoth. 

RICCABOCCA  (bringing  up  the  reserve). — And  even  in 
Greece,  when  Greek  met  Greek,  the  Athenians — our 
masters  in  all  knowledge- — were  beat  by  the  Spartans,  who 
held  learning  in  contempt. 

PARSON. — Wherefore  you  see,  Leonard,  that  though 
knowledge  be  power,  it  is  only  one  of  the  powers  of  the 
world  ;  that  there  are  others  as  strong,  and  often  much 
stronger  ;  and  the  assertion  either  means  but  a  barren 


276  MY  NOVEL;    OR, 

truism,  not  worth  so  frequent  a  repetition,  or  it  means 
something  that  you  would  find  it  very  difficult  to  prove. 

LEONARD. — One  nation  may  be  beaten  by  another  that 
has  more  physical  strength  and  more  military  discipline  ; 
which  last,  permit  me  to  say,  sir,  is  a  species  of  know- 
ledge. 

RICCABOCCA. — Yes  ;  but  your  knowledge-mongers  at 
present  call  upon  us  to  discard  military  discipline,  and  the 
qualities  that  produce  it,  from  the  list  of  the  useful  arts. 
And  in  your  own  Essay,  you  insist  upon  knowledge  as  the 
great  disbander  of  armies,  and  the  foe  of  all  military 
discipline  ! 

PARSON. — Let  the  young  man  proceed.  Nations,  you 
say,  may  be  beaten  by  other  nations  less  learned  and 
civilized  ? 

LEONARD. — But.  knowledge  elevates  a  class.  I  invite  the 
members  of  my  own  humble  order  to  knowledge,  because 
knowledge  will  lift  them  into  power. 

RICCABOCCA. — What  do  you  say  to  that,  Mr.  Dale  ? 

PARSON. — In  the  first  place,  is  it  true  that  the  class  which 
has  the  most  knowledge  gets  the  most  power?  I  suppose 
philosophers,  like  my  friend  Dr.  Riccabocca,  think  they 
have  the  most  knowledge.  And  pray,  in  what  age  have 
philosophers  governed  the  world  ?  Are  they  not  always 
grumbling  that  nobody  attends  to  them  ? 

RICCABOCCA. — Per  Bacco,  if  people  had  attended  to  us,  it 
would  have  been  a  droll  sort  of  world  by  this  time! 

PARSON. — Very  likely.  But,  as  a  general  rule,  those 
have  the  knowledge  who  give  themselves  up  to  it  the  most. 
Let  us  put  out  of  the  question  philosophers  (who  are  often 
but  ingenious  lunatics),  and  speak  only  of  erudite  scholars, 
men  of  letters  and  practical  science,  professors,  tutors,  and 
fellows  of  colleges.  I  fancy  any  member  of  Parliament 
would  tell  us  that  there  is  no  class  of  men  which  has  less 
actual  influence  on  public  affairs.  These  scholars  have 
more  knowledge  than  manufacturers  and  ship-owners, 
squires  and  farmers  ;  but,  do  you  find  that  they  have  more 
power  over  the  Government  and  the  votes  of  the  House  of 
Commons  ? 

"  They  ought  to  have,"  said  Leonard. 

"Ought  they  ?"  said  the  Parson;  "we'll  consider  that 
later.  Meanwhile,  you  must  not  escape  from  your  own 
proposition,  which  is,  that  knowledge  is  power — not  that  it 
ought  to  be.  Now,  even  granting  your  corollary,  that  the 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  277 

power  of  a  class  is  therefore  proportioned  to  its  knowledge 
— pray,  do  you  suppose  that  while  your  order,  the  opera- 
tives, are  instructing  themselves,  all  the  rest  of  the  commu- 
nity are  to  be  at  a  stand-still  ?  Diffuse  knowledge  as  you 
may,  you  will  never  produce  equality  of  knowledge.  Those 
who  have  most  leisure,  application,  and  aptitude  for  learn- 
ing, will  still  know  the  most.  Nay,  by  a  very  natural  law, 
the  more  general  the  appetite  for  knowledge,  the  more  the 
increased  competition  will  favor  those  most  adapted  to 
excel  by  circumstance  and  nature.  At  this  day,  there  is  a 
vast  increase  of  knowledge  spread  over  all  society,  com- 
pared with  that  in  the  Middle  Ages  ;  but  is  there  not  a  still 
greater  distinction  between  the  highly  educated  gentleman 
and  the  intelligent  mechanic,  than  there  was  then  between 
the  baron  who  could  not  sign  his  name  and  the  churl  at  the 
plough  ?  between  the  accomplished  statesman,  versed  in  all 
historical  lore,  and  the  voter  whose  politics  are  formed  by 
his  newspaper,  than  there  was  between  the  legislator  who 
passed  laws  against  witches,  and  the  burgher  who  defended 
his  guild  from  some  feudal  aggression  ?  between  the  en- 
lightened scholar  and  the  dunce  of  to-day,  than  there  was 
between  the  monkish  alchemist  and  the  blockhead  of  yester- 
day ?  Peasant,  voter,  and  dunce  of  this  century  are  no 
doubt  wiser  than  the  churl,  burgher,  and  blockhead  of  the 
twelfth.  But  the  gentleman,  statesman,  and  scholar  of 
the  present  age  are  at  least  quite  as  favorable  a  contrast 
to  the  alchemist,  witch-burner,  and  baron  of  old.  As  the 
progress  of  enlightenment  has  done  hitherto,  so  will  it 
ever  do.  Knowledge  is  like  capital  :  the  more  there  is  in 
a  country,  the  greater  the  disparities  in  wealth  between  one 
man  and  another.  Therefore,  if  the  working  class  increase 
in  knowledge,  so  do  the  other  classes  ;  and  if  the  working 
class  rise  peacefully  and  legitimately  into  power,  it  is  not 
in  proportion  to  their  own  knowledge  alone,  but  rather 
according  as  it  seems  to  the  knowledge  of  the  other  orders 
of  the  community,  that  such  augmentation  of  proportional 
power  is  just,  and  safe,  and  wise." 

Placed  between  the  Parson  and  the  Philosopher,  Leon- 
nard  felt  that  his  position  was  not  favorable  to  the  display 
of  his  forces.  Insensibly  he  edged  his  chair  somewhat 
away,  and  said  mournfully — 

"Then,  according  to  you,  the  reign  of  knowledge  would 
be  no  great  advance  in  the  aggregate  freedom  and  welfare 
of  man  ? " 


278  MY  NOVEL;    OR, 

PARSON. — Let  us  define.  By  knowledge,  do  you  mean 
intellectual  cultivation  ?— by  the  reign  of  knowledge,  the 
ascendency  of  the  most  cultivated  minds? 

LEONARD  (after  a  pause). — Yes. 

RICCABOCCA. — Oh,  indiscreet  young  man  !  that  is  an  un- 
fortunate concession  of  yours  ;  for  the  ascendency  of  the 
most  cultivated  minds  would  be  a  terrible  oligarchy  ! 

PARSON. — Perfectly  true  ;  and  we  now  reply  to  your 
assertion,  that  men  who,  by  profession,  have  most  learning, 
ought  to  have  more  influence  than  squires  and  merchants, 
farmers  and  merchanics.  Observe,  all  the  knowledge  that 
we  mortals  can  acquire  is  not  knowledge  positive  and 
perfect,  but  knowledge  comparative,  and  subject  to  the 
errors  and  passions  of  humanity.  And  suppose  that  you 
could  establish,  as  the  sole  regulators  of  affairs,  those  who 
had  the  most  mental  cultivation,  do  you  think  they  would 
not  like  that  power  well  enough  to  take  all  means  which 
their  superior  intelligence  could  devise  to  keep  it  to  them- 
selves ?  The  experiment  was  tried  of  old  by  the  priests 
of  Egypt  ;  and  in  the  empire  of  China,  at  this  day,  the 
aristocracy  are  elected  from  those  who  have  most  distin- 
guished themselves  in  learned  colleges.  If  I  may  call  my- 
self a  member  of  that  body,  "the  people,"  I  would  rather 
be  an  Englishman,  however  much  displeased  with  dull 
Ministers  and  blundering  Parliaments,  than  I  would  be  a 
Chinese  under  the  rule  of  the  picked  sages  of  the  Celestial 
Empire.  Happily,  therefore,  my  dear  Leonard,  nations 
are  governed  by  many  things  besides  what  is  commonly 
called  knowledge  ;  and  the  greatest  practical  ministers, 
who,  like  Themistocles,  have  made  small  states  great — and 
the  most  dominant  races,  who,  like  the  Romans,  have 
stretched  their  rule  from  a  village  half  over  the  universe — 
have  been  distinguished  by  various  qualities  which  a 
philosopher  would  sneer  at,  and  a  knowledge-monger  would 
call  "  sad  prejudices,"  and  "lamentable  errors  of  reason." 

LEONARD  (bitterly).— Sir,  you  make  use  of  knowledge 
itself  to  argue  against  knowledge. 

PARSON. — I  make  use  of  the  little  1  know  to  prove  the 
foolishness  of  idolatry.  I  do  not  argue  against  knowledge  ; 
I  argue  against  knowledge-worship.  For  here,  I  see  in 
your  Essay,  that  you  are  not  contented  with  raising  human 
knowledge  into  something  like  divine  omnipotence,  you 
must  also  confound  her  with  virtue.  According  to  you,  it 
is  but  to  diffuse  the  intelligence  of  the  few  among  the  many, 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  279 

and  all  at  which  we  preachers  aim  is  accomplished.  Nay, 
more  ;  for,  whereas,  we  humble  preachers  have  never  pre- 
sumed to  say,  with  the  heathen  Stoic,  that  even  virtue  is 
sure  of  happiness  below  (though  it  be  the  best  road  to  it) 
you  tell  us  plainly  that  this  knowledge  of  yours  gives  not 
only  the  virtue  of  a  saint,  but  bestows  the  bliss  of  a  god. 
Before  the  steps  of  your  idol,  the  evils  of  life  disappear. 
To  hear  you,  one  has  but  "  to  know,"  in  order  to  be  exempt 
from  the  sins  and  sorrows  of  the  ignorant.  Has  it  ever  been 
so  ?  Grant  that  you  diffuse  amongst  the  many  all  the 
knowledge  ever  attained  by  the  few.  Have  the  wise  few 
been  so  unerring  and  so  happy  ?  You  supposed  that  your 
motto  was  accurately  cited  from  Bacon.  What  was  Bacon 
himself  ?  The  poet  tells  you — 

"  The  wisest,  brightest,  meanest  of  mankind  !" 

Can  you  hope  to  bestow  upon  the  vast  mass  of  your  order 
the  luminous  intelligence  of  this  "  Lord  Chancellor  of 
Nature  ? "  Grant  that  you  do  so — and  what  guarantee 
have  you  for  the  virtue  and  the  happiness. which  you  assume 
as  the  concomitants  of  the  gift  ?  See  Bacon  himself  :  what 
black  ingratitude  !  what  miserable  self  seeking  !  what  truck- 
ling servility  !  what  abject  and  pitiful  spirit  !  So  far  from 
intellectual  knowledge,  in  its  highest  form  and  type,  insur- 
ing virtue  and  bliss,  it  is  by  no  means  uncommon  to  find 
great  mental  cultivation  combined  with  great  moral  cor- 
ruption. [Aside  to  Riccabocca — "  Push  on,  will  you  ?  "] 

RICCABOCCA. — A  combination  remarkable  in  eras  as  in 
individuals.  Petronius  shows  us  a  state  of  morals  at  which 
a  common-place  devil  would  blush,  in  the  midst  of  a  society 
more  intellectually  cultivated  than  certainly  was  that  which 
produced  Regulus  or  the  Horatii.  And  the  most  learned 
eras  in  modern  Italy  were  precisely  those  which  brought 
the  vices  into  the  most  ghastly  refinement. 

LEONARD  (rising  in  great  agitation,  and  clasping  his 
hands). — I  cannot  contend  with  you,  who  produce  against 
information  so  slender  and  crude  as  mine  the  stores  which 
have  been  locked  from  my  reach.  But  I  feel  that  there 
must  be  another  side  to  this  shield — a  shield  that  you  will 
not  even  allow  to  be  silver.  And,  oh,  if  you  thus  speak  of 
knowledge,  why  have  you  encouraged  me  to  know  ? 


MY  NOVEL;    OR, 


CHAPTER   XX. 

"  AH,  my  son  ! "  said  the  Parson,  "  if  I  wished  to  prove 
the  value  of  Religion,  would  you  think  I  served  it  much,  if 
I  took  as  my  motto,  '  Religion  is  power?'  Would  not  that 
be  a  base  and  sordid  view  of  its  advantages  ?  And  would 
you  not  say,  he  who  regards  religion  as  a  power  intends  to 
abuse  it  as  a  priestcraft  ?  " 

"  Well  put !  "  said  Riccabocca. 

"  Wait  a  moment — let  me  think  !  Ah — I  see,  sir  !  "  said 
Leonard. 

PARSON. — If  the  cause  be  holy,  do  not  weigh  it  in  the 
scales  of  the  market ;  if  its  objects  be  peaceful,  do  not  seek 
to  arm  it  with  the  weapons  of  strife  ;  if  it  is  to  be  the 
cement  of  society,  do  not  vaunt  it  as  the  triumph  of  class 
against  class. 

LEONARD  (ingenuously). — You  correct  me  nobly,  sir. 
Knowledge  is  power,  but  not  in  the  sense  in  which  I  have 
interpreted  the  saying. 

PARSON. — Knowledge  is  one  of  the  powers  in  the  moral 
world,  but  one  that,  in  its  immediate  result,  is  not  always  of 
the  most  worldly  advantage  to  the  possessor.  It  is  one  of 
the  slowest,  because  one  of  the  most  durable,  of  agencies. 
It  may  take  a  thousand  years  for  a  thought  to  come  into 
power  ;  and  the  thinker  who  originated  it  might  have  died 
in  rags  or  in  chains. 

RICCABOCCA. — Our  Italian  proverb  saith  that  "  the  teacher 
is  like  the  candle,  which  lights  others  in  consuming  itself." 

PARSON. — Therefore  he  who  has  the  true  ambition  of 
knowledge  should  entertain  it  for  the  power  of  his  idea, 
not  for  the  power  it  may  bestow  on  himself  ;  it  should  be 
lodged  in  the  conscience,  and,  like  the  conscience,  look  for 
no  certain  reward  this  side  of  the  grave.  And  since  knowl- 
edge is  compatible  with  good  and  with  evil,  would  not  it 
be  better  to  say,  "  Knowledge  is  a  trust  ? " 

"  You  are  right,  sir,"  said  Leonard,  cheerfully  ;  "  pray 
proceed." 

PARSON. — You  ask  me  why  we  encourage  you  to  KNOW. 
First,  because  (as  you  say  yourself  in  your  Essay)  knowl- 
edge, irrespective  of  gain,  is  in  itself  a  delight,  and  ought 


VARIETIES     IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  281 

to  be  something  far  more.  Like  liberty,  like  religion,  it 
may  be  abused  ;  but  I  have  no  more  right  to  say  that  the 
poor  shall  be  ignorant,  than  I  have  to  say  that  the  rich  only 
shall  be  free,  and  that  the  clergy  alone  shall  learn  the 
truths  of  redemption.  You  truly  observe  in  your  treatise 
that  knowledge  opens  to  us  other  excitements  than  those  of 
the  senses,  and  another  life  than  that  of  the  moment.  The 
difference  between  us  is  this,  that  you  forget  that  the  same 
refinement  which  brings  us  new  pleasures,  exposes  us  to 
new  pains — the  horny  hand  of  the  peasant  feels  not  the 
nettles-which  sting  the  fine  skin  of  the  scholar.  You  for- 
get also,  that  whatever  widens  the  sphere  of  the  desires, 
opens  to  them  also  new  temptations.  Vanity,  the  desire  of 
applause,  pride,  the  sense  of  superiority — gnawing  dis- 
content where  that  superiority  is  not  recognized — morbid 
susceptibility,  which  comes  with  all  new  feelings — the 
underrating  of  simple  pleasures  apart  from  the  intellectual 
— the  chase  of  the  imagination,  often  unduly  stimulated, 
for  things  unattainable  below — all  these  are  surely  amongst 
the  first  temptations  that  beset  the  entrance  into  knowledge. 

Leonard  shaded  his  face  with  his  hand. 

"Hence,"  continued  the  Parson,  benignantly — "hence, 
so  far  from  considering  that  we  do  all  that  is  needful  to  ac- 
complish ourselves  as  men,  when  we  cultivate  only  the 
intellect,  we  should  remember  that  we  thereby  continually 
increase  the  range  of  our  desires,  and  therefore  of  our 
temptations  ;  and  we  should  endeavor,  simultaneously,  to 
cultivate  both  those  affections  of  the  heart  which  prove  the 
ignorant  to  be  God's  children  no  less  than  the  wise,  and 
those  moral  qualities  which  have  made  men  great  and  good 
when  reading  and  writing  were  scarcely  known  ;  to  wit., — 
patience  and  fortitude  under  poverty  and  distress ;  hu- 
mility and  beneficence  amidst  grandeur  and  wealth  ;  and, 
in  counteraction  to  that  egotism  which  all  superiority, 
mental  or  worldly,  is  apt  to  inspire,  Justice,  the  father  of 
all  the  more  solid  virtues,  softened  by  Charity,  which  is 
their  loving  mother.  Thus  accompanied,  Knowledge  indeed 
becomes  the  magnificent  crown  of  humanity, — not  the  im- 
perious despot,  but  the  checked  and  tempered  sovereign  of 
the  soul." 

The  Parson  paused,  and  Leonard,  coming  near  him, 
timidly  took  his  hand,  with  a  child's  affectionate  and  grate- 
ful impulse. 

RICCABOCCA. — And   if,  Leonard,   you   are   not  satisfied 


282  MY  NOVEL;    OR, 

with  our  Parson's  excellent  definitions,  you  have  only  to 
read  what  Lord  Bacon  himself  has  said  upon  the  true  ends 
of  knowledge,  to  comprehend  at  once  how  angry  the  poor 
great  man  whom  Dr.  Dale  treats  so  harshly,  would  have 
been  with  those  who  have  stinted  his  elaborate  distinctions 
and  provident  cautions  into  that  coxcombical  little  aphor- 
ism, and  then  misconstrued  all  he  designed  to  prove  in  favor 
of  the  commandment,  and  authority  of  learning.  For 
[added  the  sage,  looking  up  as  a  man  does  when  he  is  tax- 
ing his  memory]  I  think  it  is  thus  that,  after  saying  the 
greatest  error  of  all  is  the  mistaking  or  misplacing  the  end 
of  knowledge,  and  denouncing  the  various  objects  for  which 
it  is  vulgarly  sought — I  think  it  is  thus  that  Lord  Bacon 

proceeds "  Knowledge  is  not  a  shop  for  profit 

or  sale,  but  a  rich  storehouse  for  the  glory  of  the  Creator, 
and  the  relief  of  men's  estate."  * 

PARSON  (remorsefully). — Are  those  Lord  Bacon's  words  ? 
I  am  very  sorry  I  spoke  so  uncharitably  of  his  life.  I  must 
examine  it  again.  I  may  find  excuses  for  it  now  that  I 
could  not  when  I  first  formed  my  judgment.  I  was  then  a 
raw  lad  at  Oxford.  But  I  see,  Leonard,  there  is  still  some- 
thing on  your  mind. 

LEONARD. — It  is  true,  sir  ;  I  would  but  ask  whether  it  is 
not  by  knowledge  that  we  arrive  at  the  qualities  and  virtues 
you  so  well  describe,  but  which  you  seem  to  consider  as 
coming  to  us  through  channels  apart  from  knowledge  ? 

PARSON. — If  you  mean  by  the  word  knowledge  some- 
thing very  different  from  what  you  express  in  your  Essay, 
and  which  those  contending  for  mental  instruction,  irrespec- 
tive of  religion  and  ethics,  appear  also  to  convey  by  the  word, 
you  are  right  ;  but  remember,  we  have  already  agreed  that 
by  the  word  knowledge  we  mean  culture  purely  intellectual. 

LEONARD. — That  is  true,  we  so  understood  it. 

PARSON. — Thus,  when  this  great  Lord  Bacon  erred,  you 
may  say  that  he  erred  from  want  of  knowledge — the  knowl- 

*  "  But  the  greatest  error  of  all  the  rest  is  the  mistaking  or  misplacing  of  the  last  or  far- 
thest end  of  knowledge  ; — for  men  have  entered  into  a  desire  of  learning  and  knowledge, 
sometimes  upon  a  natural  curiosity  and  inquisitive  appetite  ;  sometimes  to  entertain  their 
minds  with  variety  and  delight  ;  sometimes  for  ornament  and  reputation  ;  and  sometimes  to 
enable  them  to  victory  of  wit  and  contradiction  ;  and  most  times  for  lucre  and  profession  " 
[that  is.  lor  most  of  those  objects  which  are  meant  by  the  ordinary  citers  of  the  saying, 
"  Knowledge  is  power"] — "  and  seldom  sincerely  to  give  a  true  account  of  these  gifts  of  rea- 
son to  the  benefit  and  use  of  men  ;  as  if  there  were  sought  in  knowledge  a  couch  whereupon 
to  rest  a  searching  and  restless  spirit ;  or  a  terrace  for  a  wandering  and  variable  mind  to  walk 
up  and  down,  with  a  fair  prospect  ;  or  a  tower  of  stafe  for  a  proud  mind  to  raise  itself  upon, 
or  a  fort  or  commanding  ground  for  strife  and  contention  ;  or  a  shop  for  profit  or  sale — and 
not  a  rich  storehouse  for  the  glory  of  the  Creator,  and  the  relief  of  men's  estate." — ADVANCE- 
MKNT  OK  LKAKNING,  Book  I. 


VARIETIES  IAT  ENGLISH  LIFE.  283 

edge  which  moralists  and  preachers  would  convey.  But  Lord 
Bacon  had  read  all  that  moralists  and  preachers  could  say 
on  such  matters  ;  and  he  certainly  did  not  err  from  want  of 
intellectual  cultivation.  Let  me  here,  my  child,  invite  you 
to  observe,  that  He  who  knew  most  of  our  human  hearts 
and  our  immortal  destinies,  did  not  insht  on  this  intellec- 
tual culture  as  essential  to  the  virtues  that  form  our  well- 
being  here,  and  conduce  to  our  salvation  hereafter.  Had  it 
been  essential,  the  Allwise  One  would  not  have  selected 
humble  fishermen  for  the  teachers  of  His  doctrine,  instead 
of  culling  His  disciples  from  Roman  portico  or  Athenian 
academe.  And  this,  which  distinguishes  so  remarkably  the 
Gospel  from  the  ethics  of  heathen  philosophy,  wherein 
knowledge  is  declared  to  be  necessary  to  virtue,  is  a  proof 
how  slight  was  the  heathen  sage's  insight  into  the  nature  of 
mankind,  when  compared  with  the  Savior's  ;  for  hard,  in- 
deed, would  it  be  to  men,  whether  high  or  low,  rich  or  poor, 
if  science  and  learning,  or  contemplative  philosophy, 
were  the  sole  avenues  to  peace  and  redemption  ;  since,  in 
this  state  of  ordeal  requiring  active  duties,  very  few  in  any 
age,  whether  they  be  high  or  low,  rich  or  poor,  ever  are  or 
can  be  devoted  to  pursuits  merely  mental.  Christ  does  not 
represent  heaven  as  a  college  for  the  learned  ;  therefore  the 
rules  of  the  Celestial  Legislator  are  rendered  clear  to  the 
simplest  understanding  as  to  the  deepest. 

RICCABOCCA. — And  that  which  Plato  and  Zeno,  Pytha- 
goras and  Socrates,  could  not  do,  was  done  by  men  whose 
ignorance  would  have  been  a  by-word  in  the  schools  of  the 
Greek.  The  gods  of  the  vulgar  were  dethroned  ;  the  face 
of  the  world  was  changed  !  This  thought  may  make  us  al- 
low, indeed,  that  there  are  agencies  more  powerful  than 
mere  knowledge,  and  ask,  after  all,  what  is  the  mission 
which  knowledge  should  achieve  ? 

PARSON. — The  Sacred  Book  tells  us  even  that ;  for  after 
establishing  the  truth  that,  for  the  multitude,  knowledge  is 
not  essential  to  happiness  and  good,  it  accords  still  to  know- 
ledge its  sublime  part  in  the  revelation  prepared  and  an- 
nounced. When  an  instrument  of  more  than  ordinary  intel- 
ligence was  required  for  a  purpose  divine, — when  the  Gospel 
recorded  by  the  simple,  was  to  be  explained  by  the  acute, 
enforced  by  the  energetic,  carried  home  to  the  doubts  of 
the  Gentile,  the  Supreme  Will  joined  to  the  zeal  of  the 
earlier  apostles  the  learning  and  genius  of  St.  Paul — not 
holier'than  the  others, — calling  himself  the  least,  yet  labor- 


284  MY  NOVEL;    OR, 

ing  more  abundantly  than  them  all, — making  himself  all 
things  unto  all  men,  so  that  some  might  be  saved.  The  ig- 
norant may  be  saved  no  less  surely  than  the  wise  ;  but  here 
comes  the  wise  man  who  helps  to  save  !  And  how  the  fulness 
and  animation  of  this  grand  Presence,  of  this  indomitable 
Energy,  seem  to  vivify  the  toil,  and  to  speed  the  work  ! — "  In 
journeyings  often,  in  perils  of  waters,  in  perils  of  robbers,  in 
perils  of  mine  own  countrymen,  in  perils  by  the  heathen,  in 
perils  in  the  city,  in  perils  in  the  wilderness,  in  perils  in  the 
sea,  in  perils  among  false  brethren."  Behold,  my  son  ! 
does  not  Heaven  here  seem  to  reveal  the  true  type  of  Know- 
ledge,— a  sleepless  activity,  a  pervading  agency,  a  dauntless 
heroism,  an  all-supporting  faith  ? — a  power — a  power  in- 
deed,— a  power  apart  from  the  aggrandizement  of  self, — a 
power  that  brings  to  him  who  owns  and  transmits  it  but 
"  weariness  and  painfulness  ;  in  watchings  often,  in  hunger 
and  thirst,  in  fastings  often,  in  cold  and  nakedness," — but  a 
power  distinct  from  the  mere  circumstance  of  *the  man, 
rushing  from  him  as  rays  from  the  sun  ;  borne  through  the 
air,  and  clothing  it  with  light, — piercing  under  earth,  and 
calling  forth  the  harvest !  Worship  not  knowledge,— wor- 
ship not  the  sun,  O  my  child  !  Let  the  sun  but  proclaim 
the  Creator  ;  let  the  knowledge  but  illumine  the  worship  ! 

The  good  man,  overcome  by  his  own  earnestness, 
paused  ;  his  head  drooped  on  the  young  student's  breast, 
and  all  three  were  long  silent. 


CHAPTER  XXI. 

WHATEVER  ridicule  may  be  thrown  upon  Mr.  Dale's 
dissertations  by  the  wit  of  the  enlightened,  they  had  a 
considerable,  and  I  think  a  beneficial,  effect  upon  Leonard 
Fairfield— an  effect  which  may  perhaps  create  less  sur- 
prise when  the  reader  remembers  that  Leonard  was  unac- 
customed to  argument,  and  still  retained  many  of  the 
prejudices  natural  to  his  rustic  breeding.  Nay,  he  actually 
thought  it  possible  that,  as  both  Riccabocca  and  Mr.  Dale 
were  more  than  double  his  age,  and  had  had  opportunities 
not  only  of  reading  twice  as  many  books,  but  of  gathering 
up  experience  in  wider  ranges  of  life— he  actually,  I  say, 
thought  it  possible  that  they  might  be  better  acquainted 


VARIETIES   IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  285 

with  the  properties  and  distinctions  of  knowledge  than 
himself.  At  all  events,  the  Parson's  words  were  so  far  well- 
timed,  that  they  produced  in  Leonard  very  much  of  that 
state  of  mind  which  Mr.  Dale  desired  to  effect  before  com- 
municating to  him  the  startling  intelligence  that  he  was  to 
visit  relations  whom  he  had  never  seen,  of  whom  he  had 
heard  but  little,  and  that  it  was  at  least  possible  that 
the  result  of  that  visit  might  be  to  open  to  him  greater 
facilities  for  instruction,  and  a  higher  degree  in  life. 

Without  some  such  preparation,  I  fear  that  Leonard 
would  have  gone  forth  into  the  world  with  an  exaggerated 
notion  of  his  own  acquirements,  and  with  a  notion  yet 
more  exaggerated  as  to  the  kind  of  power  that  such  knowl- 
edge as  he  possessed  would  obtain  for  itself.  As  it  was, 
Avhen  Mr.  Dale  broke  to  him  the  news  of  the  experimental 
journey  before  him,  cautioning  him  against  being  over- 
sanguine,  Leonard  received  the  intelligence  with  a  serious 
meekness,  and  thoughts  that  were  nobly  solemn. 

When  the  door  closed  on  his  visitors,  he  remained  for 
some  moments  motionless,  and  in  deep  meditation  ;  then 
he  unclosed  the  door  and  stole  forth.  The  night  was 
already  far  advanced,  the  heavens  were  luminous  with  all 
the  host  of  stars.  "I  think,"  said  the  student,  referring, 
in  later  life,  to  that  crisis  in  his  destiny — "  I  think  it  was 
then,  as  I  stood  alone,  yet  surrounded  by  worlds  so 
numberless,  that  I  first  felt  the  distinction  between  mind 
and  soul." 

"Tell  me,"  said  Riccabocca,  as  he  parted  company 
with  Mr.  Dale,  "whether  you  have  given  to  Frank  Hazel- 
dean,  on  entering  life,  the  same  lecture  on  the  limits  and 
ends  of  knowledge  which  you  have  bestowed  on  Leonard 
Fairfield  ? " 

"  My  friend,"  quoth  the  Parson,  with  a  touch  of  human 
conceit,  "I  have  ridden  on  horseback,  and  I  know  that 
some  horses  should  be  guided  by  the  bridle,  and  some 
should  be  urged  by  the  spur." 

"  Cospetto ! '"  said  Riccabocca,  "you  contrive  to  put 
every  experience  of  yours  to  some  use — even  your  journey 
on  Mr.  Hazeldean's  pad.  And  I  now  see  why,  in  this  little 
world  of  a  village,  you  have  picked  up  so  general  an 
acquaintance  with  life." 

"  Did  you  ever  read  White's  Natural  History  of  Sel- 
borne  ?  " 

"No." 


236  MY  XOIT.L;    OR, 

"  Do  so,  and  you  will  find  that  you  need  not  go  far  to 
learn  the  habits  of  birds,  and  know  the  difference  between 
a  swallow  and  a  swift.  Learn  the  difference  in  a  village, 
and  you  know  the  difference  wherever  swallows  and 
swifts  skim  the  air." 

"  Swallows  and  swifts  ! — true  ;  but  men " 

"Are  with  us  all  the  year  round — which  is  more  than 
we  can  say-  of  swallows  and  swifts." 

"  Mr.  Dale,"  said  Riccabocca,  taking  off  his  hat  with 
great  formality,  "  if  ever  again  I  find  myself  in  a  dilemma, 
I  will  come  to  you  instead  of  to  Machiavelli." 

"Ah!"  cried  the  Parson,  "if  I  could  but  have  a  calm 
hour's  talk  with  you  on  the  errors  of  the  Papal  relig — 

Riccabocca  was  off  like  a  shot. 


CHAPTER  XXII. 

THE  next  day,  Mr.  Dale  had  a  long  conversation  with 
Mrs.  Fairfield.  At  first,  he  found  some  difficulty  in  getting 
over  her  pride,  and  inducing  her  to  accept  overtures  from 
parents  who  had  so  long  slighted  both  Leonard  and  her- 
self. And  it  would  have  been  in  vain  to  have  put  before 
the  good  woman  the  worldly  advantages  which  such  over- 
tures implied.  But  when  Mr.  Dale  said,  almost  sternly, 
"Your  parents  are  old,  your  father  infirm  ;  their  least  wish 
should  be  as  binding  to  "  you  as  their  command," — the 
widow  bowed  her  head,  and  said — 

"God  bless  them,  sir,  I  was  very  sinful — '  Honor  your 
father  and  mother.'  I'm  no  scollard,  but  I  know  the  Com- 
mandments. Let  Lenny  go.  But  he'll  soon  forget  me,  and 
mayhap  he'll  learn  to  be  ashamed  of  me." 

"There  I  will  trust  him,"  said  the  Parson;  and  he  con- 
trived easily  to  reassure  and  soothe  her. 

It  was  not  till  all  this  was  settled  that  Mr.  Dale  drew 
forth  an  unsealed  letter  which  Mr.  Richard  Avenel,  taking 
his  hint,  had  given  to  him  as  from  Leonard's  grandparents, 
and  said — "  This  is  for  you,  and  it  contains  an  enclosure  of 
some  value." 

"Will  you  read  it,  sir?  As  I  said  before,  I'm  no  scol- 
lard." 

"  But  Leonard  is,  and  he  wrill  read  to  you." 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  287 

When  Leonard  returned  home  that  evening,  Mrs.  Fair- 
field  showed  him  the  letter.  It  ran  thus — 

"  DEAR  JANE, — Mr.  Dale  will  tell  you  that  we  wish  Leon- 
ard to  come  to  us.  We  are  glad  to  hear  that  you  are  well. 
We  forward,  by  Mr.  Dale,  a  bank-note  for  ^50,  which  comes 
from  Richard,  your  brother.  So  no  more  at  present  from 
your  affectionate  parents, 

"  JOHN  AND  MARGARET  AVENEL." 

The  letter  was  in  a  stiff  female  scrawl,  and  Leonard  ob- 
served that  two  or  three  mistakes  in  spelling  had  been  cor- 
rected, either  in  another  pen  or  in  a  different  hand. 

"  Dear  brother  Dick,  how  good  in  him ! "  cried  the 
widow.  "When  I  saw  there  was. money,  I  thought  it  must 
be  him.  How  I  should  like  to  see  Dick  again  !  But  I 
s'pose  he's  in  Amerikay.  Well,  well,  this  will  buy  clothes 
for  you." 

"  No ;  you  must  keep  it  all,  mother,  and  put  it  in  the 
Savings'  Bank." 

"I'm  not  quite  so  silly  as  that,"  cried  Mrs.  Fairfielcl, 
with  contempt ;  and  she  put  the  fifty  pounds  into  a  cracked 
teapot. 

"  It  must  not  stay  there  when  I'm  gone.  You  may  be 
robbed,  mother." 

"  Dear  me,  dear  me,  that's  true.  What  shall  I  do  with 
it  ? — what  do  I  want  with  it,  too  ?  Dear  me,  I  wish  they 
hadn't  sent  it.  I  shan't  sleep  in  peace.  You  must  e'en  put 
it  in  your  pouch,  and  button  it  up  tight,  boy." 

Lenny  smiled,  and  took  the  note  ;  but  he  gave  it  to  Mr. 
Dale,  and  begged  him  to  put  it  into  the  Savings'  Bank  for 
his  mother. 

The  day  following  he  went  to  take  leave  of  his  master, 
of  Jackeymo,  of  the  fountain,  the  garden.  But  after  he 
had  gone  through  the  first  of  these  adieus,  with  Jackeymo 
— who,  poor  man,  indulged  in  all  the  lively  gesticulations 
of  grief  which  make  half  the  eloquence  of  his  countrymen, 
and  then,  absolutely  blubbering,  hurried  away — Leonard 
himself  was  so  affected  that  he  could  not  proceed  at  once 
to  the  house,  but  stood  beside  the  fountain,  trying  hard  to 
keep  back  his  tears. 

"You,  Leonard — and  you  are  going!"  said  a  soft  voice  ; 
and  the  tears  fell  faster  than  ever,  for  he  recognized  the 
voice  of  Violante. 


288  MY  NOVEL;    OK, 

"  Do  not  cry,"  continued  the  child,  with  a  kind  of  tender 
gravity.  "You  are  going,  but  papa  says  it  would  be  selfish 
in  us  to  grieve,  for  it  is  for  your  good  ;  and  we  should  be 
glad.  But  I  am  selfish,  Leonard,  and  I  do  grieve.  I  shall 
miss  you  sadly." 

"  You,  young  lady — you  miss  me  ?" 

"  Yes.  But  I  do  not  cry,  Leonard,  for  I  envy  you,  and 
I  wish  I  were  a  boy  ;  I  wish  I  could  do  as  you." 

The  girl  clasped  her  hands,  and  reared  her  slight  form, 
with  a  kind  of  passionate  dignity. 

"  Do  as  me,  and  part  from  all  those  you  love  ! " 

"  But  to  serve  those  you  love.  One  day  you  will  come 
back  to  your  mother's  cottage,  and  say,  '  I  have  conquered 
fortune.'  O  that  I  could  go  forth  and  return,  as  you  will  ! 
But  my  father  has  no  country,  and  his  only  child  is  a  use- 
less girl." 

As  Violante  spoke,  Leonard  had  dried  his  tears  ;  her 
emotion  had  distracted  him  from  his  own. 

"Oh,"  continued  Violante,  again  raising  her  head  loftily, 
"what  it  is  to  be  a  man  !  A  woman  sighs  'I  wish,'  but  a 
man  should  say  'I  will.'" 

Occasionally  before  Leonard  had  noted  fitful  flashes  of 
a  nature  grand  and  heroic  in  the  Italian  child,  especially  of 
late — flashes  the  more  remarkable  from  their  contrast  to  a 
form  most  exquisitely  feminine,  and  to  a  sweetness  of  tem- 
per which  made  even  her  pride  gentle.  But  now  it  seemed 
as  if  the  child  spoke  with  the  command  of  a  queen — almost 
with  the  inspiration  of  a  Muse.  A  strange  and  new  sense 
of  courage  entered  within  him. 

"  May  I  remember  these  words  !  "  he  murmured,  half 
audibly. 

The  girl  turned  and  surveyed  him  with  eyes  brighter  for 
their  moisture.  She  then  extended  her  hand  to  him,  with  a 
quick  movement,  and  as  he  bent  over  it,  with  a  grace  taught 
to  him  by  genuine  emotion,  she  said — "And  if  you  do,  then, 
girl  and  child  as  I  am,  I  shall  think  I  have  aided  a  brave 
heart  in  the  great  strife  for  honor  ! " 

She  lingered  a  moment,  smiled  as  if  to  herself,  and  then, 
gliding  away,  was  lost  among  the  trees. 

After  a  long  pause,  in  which  Leonard  recovered  slowly 
from  the  surprise  and  agitation  into  which  Violante  had 
thrown  his  spirits — previously  excited  as  they  were — he 
went,  murmuring  to  himself,  toward  the  house.  But  Ric- 
cabocca  was  from  home.  Leonard  turned  mechanically  to 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  289 

the  terrace,  and  busied  himself  with  the  flowers.  But  the 
dark  eyes  of  Violante  shone  on  his  thoughts,  and  her  voice 
rang  in  his  ear. 

At  length  Riccabocca  appeared  on  the  road,  attended  by 
a  laborer,  who  carried  something  indistinct  under  his  arm. 

The  Italian  beckoned  to  Leonard  to  follow  him  into  the 
parlor,  and  after  conversing  with  him  kindly,  and  at  some 
length,  and  packing  up,  as  it  were,  a  considerable  provision 
of  wisdom  in  the  portable  shape  of  aphorisms  and  proverbs, 
the  sage  left  him  alone  for  a  few  moments.  Riccabocca  then 
returned  with  his  wife,  and  bearing  a  small  knapsack  : — 

"  It  is  not  much  we  can  do  for  you,  Leonard,  and  money 
is  the  worst  gift  in  the  world  for  a  keepsake  ;  but  my  wife 
and  I  have  put  our  heads  together  to  furnish  you  with  a  lit- 
tle outfit.  Giacomo,  who  was  in  our  secret,  assures  us  that 
the  clothes  will  fit  ;  and  stole,  I  fancy,  a  coat  of  yours,  to 
have  the  right  measure.  Put  them  on  when  you  go  to  your 
relations  ;  it  is  astonishing  what  a  difference  it  makes  in  the 
ideas  people  form  of  us,  according  as  our  coats  are  cut  one 
way  or  another.  I  should  not  be  presentable  in  London 
thus  ;  and  nothing  is  more  true  than  that  a  tailor  is  often 
the  making  of  a  man." 

"  The  shirts,  too,  are  very  good  holland,"  said  Mrs.  Ric- 
cabocca, about  to  open  the  knapsack. 

"  Never  mind  details,  my  dear,"  cried  the  wise  man  ; 
"  shirts  are  comprehended  in  the  general  principle  of 
clothes.^  And,  Leonard,  as  a  remembrance  somewhat  more 
personal,  accept  this,  which  I  have  worn  many  a  year  when 
time  was  a  thing  of  importance  to  me,  and  nobler  fates  than 
mine  hung  on  a  moment.  We  missed  the  moment,  or  abused 
it  ;  and  here  I  am,  a  waif  on  a  foreign  shore.  Methinks  I 
have  done  with  Time." 

The  exile,  as  he  thus  spoke,  placed  in  Leonard's  reluc- 
tant hands  a  watch  that  would  have  delighted  an  antiquary, 
and  shocked  a  dandy.  It  was  exceedingly  thick,  having  an 
outer  case  of  enamel,  and  a  inner  one  of  gold.  The  hands 
and  the  figures  of  the  hours  had  originally  been  formed  of 
brilliants  ;  but  the  brilliants  had  long  since  vanished.  Still, 
even  thus  bereft,  the  watch  was  much  more  in  character 
with  the  giver  than  the  receiver,  and  was  as  little  suited  to 
Leonard  as  would  have  been  the  red  silk  umbrella. 

"  It  is  old-fashioned,"  said  Mrs.  Riccabocca  ;  "  but  it 
goes  better  than  any  clock  in  ^ij,  county.  I  really  think  it 
will  last  to  the  end  of  the  world," 

13 


290  MY  NOVEL;    OR, 

"  Carissima  mia  ! "  cried  the  Doctor,  "  I  thought  I  had 
convinced  you  that  the  world  is  by  no  means  come  to  its 
last  legs." 

"  Oh,  I  did  not  mean  anything,  Alphonso,"  said  Mrs. 
Riccabocca,  coloring. 

"  And  that  is  all  we  do  mean  when  we  talk  about  that 
of  which  we  can  know  nothing,"  said  the  Doctor,  less  gal- 
lantly than  usual,  for  he  resented  that  epithet  of  "  old-fash- 
ioned," as  applied  to  the  watch. 

Leonard,  we  see,  had  been  silent  all  this  time  ;  he  could 
not  speak — literally  and  truly,  he  could  not  speak.  How 
he  got  out  of  his  embarrassment,  and  how  he  got  out  of  the 
room,  he  never  explained  to  my  satisfaction  ;  but,  a  few 
minutes  afterward,  he  was  seen  hurrying  down  the  road 
very  briskly. 

Riccabocca  and  his  wife  stood  at  the  window  gazing 
after  him. 

"  There  is  a  depth  in  that  boy's  heart,"  said  the  sage, 
"which  might  float  an  Argosy." 

"  Poor  dear  boy !  I  think  we  have  put  everything  into 
the  knapsack  that  he  can  possibly  want,"  said  good  Mrs. 
Riccabocca,  musingly. 

The  DOCTOR  (continuing  his  soliloquy). — They  are 
strong,  but  they  are  not  immediately  apparent. 

MRS.  RICCABOCCA  (resuming  hers). — They  are  at  the 
bottom  of  the  knapsack. 

The  DOCTOR. — They  will  stand  long  wear  and  tear. 

MRS.  RICCABOCCA. — A  year,  at  least,  with  proper  care  at 
the  wash. 

The  DOCTOR  (startled). — Care  at  the  wash !  What  on 
earth  are  you  talking  of,  ma'am  ? 

MRS.  RICCABOCCA  (mildly). — The  shirts,  to  be  sure,  my 
love  !  And  you  ? 

The  DOCTOR  (with  a  heavy  sigh). — The  feelings,  ma'am  ! 
[Then,  after  a  pause,  taking  his  wife's  hand  affectionately] — 
But  you  did  quite  right  to  think  of  the  shirts  ;  Mr.  Dale 
said  very  truly — 

MRS.  RICCABOCCA. — What  ? 

The  DOCTOR. — That  there  was  a  great  deal  in  common 
between  us — even  when  I  think  of  feelings,  and  you  but  of 
— shirts  ! 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  291 


,i ••:  CHAPTER  XXIII. 

MR.  and  Mrs.  Avenel  sat  within  the  parlor — Mr.  Richard 
stood  on  the  hearth-rug,  whistling  Yankee  Doodle.  "  The 
Parson  writes  word  that  the  lad  will  come  to-day,"  said 
Richard,  suddenly — "  let  me  see  the  letter — ay,  to-day.  If 

he  took  the  coach  as  far  as ,  he  might  walk  the  rest  of 

the  way  in  two  or  three  hours.  He  should  be  pretty  nearly 
here.  I  have  a  great  mind  to  go  and  meet  him  ;  it  will  save 
his  asking  questions,  and  hearing  about  me.  I  can  clear 
the  town  by  the  back  way,  and  get  out  at  the  high-road." 

"You'll  not  know  him  from  any  one  else,"  said  Mrs. 
Avenel. 

"Well,  that  is  a  good  one!  Not  know  an  Avenel! 
We've  all  the  same  cut  of  the  jib — have  not  we,  father  ?" 

Poor  John  laughed  heartily,  till  the  tears  rolled  down 
his  cheeks. 

"  We  were  always  a  well-favored  fam'ly,"  said  John, 
recomposing  himself.  "  There  was  Luke,  but  he's  gone  ; 
and  Harry,  but  he's  dead  too ;  and  Dick,  but  he's  in 
Amerikay — no,  he's  here  ;  and  my  darling  Nora,  but " 

"  Hush  !  "  interrupted  Mrs.  Avenel ;  "  hush,  John  !  " 

The  old  man  stared  at  her,  and  then  put  his  tremulous 
hand  to  his  brow.  "And  Nora's  gone  too!"  said  he,  in  a 
voice  of  profound  woe.  Both  hands  then  fell  on  his  knees, 
and  his  head  drooped  on  his  breast. 

Mrs.  Avenel  rose,  kissed  her  husband  on  the  forehead, 
and  walked  away  to  the  window.  Richard  took  up  his  hat, 
and  brushed  the  nap  carefully  with  his  handkerchief  ;  but 
his  lips  quivered. 

"I'm  going,"  said  he,  abruptly.  "Now  mind,  mother, 
not  a  word  about  Uncle  Richard  yet  ;  we  must  first  see  how 
we  like  each  other,  and,"  in  a  low  whisper,  "  you'll  try  and 
get  that  into  my  poor  father's  head  ? " 

"  Ay,  Richard,"  said  Mrs.  Avenel,  quietly.  Richard  put 
on  his  hat  and  went  out  by  the  back  way.  He  stole  along 
the  fields  that  skirted  the  town,  and  had  only  once  to  cross 
the  street  before  he  got  into  the  high-road. 

He  walked  on  till  lie  came  to  the  first  milestone.  There 
he  seated  himself,  lighted  his  cigar,  and  awaited  his  nephew. 


292  MY  NOVEL;    OK, 

It  was  now  nearly  the  hour  of  sunset,  and  the  road  before 
him  lay  westward.  Richard,  from  time  to  time,  looked 
along  the  road,  shading  his  eyes  with  his  hand  ;  and  at 
length,  just  as  the  disc  of  the  sun  had  halt  sunk  down  the 
horizon,  a  solitary  figure  came  up  the  way.  It  emerged 
suddenly  from  the  turn  in  the  road  ;  the  reddening  beams 
colored  all  the  atmosphere  around  it.  Solitary  and  silent, 
it  came  as  from  a  Land  of  Light. 


CHAPTER  XXIV. 

"  You  have  been  walking  far,  young  man  ? "  said  Rich- 
ard Avenel. 

"  No,  sir,  not  very.  That  is  Lansmere  before  me,  is  it 
not  ? " 

"  Yes,  it  is  Lansmere  ;  you  stop  there,  I  guess  ?" 

Leonard  made  a  sign  in  the  affirmative,  and  walked  on 
a  few  paces  ;  then,  seeing  the  stranger  who  had  accosted  him 
still  by  his  side,  he  said — 

"  If  you  know  the  town,  sir,  perhaps  you  will  have  the 
goodness  to  tell  me  whereabouts  Mr.  Avenel  lives  ?" 

"  I  can  put  you  into  a  straight  cut  across  the  fields,  that 
will  bring  you  just  behind  the  house." 

"  You  are  very  kind,  but  it  will  take  you  out  of  your 
way." 

"No,  it  is  in  my  way.  So  you  are  going  to  Mr.  Ave- 
nel's  ? — a  good  old  gentleman." 

"I've  always  heard  so;  and  Mrs.  Avenel " 

*'A  particular  superior  woman,"  said  Richard.  "Any 
one  else  to  ask  after? — I  know  the  family  well." 

"No,  thank  you,  sir." 

"  They  have  a  son,  I  believe ;  but  he's  in  America,  is 
not  he  ? " 

"I  believe  he  is,  sir." 

"  I  see  the  Parson  has  kept  faith  with  me,"  muttered 
Richard. 

" If  you  can  tell  me  anything  about  him"  said  Leonard, 
"  I  should  be  very  glad." 

"Why  so,  young  man?  perhaps  he  is  hanged  by  this 
time." 

"  Hanged  ! " 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  293 

"He  was  a  sad  dog,  I  am  told." 

"  Then  you  have  been  told  very  falsely,"  said  Leonard, 
coloring. 

"  A  sad  wild  dog — his  parents  were  so  glad  when  he 
cut  and  run — went  off  to  the  States.  They  say  he  made 
money  ;-but,  if  so,  he  neglected  his  relations  shamefully." 

"Sir,"  said  Leonard,  "  you  are  wholly  misinformed.  He 
has  been  most  generous  to  a  relation  who  has  little  claim 
on  him  ;  and  I  never  heard  his  name  mentioned  but  with 
love  and  praise." 

Richard  instantly  fell  to  whistling  Yankee  Doodle,  and 
walked  on  several  paces  without  saying  a  word.  He  then 
made  a  slight  apology  for  his  impertinence — hoped  no  of- 
fence— and,  with  his  usual  bold  but  astute  style  of  talk, 
contrived  to  bring  out  something  of  his  companion's  mind. 
He  was  evidently  struck  with  the  clearness  and  propriety 
with  which  Leonard  expressed  himself,  raised  his  eyebrows 
in  surprise  more  than  once,  and  looked  him  full  in  the  face 
with  an  attentive  and  pleased  survey. — Leonard  had  put  on 
the  new  clothes  with  which  Riccabocca  and  wife  had  pro- 
vided him.  They  were  those  appropriate  to  a  young  coun- 
try tradesman  in  good  circumstances  ;  but  as  Leonard  did 
not  think  about  the  clothes,  so  he  had  unconsciously  some- 
thing of  the  ease  of  the  gentleman. 

They  now  came  into  the  fields.  Leonard  paused  before 
a  slip  of  ground  sown  with  rye. 

"  I  should  have  thought  grass  land  would  have  answered 
better,  so  near  a  town,"  said  he. 

"  No  doubt  it  would,"  answered  Richard  ;  "  but  they  are 
sadly  behindhand  in  these  parts.  You  see  the  great  park 
yonder,  on  the- other  side  of  the  road?  That  would  answer 
better  for  rye  than  grass  ;  but  then,  what  would  become  of 
my  Lord's  deer?  The  aristocracy  eat  us  up,  young  man." 

"  But  the  aristocracy  did  not  sow  this  piece  with  rye,  I 
suppose?  "  said  Leonard,  smiling. 

"  And  what  do  you  conclude  from  that?" 

"  Let  every  man  look  to  his  own  ground,"  said  Leonard, 
with  a  cleverness  of  repartee  caught  from  Dr.  Riccabocca. 

"  'Cute  lad  you  are,"  said  Richard  ;  "  and  we'll  talk  more 
of  these  matters  another  time." 

They  now  came  within  sight  of  Mr.  Avenel's  house. 

"You  can  get  through  the  gap  in  the  hedge,  by  the  old 
pollard  oak,"  said  Richard,  "  and  come  round  by  the  front 
of  the  house.  Why,  you're  not  afraid — are  you  ? " 


294  MY  NOVEL;    OK, 

"  I  am  a  stranger." 

"  Shall  I  introduce  you  ?  I  told  you  that  I  knew  the  old 
couple." 

"Oh  no,  sir!     I  would  rather  meet  them  alone." 

"  Go  ;  and — wait  a  bit — harkye,  young  man,  Mrs.  Ave- 
nel  is  a  cold-mannered  woman  ;  but  don't  be  abashed  by 
that." 

Leonard  thanked  the  good-natured  stranger,  crossed  the 
field,  passed  the  gap,  and  paused  a  moment  under  the  stinted 
shade  of  the  old  hollow-hearted  oak.  The  ravens  were  re- 
turning to  their  nests.  At  the  sight  of  a  human  form  under 
the  tree,  they  wheeled  round,  and  watched  him  afar.  From 
the  thick  of  the  boughs,  the  young  ravens  sent  their  hoarse 
low  cry.* 

• 

CHAPTER  XXV. 

THE  young  man  entered  the  neat,  prim,  formal  parlor. 

"  You  are  welcome  !"  said  Mrs.  Avenel,  in  a  firm  voice. 

"  The  gentleman  is  heartily  welcome,"  cried  poor  John. 

"  It  is  your  grandson,  Leonard  Fairfield,"  said  Mrs. 
Avenel. 

But  John,  who  had  risen  with  knocking  knees,  gazed 
hard  at  Leonard,  and  then  fell  on  his  breast,  sobbing  aloud 
— "  Nora's  eyes  ! — he  has  a  blink  in  his  eye  like  Nora's." 

Mrs.  Avenel  approached  with  a  steady  step,  and  drew 
away  the  old  man  tenderly. 

"  He  is  a  poor  creature,"  she  whispered  to  Leonard — 
"  you  excite  him.  Come  away,  I  Avill  show  you  your 
room." 

Leonard  followed  her  up  the  stairs,  and  came  into  a 
room — neatly,  and  even  prettily,  furnished.  The  carpet  and 
curtains  were  faded  by  the  sun,  and  of  old-fashioned  pattern  ; 
there  was  a  look  about  the  room  as  if  it  had  been  long 
disused. 

Mrs.  Avenel  sank  down  on  the  first  chair  on  entering. 

Leonard  drew  his  arm  round  her  waist  affectionately. 
"  I  fear  that  I  have  put  you  out  sadly — my  dear  grand- 
mother." 

*  It  so  rarely  happens  that  ravens  are  found  to  build  near  a  dwelling-house,  that  it  is  per- 
haps necessary  to  observe  that  the  instance  here  referred  to  is  founded  on  a  fact  stated  to  the 
author  on  good  authority. 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  295 

• 

Mrs.  Avenel  glided  hastily  from  his  arm,  and  her  coun- 
tenance worked  much — every  nerve  in  it  twitching,  as  it  were  ; 
then,  placing  her  hand  on  his  locks,  she  said  with  passion, 
"  God  bless  you,  my  grandson,"  and  left  the  room. 

Leonard  dropped  his  knapsack  on  the  floor,  and  looked 
around  him  wistfully.  The  room  seemed  as  if  it  had  once 
been  occupied  by  a  lemale.  There  was  a  work-box  on  the 
chest  of  drawers,  and  over  it  hanging  shelves  for  books, 
suspended  by  ribbons  that  had  once  been  blue,  with  silk  and 
fringe  appended  to  each  shelf,  and  knots  and  tassels  here 
and  there — the  taste  of  a  woman,  or  rather  of  a  girl,  who 
seeks  to  give  a  grace  to  the  commonest  things  around  her. 
With  the  mechanical  habits  of  a  student,  Leonard  took  down 
one  or  two  of  the  volumes  still  left  on  the  shelves.  He 
found  SPENSER'S  Fairy  Queen,  RACINE  in  French,  TASSO  in 
Italian  ;  and  on  the  fly-leaf  of  each  volume,  in  the  exquisite 
handwriting  familiar  to  his  memory,  the  name  "  Leonora." 
He  kissed  the  books,  and  replaced  them  with  a  feeling  akin 
both  to  tenderness  and  awe. 

He  had  not  been  alone  in  the  room  more  than  a  quarter 
of  an  hour,  before  the  maid-servant  knocked  at  his  door  and 
summoned  him  to  tea. 

Poor  John  had  recovered  his  spirits,  and  his  wife  sat  by 
his  side  holding  his  hand  in  hers.  Poor  John  was  even  gay. 
He  asked  many  questions  about  his  daughter  Jane,  and  did 
not  wait  for  the  answers.  Then  he  spoke  about  the  Squire, 
whom  he  confounded  with  Audley  Egerton,  and  talked  of 
elections  and  the  Blue  party,  and  hoped  Leonard  would  al- 
ways be  a  good  Blue  ;  and  then  he  fell  to  his  tea  and  toast, 
and  said  no  more. 

Mrs.  Avenel  spoke  little,  but  she  eyed  Leonard  askant, 
as  it  were,  from  time  to  time  ;  and,  after  each  glance,  the 
nerves  of  the  poor  severe  face  twitched  again. 

A  little  after  nine  o'clock,  Mrs.  Avenel  lighted  a  candle, 
and  placing  it  in  Leonard's  hand,  said,  "  You  must  be  tired 
—you  know  your  own  room  now.  Good  night." 

Leonard  took  the  light,  and,  as  was  his  wont  with  his 
mother,  kissed  Mrs.  Avenel  on  the  cheek.  Then  he  took 
John's  hand  and  kissed  him  too.  The  old  man  was  half 
asleep,  and  murmured  dreamily,  "  That's  Nora." 

Leonard  had  retired  to  his  room  about  half  an  hour, 
when  Richard  Avenel  entered  the  house  softly,  and  joined 
his  parents. 

"Well,  mother  ?  "  said  he. 


296  MY  NOVEL;    OR, 

"Well,  Richard — you  have  seen  him?" 

"  And  like  him.  Do  you  know,  he  has  a  great  look  of 
poor  Nora  ? — more  like  her  than  Jane." 

"  Yes  ;  he  is  handsomer  than  Jane  ever  was,  but  more  like 
your  father  than  any  one.  John  was  so  comely.  You  take 
to  the  boy,  then  ?  " 

"  Ay,  that  I  do.  Just  tell  him  in  the  morning  that  he  is 
to  go  with  a  gentleman  who  will  be  his  friend,  and  don't  say 
more.  The  chaise  shall  be  at  the  door  after  breakfast.  Let 
lii m  get  into  it ;  I  shall  wait  for  him  out  of  the  town.  What's 
the  room  you  gave  him  ?  " 

"  The  room  you  would  not  take." 

"  The  room  in  which  Nora  slept  ?  Oh  no  !  I  could  not 
have  slept  a  wink  there.  What  a  charm  there  was  in  that 
girl — how  we  all  loved  her  !  But  she  was  too  beautiful  and 
good  for  us — too  good  to  live  !  " 

"  None  of  us  are  too  good,"  said  Mrs.  Avenel,  with  great 
austerity,  "  and  I  beg  you  will  not  talk  in  that  way.  Good 
night — I  must  get  your  poor  father  to  bed." 

When  Leonard  opened  his  eyes  the  next  morning,  they 
rested  on  the  face  of  Mrs.  Avenel,  which  was  bending  over 
his  pillow.  But  it  was  long  before  he  could  recognize  that 
countenance,  so  changed  was  its  expression — so  tender,  so 
mother-like.  Nay,  the  face  of  his  own  mother  had  never 
seemed  to  him  so  soft  with  a  mother's  passion. 

"  Ah  !  "  he  murmured,  half  rising  and  flinging  his  young 
arms  around  her  neck.  Mrs.  Avenel,  this  time  taken  by  sur- 
prise, warmly  returned  the  embrace  ;  she  clasped  him  to  her 
breast,  she  kissed  him  again  and  again.  At  length,  with  a 
quick  start,  she  escaped,  and  walked  up  and  down  the  room, 
pressing  her  hands  tightly  together.  When  she  halted,  her 
face  had  recovered  its  usual  severity  and  cold  precision. 

"  It  is  time  for  you  to  rise,  Leonard,"  said  she.  "You 
will  leave  us  to-day.  A  gentleman  has  promised  to  take 
charge  of  you,  and  do  for  you  more  than  we  can.  A  chaise 
will  be  at  the  door  soon — make  haste." 

John  was  absent  from  the  breakfast-table.  His  wife  said 
that  he  never  rose. till  late,  and  must  not  be  disturbed. 

The  meal  was  scarcely  over  before  a  chaise  and  pair 
came  to  the  door. 

"  You  must  not  keep  the  chaise  waiting — the  gentleman 
is  Very  punctual." 

"  But  he  is  not  come." 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  297 

"  No  ;  he  has  walked  on  before,  and  will  get  in  after 
you  are  out  of  the  town." 

"  What  is  his  name,  and  why  should  he  care  for  me, 
grandmother  ? " 

"  He  will  tell  you  himself.     Be  quick." 

"  But  you  will  bless  me  again,  grandmother.  I  love 
you  already." 

"  I  do  bless  you,"  said  Mrs.  Avenel,  firmly.  "  Be  honest 
and  good,  and  beware  of  the  first  false  step."  She  pressed 
his  hand  with  a  convulsive  grasp,  and  led  him  to  the  outer 
door. 

The  postboy  clanked  his  whip,  the  chaise  rattled  off. 
Leonard  put  his  head  out  of  the  window  to  catch  a  last 
glimpse  of  the  old  woman  ;  but  the  boughs  of  the  pollard 
oak,  and  its  gnarled  decaying  trunk,  hid  her  from  his  eye; 
and  look  as  he  would,  till  the  road  turned,  he  saw  but  the 
melancholy  tree. 

'3* 


298  MY  NOVEL;    OR, 


BOOK  FIFTH. 


INITIAL  CHAPTER. 

CONTAINING    MR.     CAXTON's    UNAVAILING    CAUTION    NOT     TO    BE 

DULL. 

"  I  HOPE,  Pisistratus,"  said  my  father,  "that  you  do  not 
intend  to  be  dull  ?" 

"  Heaven  forbid,  sir  !  What  could  make  you  ask  such 
a  question  ?  Intend /  No !  if  I  am  dull,  it  is  from 
innocence." 

"A  very  long  discourse  upon  knowledge!"  said  my 
father  ;  "  very  long.  I  should  cut  it  out !  " 

I  looked  upon  my  father  as  a  Byzantian  sage  might  have 
looked  on  a  Vandal.  "  Cut  it  out !" 

"  Stops  the  action,  sir  !  "  said  my  father,  dogmatically. 

"Action  !     But  a  novel  is  not  a  drama." 

"  No,  it  is  a  great  deal  longer — twenty  times  as  long,  I 
dare  say,"  replied  Mr.  Caxton,  with  a  sigh. 

"Well,  sir — well!  I  think  my  Discourse  upon  Knowl- 
edge has  much  to  do  with  the  subject — is  vitally  essential 
to  the  subject  ;  does  not  stop  the  action — only  explains  and 
elucidates  the  action.  And  I  am  astonished,  sir,  that  you, 
a  scholar,  and  a  cultivator  of  knowledge — 

"  There — there  !  "  cried  my  father,  deprecatingly.  I 
yield — I  yield.  What  better  could  I  expect  when  I  set  up 
for  a  critic  !  What  author  ever  lived  that  did  not  fly  into  a 
passion,  even  with  his  own  father,  if  his  father  presumed  to 
say — '  Cut  out ! '  " 

MRS.  CAXTON. — My  dear  Austin,  I  am  sure  Pisistratus 
did  not  mean  to  offend  you,  and  I  have  no  doubt  he  will 
take  your 

PISISTRATUS  (hastily). — Advice  for  the  future,  certainly. 
I  will  quicken  the  action,  and 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  299 

"  Go  on  with  the  Novel,"  whispered  Roland,  looking  up 
from  his  eternal  account-book.  "We  have  lost  £200  by 
our  barley  ! " 

Therewith  I  plunged  my  pen  into  the  ink,  and  my 
thoughts  into  the  "  Fair  Shadow-land." 


CHAPTER   II. 

"  HALT  !"  cried  a  voice  ;  and  not  a  little  surprised  was 
Leonard  when  the  stranger  who  had  accosted  him  the  pre- 
ceding evening  got  into  the  chaise. 

"  Well,"  said  Richard,  "  I  am  not  the  sort  of  man  you 
expected,  eh  ?  Take  time  to  recover  yourself."  And  with 
these  words  Richard  drew  forth  a  book  from  his  pocket, 
threw  himself  back,  and  began  to  read.  Leonard  stole 
many  a  glance  at  the  acute,  hardy,  handsome  face  of  his 
companion,  and  gradually  recognized  a  family  likeness  to 
poor  John,  in  whom,  despite  age  and  infirmity,  the  traces 
of  no  common  share  of  physical  beauty  were  still  evident. 
And,  with  that  quick  link  in  ideas  which  mathematical  ap- 
titude bestows,  the  young  student  at  once  conjectured  that 
he  saw  before  him  his  uncle  Richard.  He  had  the  discre- 
tion, however,  to  leave  that  gentleman  free  to  choose  his 
own  time  for  introducing  himself,  and  silently  revolved  the 
new  thoughts  produced  by  the  novelty  of  his  situation.  Mr. 
Richard  read  with  notable  quickness— sometimes  cutting 
the  leaves  of  the  book  with  his  penknife,  sometimes 
tearing  them  open  with  his  four  fingers,  sometimes 
skipping  whole  pages  altogether.  "Thus  he  galloped  to  the 
end  of  the  volume — flung  it  aside — lighted  his  cigar,  and 
began  to  talk. 

He  put  many  questions  to  Leonard  relative  to  his  rear- 
ing, and  especially  to  the  mode  by  which  he  had  acquired 
his  education  ;  and  Leonard,  confirmed  in  the  idea  that  he 
was  replying  to  a  kinsman,  answered  frankly. 

Richard  did  not  think  it  strange  that  Leonard  should 
have  acquired  so  much  instruction  with  so  little  direct  tui-4 
tion.  Richard  Avenel  himself  had  been  tutor  to  himself. 
He  had  lived  too  long  with  our  go-ahead  brethren,  who 
stride  the  world  on  the  other  side  of  the  Atlantic  with  the 
seven-leagued  boots  of  the  Giant-killer,  not  to  have  caught 


300  MY  NOVEL;    OR, 

their  glorious  fever  for  reading.  But  it  was  for  a  reading 
wholly  different  from  that  which  was  familiar  to  Leonard. 
The  books  he  read  must  be  new  ;  to  read  old  books  would 
have  seemed  to  him  going  back  in  the  world.  He  fancied 
that  new  books  necessarily  contained  new  ideas — a  com- 
mon mistake — and  our  lucky  adventurer  was  the  man  of 
his  day. 

Tired  with  talking,  he  at  length  chucked  the  book  he 
had  run  through  to  Leonard,  and,  taking  out  a  pocket- 
book  and  pencil,  amused  himself  with  calculations  on  some 
detail  of  his  business,  after  which  he  fell  into  an  absorbed 
train  of  thought— part  pecuniary,  part  ambitious. 

Leonard  found  the  book  interesting ;  it  was  one  of  the 
numerous  works,  half  statistic,  half-declamatory,  relating  to 
the  condition  of  the  working-classes,  wi.ich  peculiarly 
distinguish  our  century,  and  ought  to  bind  together  rich 
and  poor,  by  proving  the  grave  attention  which  modern 
society  bestows  upon  all  that  can  affect  the  welfare  of  the 
last. 

"  Dull  stuff — theory — claptrap,"  said  Richard,  rousing 
himself  from  his  reverie  at  last  ;  "  it  can't  interest  you." 

"  All  books  interest  me,  I  think,"  said  Leonard,  "and 
this  especially  ;  for  it  relates  to  the  working-class,  and  I 
am  one  of  them." 

"  You  were  yesterday,  but  you  mayn't  be  to-morrow," 
answered  Richard  good-humoredly,  and  patting  him  on  the 
shoulder.  "You  see,  my  lad,  that  it  is  the  middle-class 
which  ought  to  govern  the  country.  What  the  book  says 
about  the  ignorance  of  country  magistrates  is  very  good  ; 
but  the  man  writes  pretty  considerable  trash  when  he  wants 
to  regulate  the  number  of  hours  a  free-born  boy  should 
work  at  a  factory — only  ten  hours  a  day — pooh  !  and  so  lose 
two  hours  to  the  nation  !  Labor  is  wealth  ;'  and  if  we  could 
get  men  to  work  twenty-four  hours  a  day,  we  should  be  just 
twice  as  rich.  If  the  march  of  civilization  is  to  proceed," 
continued  Richard,  loftily,  "  men,  and  boys  too,  must  not 
lie  a-bed  doing  nothing  all  night,  sir."  Then,  with  a  com- 
placent tone— "We  shall  get  to  the  twenty-four  hours  at  last  ; 
and,  by  gad,  we  must,  or  we  shan't  flog  the  Europeans  as  we 
do  now." 

On  arriving  at  the  inn  at  which  Richard  had  first  made 
acquaintance  with  Mr.  Dale,  the  coach  by  which  he  had 
intended  to  perform  the  rest  of  the  journey  was  found  to  be 
full.  Richard  continued  to  perform  the  journey  in  post- 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  301 

chaises,  not  without  some  grumbling  at  the  expense,  and 
incessant  orders  to  the  post-boys  to  make  the  best  of  their 
way.  "  Slow  country  this,  in  spite  of  all  its  brag,"  said  he — 
"  very  slow.  Time  is  money — they  know  that  in  the  States  ; 
for  why,  they  are  all  men  of  business  there.  Always  slow  in 
a  country  where  a  parcel  of  lazy,  idle  lords,  and  dukes,  and 
baronets,  seem  to  think  'time  is  pleasure.'" 

Toward  evening  the  chaise  approached  the  confines  of 
a  very  large  town,  and  Richard  began  to  grow  fidgety.  His 
easy,  cavalier  air  was  abandoned.  He  withdrew  his  legs 
from  the  window,  out  of  which  they  had  been  luxuriously 
dangling;  pulled  down  his  waistcoat  ;  buckled  more  tightly 
his  stock  ;  it  was  clear  that  he  was  resuming  the  decorous 
dignity  that  belongs  to  state.  He  was  like  a  monarch,  who, 
after  travelling  happy  and  incognito,  returns  to  his  capital. 
Leonard  divined  at  once  that  they  were  nearing  their  jour- 
ney's end. 

Humble  foot-passengers  now  looked  at  the  chaise,  and 
touched  their  hats.  Richard  returned  the  salutation  with  a 
nod — a  nod  less  gracious  than  condescending.  The  chaise 
turned  rapidly  to  the  left,  and  stopped  before  a  small  lodge, 
very  new,  very  white,  adorned  with  two  Doric  columns  in 
stucco,  and  flanked  by  a  large  pair  of  gates.  "  Hollo  ! " 
cried  th'e  post-boy,  and  cracked  his  whip. 

Two  children  were  playing  before  the  lodge,  and  some 
clothes  were  hanging  out  to  dry  on  the  shrubs  and  pales 
round  the  neat  little  building. 

"  Hang  those  brats  !  they  are  actually  playing,"  growled 
Dick.  "As  I  live,  the  jade  has  been  washing  again  !  Stop, 
boy."  During  this  soliloquy,  a  good-looking  young  woman 
had  rushed  from  the  door — slapped  the  children  as,  catching 
sight  of  the  chaise,  they  ran  toward  the  house — opened  the 
gates,  and,  dropping  a  curtsey  to  the  ground,  seemed  to 
wish  that  she  could  drop  into  it  altogether,  so  frightened 
and  so  trembling  seemed  she  to  shrink  from  the  wrathful 
face  which  the  master  now  put  out  of  the  window. 

"  Did  I  tell  you,  or  did  I  not,"  said  Dick,  "  that  I  would 
not  have  those  horrid,  disreputable  cubs  of  yours  playing 
just  before  my  lodge-gates  ?  " 

"  Please,  sir — 

"  Don't  answer  me.  And  did  I  tell  you,  or  did  I  not,  that 
the  next  time  I  saw  you  making  a  drying-ground  of  my 
lilacs,  you  should  go  out,  neck  and  crop " 

"Oh,  please,  sir " 


302  My  NOVEL;    OR, 

"  You  leave  my  lodge  next  Saturday  !  drive  on,  boy. 
The  ingratitude  and  insolence  of  those  common  people  are 
disgraceful  to  human  nature,"  muttered  Richard,  with  an 
accent  of  the  bitterest  misanthropy. 

The  chaise  wheeled  along  the  smoothest  and  freshest  of 
gravel  roads,  and  through  fields  of  the  finest  land,  in  the 
highest  state  of  cultivation.  Rapid  as  was  Leonard's  survey, 
his  rural  eye  detected  the  signs  of  a  master  in  the  art  agro- 
nomial.  Hitherto  he  had  considered  the  Squire's  model 
farm  as  the  nearest  approach  to  good  husbandry  he  had 
seen  ;  for  Jackeymo's  finer  skill  was  developed  rather  on 
the  minute  scale  of  market-gardening  than  what  can  fairly 
be  called  husbandry.  But  the  Squire's  farm  was  degraded 
by  many  old-fashioned  notions,  and  concessions  to  the  whim 
of  the  eye,  which  would  not  be  found  in  model  farms  now- 
a-days  —large  tangled  hedgerows,  which,  though  they  con- 
stitute one  of  the  beauties  most  picturesque  in  old  England, 
make  sad  deductions  from  produce  ;  great  trees,  overshadow- 
ing the  corn,  and  harboring  the  birds  ;  little  patches  of 
rough  sward  left  to  waste  ;  and  angles  of  woodland  running 
into  fields,  exposing  them  to  rabbits,  and  blocking  out  the 
sun, — these  and  such-like  blots  on  a  gentleman-farmer's 
agriculture,  common-sense  and  Giacomo  had  made  clear  to 
the  acute  comprehension  of  Leonard.  No  such  faults  were 
perceptible  in  Richard  Avenel's  domain.  The  fields  lay  in 
broad  divisions,  the  hedges  were  clipped  and  narrowed  into 
their  proper  destination  of  mere  boundaries.  Not  a  blade 
of  wheat  withered  under  the  cold  shade  of  a  tree  ;  not  a 
yard  of  land  lay  waste  ;  not  a  weed  was  to  be  seen,  not  a 
thistle  to  waft  its  baleful  seed  through  the  air  ;  some  young 
plantations  were  placed,  not  where  the  artist  would  put 
them,  but  just  where  the  farmer  wanted  a  fence  from  the 
wind.  Was  there  no  beauty  in  this  ?  Yes,  there  was  beauty 
of  its  kind — beauty  at  once  recognizable  to  the  initiated— 
beauty  of  use  and  profit — beauty  that  could  bear  a  monstrous 
high  rent.  And  Leonard  uttered  a  cry  of  admiration  which 
thrilled  through  the  heart  of  Richard  Avenel. 

"  This  is  farming !  "  said  the  villager. 

"Well,  I  guess  it  is,"  answered  Richard,  all  his  ill-humor 
vanishing.  "  You  should  have  seen  the  land  when  I  bought 
it.  But  we  new  men,  as  they  call  us  (damn  their  impertin- 
ence) are  the  new  blood  of  this  country." 

Richard  Averiel  never  said  anything  more  true.  Long 
may  the  new  blood  circulate  through  the  veins  of  the  mighty 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  303 

giantess ;  but  let  the  grand  heart  be  the  same  as  it  has  beat 
for  proud  ages. 

The  chaise  now  passed  through  a  pretty  shrubbery,  and 
the  house  came  into  gradual  view- -a  house  with  a  portico 
— all  the  offices  carefully  thrust  out  of  sight. 

The  post-boy  dismounted,  and  rang  the  bell. 

"  I  almost  think  they  are  going  to  keep  me  waiting," 
said  Mr.  Richard,  well-nigh  in  the  very  words  of  Louis 
XIV. 

But  that  fear  was  not  realized — the  door  opened  ;  a  well- 
fed  servant  out  of  livery  presented  himself.  There  was  no 
hearty  welcoming  smile  on  his  face,  but  he  opened  the 
chaise-door  with  demure  and  taciturn  respect. 

"  Where's  George  ?  why  does  not  he  come  to  the  door?" 
asked  Richard,  descending  from  the  chaise  slowly,  and  lean- 
ing on  the  servant's  outstretched  arm  with  as  much  precau- 
tion as  if  he  had  had  the  gout. 

Fortunately  George  here  came  into  sight,  settling  him- 
self hastily  into  his  livery-coat. 

"See  to  the  things,  both  of  you,"  said  Richard,  as  he 
paid  the  post-boy. 

Leonard  stood  on  the  gravel  sweep,  gazing  at  the  square 
white  house. 

"Handsome  elevation — classical,  I  take  it — eh?"  said 
Richard,  joining  him.  "  But  you  should  see  the  offices." 

He  then,  with  familar  kindness,  took  Leonard  by  the 
arm,  and  drew  him  within.  He  showed  him  the  hall,  with 
a  carved  mahogany  stand  for  hats  ;  he  showed  him  the  draw- 
ing-room, and  pointed  out  all  its  beauties — though  it  was 
summer,  the  drawing-room  looked  cold,  as  will  look  rooms 
newly  furnished,  with  walls  newly  papered,  in  houses  newly 
built.  The  furniture  was  handsome,  and  suited  to  the  rank 
of  a  rich  trader.  There  was  no  pretence  about  it,  and  there- 
fore no  vulgarity,  which  is  more  than  can  be  said  for  the 
houses  of  many  an  honorable  Mrs.  Somebody  in  Mayfair, 
with  rooms  twelve  feet  square,  chokef  ul  of  buhl,  that  would 
have  had  its  proper  place  in  the  Tuileries.  Then  Richard 
showed  him  the  library,  with  mahogany  book-cases  and  plate- 
glass,  and  the  fashionable  authors  handsomely  bound. 
Your  new  men  are  much  better  friends  to  living  authors 
than  your  old  families  who  live  in  the  country,  and  at  most 
subscribe  to  a  book-club.  Then  Richard  took  him  up-stairs, 
and  led  him  through  the  bed-rooms — all  very  clean  and 
comfortable,  and  with  every  modern  convenience ;  and, 


304  MY  NOVEL;    OR, 

pausing  in  a  very  pretty  single-gentleman's  chamber,  said, 
"This  is  your  den.  And  now,  can  you  guess  who  I  am  ?" 

"No  one  but  my  uncle  Richard  could  be  so  kind,"  an- 
swered Leonard. 

But  the  compliment  did  not  flatter  Richard.  He  was 
extremely  disconcerted  and  disappointed.  He  had  hoped 
that  he  should  be  taken  for  a  lord  at  least,  forgetful  of  all 
that  he  had  said  in  disparagement  of  lords. 

''Pish!"  said  he  at  last,  biting  his  lip — "so  you  don't 
think  that  I  look  like  a  gentleman  ?  Come,  now,  speak 
honestly." 

Leonard,  wonderingly,  saw  he  had  given  pain,  and,  with 
the  good-breeding  which  comes  instinctively  from  good- 
nature, replied — "  I  judge  you  by  your  heart,  sir,  and  your 
likeness  to  my  grandfather— otherwise  I  should  never  have 
presumed  to  fancy  we  could  be  relations." 

"  Hum  !  "  answered  Richard.  "  You  can  just  wash  your 
hands,  and  then  come  down  to  dinner  ;  you  will  hear  the 
gong  in  ten  minutes.  There's  the  bell — ring  for  what  you 
want/' 

With  that  he  turned  on  his  heel  ;  and,  descending  the 
stairs,  gave  a  look  into  the  dining-room,  and  admired  the 
plated  silver  on  the  sideboard,  and  the  king's-pattern  spoons 
and  forks  on  the  table.  Then  he  walked  to  the  looking- 
glass  over  the  mantle-piece  ;  and,  wishing  to  survey  the 
whole  effect  of  his  form,  mounted  a  chair.  He  was  just  get- 
ting into  an  attitude  which  he  thought. imposing,  when  the 
butler  entered,  and,  being  London-bred,  had  the  discretion 
to  try  to  escape  unseen  ;  but  Richard  caught  sight  of  him 
in  the  looking-glass,  and  colored  up  to  the  temples. 

"Jarvis,"  said  he,  mildly — "Jarvis,  put  me  in  mind  to 
have  these  inexpressibles  altered." 

inom-  «i  f(-».iriy/  ,7li'i.r:^Iuy  on  rno't 


CHAPTER    III. 

APROPOS  of  the  inexpressibles,  Mr.  Richard  did  not  for- 
get to  provide  his  nephew  with  a  much  larger  wardrobe  than 
could  have  been  thrust  into  Dr.  Riccabocca's  knapsack. 
There  was  a  very  good  tailor  in  the  town,  and  the  clothes 
were  very  well  made.  And,  but  for  an  air  more  ingenuous, 
and  a  cheek  that,  despite  study  and  night  vigils,  retained 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  305 

much  of  the  sunburnt  bloom  of  the  rustic,  Leonard  Fairfield 
might  now  have  almost  passed,  without  disparaging  com- 
ment, by  the  bow-window  at  White's.  Richard  burst  into 
an  immoderate  fit  of  laughter  when  he  first  saw  the  watch 
which  the  poor  Italian  had  bestowed  upon  Leonard  ;  but  to 
atone  for  the  laughter,  he  made  him  a  present  of  a  very 
pretty  substitute,  and  bade  him  "lock  up  his  turnip." 
Leonard  was  more  hurt  by  the  jeer  at  his  old  patron's  gift 
than  pleased  by  his  uncle's.  But  Richard  Avenel  had  no 
conception  of  sentiment.  It  was  not  for  many  days  that 
Leonard  could  reconcile  himself  to  his  uncle's  manner.  Not 
that  the  peasant  could  pretend  to  judge  of  its  mere  conven- 
tional defects  ;  but  there  is  an  ill-breeding  to  which,  what- 
ever our  rank  and  nurture,  we  are  almost  equally  sensitive 
— the  ill-breeding  that  comes  from  want  of  consideration  for 
others.  Now,  the  Squire  was  as  homely  in  his  way  as  Rich- 
ard Avenel,  but  the  Squire's  bluntness  rarely  hurt  the  feel- 
ings ;  and  when  it  did  so,  the  Squire  perceived  and  hastened 
to  repair  his  blunder.  But  Mr.  Richard,  whether  kind  or 
cross,  was  always  wounding  you  in  some  little  delicate  fibre 
— not  from  malice,  but  from  the  absence  of  any  little  delicate 
fibres  of  his  own.  He  was  really,  in  many  respects,  a  most 
excellent  man,  and  certainly  a  very  valuable  citizen.  But 
his  merits  wanted  the  fine  tints  and  fluent  curves  that  con- 
stitute beauty  of  character.  He  was  honest,  but  sharp  in  his 
practice,  and  with  a  keen  eye  to  his  interests.  He  was  just, 
but  as  a  matter  of  business.  He  made  no  allowances,  and 
did  not  leave  to  his  justice  the  large  margin  of  tenderness 
and  mercy.  He  was  generous,  but  rather  from  an  idea  of 
what  was  due  to  himself  than  with  much  thought  of  the 
pleasure  he  gave  to  others  ;  and  he  even  regarded  generosity 
as  a  capital  put  out  to  interest.  He  expected  a  great  deal 
of  gratitude  in  return,  and,  when  he  obliged  a  man,  consid- 
ered that  he  had  bought  a  slave.  Every  needy  voter  knew 
where  to  come,  if  he  wanted  relief  or  a  loan  ;  but  woe  to  him 
if  he  had  ventured  to  express  hesitation  when  Mr.  Avenel 
told  him  how  he  must  vote. 

In  this  town  Richard  had  settled  after  his  return  from 
America,  in  which  country  he  had  enriched  himself — first, 
by  spirit  and  industry — lastly,  by  bold  speculation  and  good 
luck.  He  invested  his  fortune  in  business — became  a  part- 
ner in  a  large  brewery — soon  bought  out  his  associates — 
and  then  took  a  principal  share  in  a  flourishing  corn-mill. 
He  prospered  rapidly — bought  a  property  of  some  two  or 


306  MY  NOVEL;    OR, 

three  hundred  acres,  built  a  house,  and  resolved  to  enjoy 
himself,  and  make  a  figure.  He  had  now  become  the  lead- 
ing man  of  the  town,  and  the  boast  to  Audley  Egerton  that 
he  could  return  one  of  the  members,  perhaps  both,  was  by 
no  means  an  exaggerated  estimate  of  his  power.  Nor  was 
his  proposition,  according  to  his  own  views,  so  unprincipled 
as  it  appeared  to  the  statesman.  He  had  taken  a  great  dis- 
like to  both  the  sitting  members — a  dislike  natural  to  a 
sensible  man  of  moderate  politics,  who  had  something  to 
lose.  For  Mr.  Slappe,  the  active  member — wrho  was  head- 
over-ears  in  debt — was  one  of  the  furious  democrats  rare 
before  the  Reform  Bill — and  whose  opinions  were  held 
dangerous  even  by  the  mass  of  a  Liberal  constituency ; 
while  Mr.  Sleekie,  the  gentleman  member,  who  laid  by 
^"5000  every  year  from  his  dividends  in  the  Funds,  was 
one  of  those  men  whom  Richard  justly  pronounced  to  be 
"  humbugs  " — men  who  curry  favor  with  the  extreme  party 
by  voting  for  measures  sure  not  to  be  carried  ;  while,  if 
there  was  the  least  probability  of  coming  to  a  decision  that 
would  lower  the  money-market,  Mr.  Sleekie  was  seized  with 
a  well-timed  influenza.  Those  politicians  are  common 
enough  now.  Propose  to  march  to  the  Millenium,  and  they 
are  your  men.  Ask  them  to  march  a  quarter  of  a  mile,  and 
they  fall  to  feeling  their  pockets,  and  trembling  for  fear  of 
the  footpads.  They  are  never  so  joyful  as  when  there  is  no 
chance  of  a  victory  Did  they  beat  the  minister,  they  would 
be  carried  out  of  the  House  in  a  fit. 

Richard  Avenel — despising  both  these  gentlemen,  and 
not  taking  kindly  to  the  Whigs  since  the  great  Whig  leaders 
were  lords — had  looked  with  a  friendly  eye  to  the  Govern- 
ment as  it  then  existed,  and  especially  to  Audley  Egerton, 
the  enlightened  representative  of  commerce.  But  in  giving 
Audley  and  his  colleagues  the  benefit  of  his  influence, 
through  conscience,  he  thought  it  all  fair  and  right  to  have 
a  quid  pro  quo,  and,  as  he  had  so  frankly  confessed,  it  was  his 
whim  to  rise  up  "  Sir  Richard."  For  this  worthy  citizen 
abused  the  aristocracy  much  on  the  same  principle  as  the 
fair  Olivia  depreciated  Squire  Thornhill — he  had  a  sneaking 
affection  for  what  he  abused.  The  society  of  Screwstown 
was,  like  most  provincial  capitals,  composed  of  two  classes 
— the  commercial  and  the  exclusive.  These  last  dwelt  chiefly 
apart,  around  the  ruins  of  an  old  abbey  ;  they  affected  its 
antiquity  in  their  pedigrees,  and  had  much  of  its  ruin  in 
their  finances.  Widows  of  rural  thanes  in  the  neighborhood 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  307 

— genteel  spinsters — officers  retired  on  half-pay — younger 
sons  of  rich  squires,  who  had  now  become  old  bachelors — 
in  short,  a  very  respectable,  proud,  aristocratic  set — who 
thought  more  of  themselves  than  do  all  the  Gowers  and 
Howards,  Courtenays  and  Seymours  put  together.  It  had 
early  been  the  ambition  of  Richard  Avenel  to  be  admitted 
into  this  sublime  coterie  ;  and,  strange  to  say,  he  had 
partially  succeeded.  He  was  never  more  happy  than  when 
he  was  asked  to  their  card-parties,  and  never  more  unhappy 
than  when  he  was  actually  there.  Various  circumstances 
combined  to  raise  Mr.  Avenel  into  this  elevated  society. 
First,  he  was  unmarried,  still  very  handsome,  and  in  that 
society  there  was  a  large  proportion  of  unwedded  females. 
Secondly,  he  was  the  only  rich  trader  in  Screwstown  who 
kept  a  good  cook,  and  professed  to  give  dinners,  and  the 
half-pay  captains  and  colonels  swallowed  the  host  for  the 
sake  of  the  venison.  Thirdly,  and  principally,  all  these 
exclusives  abhorred  the  two  sitting  members,  and  "idem 
nelle  idem  velle  de  republicd,  ea  firma  amicitia  est  /"  that  is, 
congeniality  in  politics  pieces  porcelain  and  crockery 
together  better  than  the  best  diamond  cement.  The  sturdy 
Richard  Avenel — who  valued  himself  on  American  inde- 
pendence— held  these  ladies  and  gentlemen  in  an  awe  that 
was  truly  Brahminical.  Whether  it  was  that,  in  England, 
all  notions,  even  of  liberty,  are  mixed  up  historically,  tradi- 
tionally, socially,  with  that  fine  and  subtle  element  of  aristoc- 
racy which,  like  the  press, is  the  air  we  breathe  ;  or  whether 
Richard  imagined  that  he  really  became  magnetically  im- 
bued with  the  virtues  of  these  silver  pennies  and  gold  seven- 
shilling  pieces,  distinct  from  the  vulgar  coinage  in  popular 
use,  it  is  hard  to  say.  But  the  truth  must  be  told — Richard 
Avenel  was  a  notable  tuft-hunter.  He  had  a  great  longing 
to  marry  out  of  this  society,  but  he  had  not  yet  seen  any 
one  sufficiently  high-born  and  high-bred  to  satisfy  his  aspira- 
tions. In  the  meanwhile,  he  had  convinced  himself  that  his 
way  would  be  smooth  could  he  offer  to  make  his  ultimate 
choice  "My  Lady  ;"  and  he  felt  that  it  would  be  a  proud 
hour  in  his  life  when  he  could  walk  before  stiff  Colonel 
Pompley  to  the  sound  of  "  Sir  Richard."  Still,  however 
disappointed  at  the  ill  success  of  his  bluff  diplomacy  with 
Mr.  Egerton,  and  however  yet  cherishing  the  most  vindictive 
resentment  against  that  individual — he  did  not,  as  many 
would  have  done,  throw  up  his  political  convictions  out  of 
personal  spite.  He  reserved  his  private  grudge  for  some 


308  MY  NOVEL;    OR, 

special  occasion,  and  continued  still  to  support  the  Adminis- 
tration, and  to  hate  one  of  the  Ministers. 

But,  duly  to  appreciate  the  value  of  Richard  Avenel, 
and  in  just  counterpoise  to  all  his  foibles,  one  ought  to 
have  seen  what  he  had  effected  for  the  town.  Well  might 
he  boast  of  "  new  blood  ;  "  he  had  done  as  much  for  the 
town  as  he  had  for  his  fields.  His  energy,  his  quick  com- 
prehension of  public  utility,  backed  by  his  wealth,  and  bold, 
bullying,  imperious  character,  had  sped  the  work  of  civiliza- 
tion as  if  with  the  celerity  and  force  of  a  steam-engine. 

If  the  town  were  so  well  paved  and  so  well  lighted — if 
half  a  dozen  squalid  lanes  had  been  transformed  into  a 
stately  street — if  half  the  town  no  longer  depended  on  tanks 
for  their  water — if  the  poor-rates  were  reduced  one-third, 
praise  to  the  brisk  new  blood  which  Richard  Avenel  had 
infused  into  vestry  and  corporation.  And  his  example 
itself  was  so  contagious  !  "  There  was  not  a  plate-glass 
window  in  the  town  when  I  came  into  it,"  said  Richard 
Avenel ;  "  and  now  look  down  the  High  Street  ! "  He 
took  the  credit  to  himself,  and  justly  ;  for,  though  his  own 
business  did  not  require  windows  of  plate-glass,  he  had 
awakened  the  spirit  of  enterprise  which  adorns  a  whole 
city. 

Mr.  Avenel  did  not  present  Leonard  to  his  friends  for 
more  than  a  fortnight.  He  allowed  him  to  wear  off  his  rust. 
He  then  gave  a  grand  dinner,  at  which  his  nephew  was 
formally  introduced,  and,  to  his  great  wrath  and  disappoint- 
ment, never  opened  his  lips.  How  could  he,  poor  youth, 
when  Miss  Clarina  Mowbray  only  talked  upon  high  life  ; 
till  proud  Colonel  Pompley  went  in  state  through  the 
history  of  the  Siege  of  Seringapatam  ? 


CHAPTER  IV. 

WHILE  Leonard  accustoms  himself  gradually  to  the 
splendors  that  surround  him,  and  often  turns  with  a  sigh  to 
the  remembrance  of  his  mother's  cottage  and  the  sparkling 
fount  in  the  Italian's  flowery  garden,  we  will  make  with  thee, 
O  reader,  a  rapid  flight  to  the  metropolis,  and  drop  ourselves 
amidst  the  gay  groups  that  loiter  along  the  dusty  ground,  or 
loll  over  the  roadside  palings  of  Hyde  Park.  The  season  is 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH   LIFE.  309 

still  at  its  height  ;  but  the  short  day  of  fashionable  London 
life,  which  commences  two  hours  after  noon,  is  in  its  decline. 
The  crowd  in  Rotten  Row  begins  to  thin.  Near  the  statue 
of  Achilles,  and  apart  from  all  other  loungers,  a  gentleman, 
with  one  hand  thrust  into  his  waistcoat,  and  the  other  rest- 
ing on  his  cane,  gazed  listlessly  on  the  horsemen  and  car- 
riages in  the  brilliant  ring.  He  was  still  in  the  prime  of 
life,  at  the  age  when  man  is  usually  the  most  social— when 
the  acquaintances  of  youth  have  ripened  into  friendships, 
and  a  personage  of  some  rank  and  fortune  has  become  a 
well-known  feature  in  the  mobile  face  of  society.  But 
though,  when  his  contemporaries  were  boys  scarce  at 
college,  this  gentleman  had  blazed  foremost  amongst  the 
princes  of  fashion,  and  though  he  had  all  the  qualities  of 
nature  and  circumstance  which  either  retain  fashion  to  the 
last,  or  exchange  its  false  celebrity  for  a  graver  repute,  he 
stood  as  a  stranger  in  that  throng  of  his  countrymen. 
Beauties  whirled  by  to  the  toilet — statesmen  passed  on  to 
the  senate — dandies  took  flight  to  the  clubs  ;  and  neither 
nods,  nor  becks,  nor  wreathed  smiles  said  to  the  solitary 
spectator,  "  Follow  us — thou  art  one  of  our  set."  Now  and 
then,  some  middle-aged  beau,  nearing  the  post  of  the  loi- 
terer, turned  round  to  look  again  ;  but  the  second  glance 
seemed  to  dissipate  the  recognition  of  the  first,  and  the 
beau  silently  continued  his  way. 

"  By  the  tombs  of  my  fathers  !  "  said  the  solitary  to  him- 
self, "  I  know  now  what  a  dead  man  might  feel  if  he  came 
to  life  again,  and  took  a  peep  at  the  living." 

Time  passed  on — the  evening  shades  descended  fast. 
Our  stranger  in  London  had  well-nigh  the  Park'  to  himself. 
He  seemed  to  breathe  more  freely  as  he  saw  that  the  space 
was  so  clear. 

"There's  oxygen  in  the  atmosphere  now,"  said  he,  half 
aloud  ;  "  and  I  can  walk  without  breathing  in  the  gaseous 
fumes  of  the  multitude.  O  those  chemists — what  dolts  they 
are  !  They  tell  us  that  crowds  taint  the  air,  but  they  never 
guess  why  !  Pah,  it  is  not  the  lungs  that  poison  the  ele- 
ment— it  is  the  reek  of  bad  hearts.  When  a  periwig- 
pated  fellow  breathes  on  me,  I  swallow  a  mouthful  of  care. 
Allon* !  my  friend  Nero;  now  for  a  stroll."  He  touched 
with  his  cane  a  large  Newfoundland  dog,  who  lay 
stretched  near  his  feet ;  and  dog  and  man  went  slow 
through  the  growing  twilight,  and  over  the  brown  dry  turf. 
At  length  our  solitary  paused,  and  threw  himself  on  a 


310  MY  NOVEL;    OR, 

bench  under  a  tree.  "Half-past  eight  !"  said  he,  looking  at 
his  watch — "one  may  smoke  one's  cigar  without  shocking 
the  world." 

He  took  out  his  cigar-case,  struck  a  light,  and  in  another 
moment,  reclined  at  length  on  the  bench — seemed  absorbed 
in  regarding  the  smoke,  that  scarce  colored,  ere  it  vanished 
into  the  air. 

"  It  is  the  most  barefaced  lie  in  the  world,  my  Nero," 
said  he,  addressing  his  dog,  "  this  boasted  liberty  of  man  ! 
Now,  here  am  I,  a  free-born  Englishman,  a  citizen  of  the 
world,  caring — I  often  say  to  myself — caring  not  a  jot  for 
Kaisar  or  Mob  ;  and  yet  I  no  more  dare  smoke  this  cigar  in 
the  Park  at  half-past  six,  when  all  the  world  is  abroad,  than 
I  dare  pick  my  Lord  Chancellor's  pocket,  or  hit  the  Arch- 
bishop of  Canterbury  a  thump  on  the  nose,  yet  no  law  in 
England  forbids  me  my  cigar,  Nero  !  What  is  law  at  half- 
past  eight  was  not  crime  at  six  and  a  half  !  Britannia  says, 
'  Man,  thou  art  free,'  and  she  lies  like  a  commonplace 
woman,  O  Nero,  Nero  !  you  enviable  dog  ! — you  serve  but 
from  liking.  No  thought  of  the  world  costs  you  one  wag  of 
the  tail.  Your  big  heart  and  true  instinct  suffice  you  for 
reason  and  law.  You  would  want  nothing  to  your  felicity, 
if  in  these  moments  of  ennui  you  would  but  smoke  a  cigar. 
Try  it,  Nero! — try  it!"  And,  rising  from  his  incumbent 
posture,  he  sought  to  force  the  end  of  the  weed  between 
the  teeth  of  the  dog. 

While  thus  gravely  engaged,  two  figures  had  approached 
the  place.  The  one  was  a  man  who  seemed  weak  and 
sickly  :  his  threadbare  coat  was  buttoned  to  the  chin,  but 
hung  large  on  his  shrunken  breast.  The  other  was  a  girl, 
who  might  be  from  twelve  to  fourteen,  on  whose  arm  he 
leant  heavily  :  her  cheek  was  wan,  and  there  was  a  patient 
sad  look  on  her  face,  which  seemed  so  settled  that  you 
would  think  she  could  never  have  known  the  mirthfulness 
of  childhood. 

"Pray  rest  here,  papa,"  said  the  child  softly  ;  and  she 
pointed  to  the  bench,  without  taking  heed  of  its  prc-occu- 
pant,  who  now,  indeed,  confined  to  one  corner  of  the  seat, 
was  almost  hidden  by  the  shadow  of  the  tree. 

The  man  sate  down,  with  a  feeble  sigh  ;  and  then,  ob- 
serving the  stranger,  raised  his  hat,  and  said,  in  that  tone  of 
voice  which  betrays  the  usages  of  polished  society,  "  Forgive 
me,  if  I  intrude  on  you,  sir." 

The  stranger  looked  up  from   his  dog,  and  seeing  that 


VARIETIES   IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  311 

the  girl  was  standing,  rose  at  once,  as  if  to  make  room  for 
her  on  the  bench. 

But  still  the  girl  did  not  heed  him.  She  hung  over  her 
father,  and  wiped  his  brow  tenderly  with  a  little  kerchief 
which  she  took  from  her  own  neck  for  the  purpose. 

Nero,  delighted  to  escape  the  cigar,  had  taken  to  some 
unwieldy  curvets  and  gambols,  to  vent  the  excitement  into 
which  he  had  been  thrown  ;  and  now  returning,  approached 
the  bench  with  a  low  growl  of  surprise,  and  sniffed  at  the 
intruders  on  his  master's  privacy. 

"  Come  here,  sir,"  said  the  master.  "You  need  not  fear 
him,"  he  added,  addressing  himself  to  the  girl. 

But  the  girl,  without  turning  round  to  him,  cried  in 
a  voice  rather  of  anguish  than  alarm,  "  He  has  fainted  ! 
Father  !  father  !  " 

The  stranger  kicked  aside  his  dog,  which  was  in  the  way, 
and  loosened  the  poor  man's  stiff  military  stock.  While  thus 
charitably  engaged,  the  moon  broke  out,  and  the  light  fell 
full  on  the  pale  careworn  face  of  the  unconscious  sufferer. 

"This  face  seems  not  unfamiliar  to  me,  though  sadly 
changed,"  said  the  stranger  to  himself  ;  and  bending  to- 
ward the  girl,  who  had  sunk  on  her  knees,  and  was  chaf- 
ing her  father's  hands,  he  asked,  "  My  child,  what  is  your 
father's  name  ?  " 

The  child  continued  her  task,  too  absorbed  to  answer. 

The  stranger  put  his  hand  on  her  shoulder,  and  repeated 
the  question. 

"  Digby,"  answered  the  child,  almost  unconsciously  ; 
and  as  she  spoke,  the  man's  senses  began  to  return.  In  a 
few  minutes  more  he  had  sufficiently  recovered  to  falter 
forth  his  thanks  to  the  stranger.  But  the  last  took  his 
hand,  and  said,  in  a  voice  at  once  tremulous  and  soothing, 
"  Is  it  possible  that  I  see  once  more  an  old  brother  in 
arms?  Algernon  Digby,  I  do  not  forget  you;  but  it 
seems  England  has  forgotten." 

A  hectic  flush  spread  over  the  soldier's  face,  and  he 
looked  away  from  the  speaker  as  he  answered — 

"  My  name  is  Digby,  it  is  true,  sir ;  but  I  do  not  think 
we  have  met  before.  Come,  Helen,  I  am  well  now — we  will 
go  home." 

"Try  and  play  with  that  great  dog,  my  child,"  said  the 
stranger, — "  I  want  to  talk  with  your  father." 

The  child  bowed  her  submissive  head,  and  moved  away; 
but  she  did  not  play  with  the  dog. 


312  MY  NOrKL;    OR, 

"I  must  reintroduce  myself  formally,  I  see,"  quoth  the 
stranger.  "You  were  in  the  same  regiment  with  myself, 
and  my  name  is  L'Estrange." 

"  My  lord,"  said  the  soldier,  rising,  "  forgive  me 
that— 

"  I  don't  think  that  it  was  the  fashion  to  call  me  '  my 
lord  '  at  the  mess-table.  Come,  what  has  happened  to  you  ? 
— on  half-pay  ? " 

Mr.  Digby  shook  his  head  mournfully. 

"  Digby,  old  fellow,  can  you  lend  me  ^"100?"  said 
Lord  L'Estrange,  clapping  his  ci-devant  brother  officer  on 
the  shoulder,  and  in  a  tone  of  voice  that  seemed  like  a  boy's 
— so  impudent  was  it,  and  devil-me-carish.  "  No  !  Well, 
that's  lucky,  for  I  can  lend  it  to  you." 

Mr.  Digby  burst  into  tears. 

Lord  L'Estrange  did  not  seem  to  observe  the  emotion, 
but  went  on  carelessly — 

"Perhaps  you  don't  know  that,  besides  being  heir  to  a 
father  who  is  not  only  very  rich  but  very  liberal,  I  inherited, 
on  coming  of  age,  from  a  maternal  relation,  a  fortune  so 
large  that  it  would  bore  me  to  death  if  I  were  obliged  to 
live  up  to  it.  But  in  the  days  of  our  old  acquaintance,  I 
fear  we  were  both  sad  extravagant  fellows,  and  I  dare  say  I 
borrowed  of  you  pretty  freely." 

"  Me  !,    Oh,  Lord  L'Estrange  !  " 

''You  have  married  since  then,  and  reformed,  I  suppose. 
Tell  me,  old  friend,  all  about  it." 

Mr.  Digby,  who  by  this  time  had  succeeded  in  restoring 
some  calm  to  his  shattered  nerves,  now  rose,  and  said  in 
brief  sentences,  but  clear  firm  tones, — 

"  My  lord,  it  is  idle  to  talk  of  me — useless  to  help  me. 
I  am  fast  dying.  But,  my  child  there,  my  only  child,"  he 
paused  for  an  instant,  and  went  on  rapidly — "  1  have  re- 
lations in  a  distant  county,  if  I  could  but  get  to  them — I 
think  they  would,  at  least,  provide  for  her.  This  has  been 
for  weeks  my  hope,  my  dream,  my  prayer.  I  cannot  afford 
the  journey  except  by  your  help.  I  have  begged  without 
shame  for  myself ;  shall  I  be  ashamed,  then,  to  beg  for 
her?" 

"Digby,"  said  L'Estrange,  with  some  grave  alteration 
of  manner,  "  talk  neither  of  dying  nor  begging.  You  were 
nearer  death  when  the  balls  whistled  round  you  at 
Waterloo.  If  soldier  meets  soldier  and  says,  '  Friend, 
thy  purse/  it  is  not  begging,  but  brotherhood.  Ashamed  ! 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  313 

By  the  soul  of  Belisarius  !  if  I  needed  money,  I  would 
stand  at  a  crossing  with  my  Waterloo  medal  over  my 
breast,  and  say  to  each  sleek  citizen  I  had  helped  to  save 
from  the  sword  of  the  Frenchman,  '  It  is  your  shame  if  I 
starve.'  Nowr  lean  upon  me  ;  I  see  you  should  be  at 
home — which  way  ?  " 

The  poor  soldier  pointed  his  hand  toward  Oxford 
Street,  and  reluctantly  accepted  the  proffered  arm. 

"And  when  you  return  from  your  relations,  you  will 
call  on  me.  What ! — hesitate  ?  Come,  promise." 

"  I  will." 

"  On  your  honor." 

"  If  I  live,  on  my  honor." 

"  I  am  staying  at  present  at  Knightsbridge,  with  my 
father  ;  but  you  will  always  hear  of  my  address  at  No.  — 
Grosvenor  Square,  Mr.  Egerton's.  So  you  have  a  long 
journey  before  you  ?" 

"  Very  long." 

"  Do  not  fatigue  yourself — travel  slowly.  Ho,  you  fool- 
ish child ! — I  see  you  are  jealous  of  me.  Your  father  has 
another  arm  to  spare  you." 

Thus  talking,  and  getting  but  short  answers,  Lord 
L'Estrange  continued  to  exhibit  those  whimsical  peculi- 
arities of  character,  which  had  obtained  for  him  the  repute 
of  heartlessness  in  the  world.  Perhaps  the  reader  may  think 
the  world  was  not  in  the  right.  But  if  ever  the  world  does 
judge  rightly  of  the  character  of  a  man  who  does  not  live 
for  the  world,  nor  talk  for  the  world,  nor  feel  with  the 
world,  it  will  be  centuries  after  the  soul  of  Harley 
L'Estrange  has  done  with  this  planet. 


CHAPTER  V. 

LORD  L'ESTRANGE  parted  company  with  Mr.  Digby  at 
the  entrance  of  Oxford  Street.  The  father  and  child  there 
took  a  cabriolet.  Mr.  Digby  directed  the  driver  to  go 
down  the  Edgeware  Road.  He  refused  to  tell  L'Estrange 
his  address,  and  this  with  such  evident  pain,  from  the  sores 
of  pride,  that  L'Estrange  could  not  press  the  point.  Re- 
minding the  soldier  of  his  promise  to  call,  Harley  thrust  a 

H 


3i4  MY  NOVEL;    OR, 

pocket-book  into  his  hand,  and  walked  off  hastily  toward 
Grosvenor  Square. 

He  reached  Audley  Egerton's  door  just  as  that  gentle- 
man was  getting  out  of  his  carriage  ;  and  the  two  friends 
entered  the  house  together. 

"  Does  the  nation  take  a  nap  to-night  ? "  asked  L'Estrange. 
"  Poor  old  lady  !  She  hears  so  much  of  her  affairs,  that 
she  may  well  boast  of  her  constitution  :  it  must  be  of  iron." 

"  The  House  is  still  sitting,"  answered  Audley,  seriously, 
and  with  small  heed  of  his  friend's  witticism.  "  But  it 
is  not  a  Government  motion,  and  the  division  will  be  late, 
so  I  came  home  ;  and  if  I  had  not  found  you  here,  I  should 
have  gone  into  the  Park  to  look  for  you." 

"  Yes — one  always  knows  where  to  find  me  at  this  hour, 
9  o'clock,  P.M. — cigar — Hyde  Park.  There  is  not  a  man  in 
England  so  regular  in  his  habits." 

Here  the  friends  reached  a  drawing-room  in  which  the 
Member  of  Parliament  seldom  sat,  for  his  private  apart- 
ments were  all  on  the  ground-floor. 

"  But  it  is  the  strangest  whim  of  yours,  Harley,"  said 
he. 

"What?" 

"  To  affect  detestation  of  ground-floors." 

"  Affect  !  O  sophisticated  man,  of  the  earth,  earthy  ! 
Affect  ! — nothing  less  natural  to  the  human  soul  than  a 
ground-floor.  We  are  quite  far  enough  from  heaven, 
mount  as  many  stairs  as  we  will,  without  grovelling  by 
preference." 

"According  to  that  symbolical  view  of  the  case,"  said 
Audley,  "  you  should  lodge  in  an  attic." 

"So  I  would,  but  that  I  abhor  new  slippers.  As  for 
hair-brushes,  I  am  different." 

"  What  have  slippers  and  hair-brushes  to  do  with 
attics  ?  " 

"  Try  !  Make  your  bed  in  an  attic,  and  the  next  morn> 
ing  you  will  have  neither  slippers  nor  hair-brushes  ! " 

'•'  What  shall  I  have  done  with  them  ? " 

"  Shied  them  at  the  cats  ! " 

"  What  odd  things  you  say,  Harley  !  " 

"Odd!  By  Apollo  and  his  nine  spinsters  !  there  is  no 
human  being  who  has  so  little  imagination  as  a  distin- 
guished member  of  Parliament.  Answer  me  this,  thou 
solemn  Right  Honorable, — Hast  thou  climbed  to  the 
heights  of  august  contemplation  ?  Hast  thou  gazed  on 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  315 

the  stars  with  the  rapt  eye  of  song  ?  Hast  thou  dreamed 
of  a  love  known  to  the  angels,  or  sought  to  seize  in  the 
Infinite  the  mystery  of  life  ?" 

"  Not  I,  indeed,  my  poor  Harley." 

"  Then  no  wonder,  poor  Audley,  that  you  cannot  con- 
jecture why  he  who  makes  his  bed  in  an  attic,  disturbed  by 
base  catterwauls,  shies  his  slippers  at  cats.  Bring  a  chair 
into  the  balcony.  Nero  spoiled  my  cigar  to-night.  I  am 
going  to  smoke  now.  You  never  smoke.  You  can  look 
on  the  shrubs  in  the  squai'e." 

Audley  slightly  shrugged  his  shoulders,  but  he  followed 
his  friend's  counsel  and  example,  and  brought  his  chair 
into  the  balcony.  Nero  came  too,  but  at  sight  and  smell 
of  the  cigar  prudently  retreated,  and  took  refuge  under  the 
table. 

"  Audley  Egerton,  I  want  something  from  Government." 

"  I  am  delighted  to  hear  it." 

"There  was  a  cornet  in  my  regiment,  Avho  would  have 
done  better  not  to  have  come  into  it.  We  were,  for  the 
most  part  of  us,  puppies  and  fops." 

"  You  all  fought  well,  however." 

"  Puppies  and  fops  do  fight  well.  Vanity  and  valor  gen- 
erally go  together.  Csesar,  who  scratched  his  head  with 
due  care  of  his  scanty  curls,  and,  even,  in  dying,  thought  of 
the  folds  in  his  toga  ;  Walter  Raleigh,  who  could  not  walk 
twenty  yards,  because  of  the  gems  in  his  shoes  ;  Alcibiades, 
who  lounged  into  the  Agora  with  doves  in  his  bosom,  and  an 
apple  in  his  hand  ;  Murat,  bedizened  in  gold  lace  and  furs  ; 
and  Demetrius,  the  City-Taker,  who  made  himself  up  like  a 
French  Marquise — were  all  pretty  good  fellows  at  fighting. 
A  slovenly  hero  like  Cromwell  is  a  paradox  in  nature,  and  a 
marvel  in  history.  But  to  return  to  my  cornet.  We  were 
rich  ;  he  was  poor.  When  the  pot  of  clay  swims  down  the 
stream  with  the  brass  pots,  it  is  sure  of  a  smash.  Men  said 
Digby  was  stingy  ;  I  saw  he  was  extravagant.  But  every 
one,  I  fear,  would  be  rather  thought  stingy  than  poor. 
Bref. — I  left  the  army,  and  saw  him  no  more  till  to-night. 
There  was  never  shabby  poor  gentleman  on  the  stage  more 
awfully  shabby,  more  pathetically  gentleman.  But,  look  ye, 
this  man  has  fought  for  England.  It  was  no  child's  play  at 
Waterloo,  let  me  tell  you,  Mr.  Egerton  ;  and,  but  for  such 
men,  you  would  be  at  best  a  sous-prefet>  and  your  Parliament 
a  Provincial  Assembly.  You  must  do  something  for  Digby. 
What  shall  it  be  ? " 


316  MV  NOVEL;    OK, 

"  Why,  really,  my  dear  Harley,  this  man  was  no  great 
friend  of  yours — eh  ?  " 

"If  he  were,  he  would  not  want  the  Goverment  to  help 
him— he  would  not  be  ashamed  of  taking  money  from 
me." 

"That  is  all  very  fine,  Harley  ;  but  there  are  so  many 
poor  officers,  and  so  little  to  give.  It  is  the  most  difficult 
thing  in  the  world  that  which  you  ask  me.  Indeed,  I 
know  nothing  can  be  done  :  he  has  his  half-pay  ? " 

"  I  think  not ;  or,  if  he  has  it,  no  doubt  it  all  goes  on  his 
debts.  That's  nothing  to  us  :  the  man  and  his  child  are 
starving." 

"  But  if  it  is  his  own  fault, — if  he  has  been  impru- 
dent ? " 

"Ah — well,  well.     Where  the  devil  is  Nero  ?" 

"I  am  so  sorry  I  can't  oblige  you.  If  it  were  anything 
else—" 

"  There  is  something  else.  My  valet — I  can't  turn  him 
adrift — excellent  fellow,  but  gets  drunk  now  and  then. 
Will  you  find  him  a  place  in  the  Stamp-office  ?" 

"With  pleasure." 

"  No,  now  I  think  of  it — the  man  knows  my  ways  :  I 
must  keep  him.  But  my  old  wine-merchant — civil  man, 
never  dunned — is  a  bankrupt.  I  am  under  obligations  to 
him,  and  he  has  a  very  pretty  daughter.  Do  you  think 
you  could  thrust  him  into  some  small  place  in  the  colonies, 
or  make  him  a  King's  Messenger,  or  something  of  the 
sort  ?" 

"  If  you  very  much  wish  it,  no  doubt  I  can." 

"My  dear  Audley,  I  am  but  feeling  my  way  :  the  fact  is, 
I  want  something  for  myself." 

"  Ah,  that  indeed  gives  me  pleasure  ! "  cried  Egerton, 
with  animation. 

"  The  mission  to  Florence  will  soon  be  vacant — I  know 
it  privately.  The  place  would  quite  suit  me.  Pleasant 
city  ;  the  best  figs  in  Italy — very  -little  to  do.  You  could 
sound  Lord on  the  subject." 

"I  will  answer  beforehand.  Lord would  be  en- 
chanted to  secure  to  the  public  service  a  man  so  accom- 
plished as  yourself,  and  the  son  of  a  peer  like  Lord  Lans- 
mere." 

Harley  L  Estrange  sprang  to  his  feet,  and  flung  his 
cigar  in  the  face  of  a  stately  policeman  who  was  looking 
up  at  the  balcony. 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  317 

"Infamous  and  bloodless  official?"  cried  Harley 
L'Estrange  ;  "  so  you  could  provide  for  a  pimple-nosed 
lackey, — for  a  wine-merchant  who  has  been  poisoning  the 
king's  subjects  with  white-lead  or  sloe-juice, — for  an  idle 
sybarite,  who  would  complain  of  a  crumpled  rose-leaf ; 
and  nothing,  in  all  the  vast  patronage  of  England,  for  a 
broken-down  soldier,  whose  dauntless  breast  was  her  ram- 
part." 

"  Harley,"  said  the  Member  of  Parliament,  with"  his 
calm,  sensible  smile,  "  this  would  be  a  very  good  clap-trap 
at  a  small  theatre  ;  but  there  is  nothing  in  which  Parlia- 
ment demands  such  rigid  economy  as  the  military  branch 
of  the  public  service ;  and  no  man  for  whom  it  is  so  hard 
to  effect  what  we  must  plainly  call  a  job  as  a  subaltern 
officer  who  has  done  nothing  more  than  his  duty — and  all 
military  men  do  that.  Still,  as  you  take  it  so  earnestly,  I 
will  use  what  interest  I  can  at  the  War  Office,  and  get  him, 
perhaps,  the  mastership  of  a  barrack." 

"  You  had  better  ;  for,  if  you  do  not,  I  swear  I  will  turn 
Radical,  and  come  down  to  your  own  city  to  oppose  you, 
with  Hunt  and  Cobbett  to  canvass  for  me." 

"  I  should  be  very  glad  to  see  you  come  into  Parlia- 
ment, even  as  a  Radical,  and  at  my  expense,"  said  Audley, 
with  great  kindness.  "  But  the  air  is  growing  cold,  and 
you  are  not  accustomed  to  our  climate.  Nay,  if  you  are 
too  poetic  for  catarrhs  and  rheums,  I'm  not — come  in." 


CHAPTER  VI. 

.  LORD  L' ESTRANGE  threw  himself  on  a  sofa,  and  leant 
his  cheek  on  his  hand  thoughtfully.  Audley  Egerton  sate 
near  him,  with  his  arms  folded,  and  gazed  on  his  friend's 
face  with  a  soft  expression  of  aspect,  which  was  very  un- 
usual to  the  firm  outline  of  his  handsome  features.  The 
two  men  were  as  dissimilar  in  person  as  the  reader  will 
have  divined  that  they  were  in  character.  All  about  Eger- 
ton was  so  rigid,  all  about  L'Estrange  so  easy.  In  every 
posture  of  Harley's  there  was  the  unconscious  grace  of  a 
child.  The«very  fashion  of  his  garments  showed  his  ab- 
horrence of  restraint.  His  clothes  were  wide  and  loose  ; 
his  neckcloth,  tied  carelessly,  left  his  throat  half  bare. 


31 8  MY  NOVEL;    OR, 

You  could  see  that  he  had  lived  much  in  warm  and  south- 
.  ern  lands,  and  contracted  a  contempt  for  conventionalities  ; 
there  was  as  little  in  his  dress  as  in  his  talk  of  the  North. 
He  was  three  or  four  years  younger  than  Audley,  but  he 
looked  at  least  twelve  years  younger.  In  fact,  he  was  one 
of  those  men  to  whom  old  age  seems  impossible — voice, 
look,  figure,  had  all  the  charm  of  youth  ;  and  perhaps  it 
was  from  this  gracious  youthfulness — at  all  events  it  was 
characteristic  of  the  kind  of  love  he  inspired — that  neither 
his  parents,  nor  the  few  friends  admitted  into  his  intimacy, 
ever  called  him,  in  their  habitual  intercourse,  by  the  name 
of  his  title.  He  was  not  L'Estrange  with  them,  he  was 
Harley  ;  and  by  that  familiar  baptismal  I  will  usually  desig- 
nate him.  He  was  not  one  of  those  men  whom  author  or 
reader  wish  to  view  at  a  distance,  and  remember  as  "my 
Lord,"  it  was  so  rarely  that  he  remembered  it  himself. 
For  the  rest,  it  had  been  said  of  him  by  a  shrewd  wit, — 
"  He  is  so  natural,  that  every  one  calls  him  affected." 
Harley  L'Estrange  was  not  so  critically  handsome  as  Aud- 
ley Egerton ;  to  a  commonplace  observer  he  was  only 
rather  good-looking  than  otherwise.  But  women  said 
that  he  had  "a  beautiful  countenance  " — and  they  were  not 
wrong.  He  wore  his  hair,  which  was  of  a  fair  chestnut, 
long,  and  in  loose  curls  ;  and  instead  of  the  Englishman's 
whiskers,  indulged  in  the  foreigner's  mustache.  His  com- 
plexion was  delicate,  though  not  effeminate  ;  it  was  rather 
the  delicacy  of  a  student  than  of  a  woman.  But  in  his  clear 
gray  eye  there  was  wonderful  vigor  of  life.  A  skilful  phys- 
iologist, looking  only  into  that  eye,  would  have  recognized 
rare  stamina  of  constitution, — a  nature  so  rich,  that,  while 
easily  disturbed,  it  would  require  all  the  effects  of  time,  or 
all  the  fell  combinations  of  passion  and  grief,  to  exhaust 
it.  Even  now,  though  so  thoughtful,  and  even  so  sad,  the 
rays  of  that  eye  were  as  concentrated  and  steadfast  as  the 
light  of  the  diamond. 

"You  were  only,  then,  in  jest,"  said  Audley,  after  a  long 
silence,  "  when  you  spoke  of  this  mission  to  Florence  ?  You 
have  still  no  idea  of  entering  into  public  life?" 

"None." 

"  I  had  hoped  better  things  when  I  got  your  promise  to 
pass  one  season  in  London.  But,  indeed,  you  have  kept 
your  promise  to  the  ear  to  break  it  to  the  spirit.  I  could 
not  presuppose  that  you  would  shun  all  society,  and  be  as 
much  of  a  hermit  here  as  under  the  vines  of  Como." 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  319 

"  I  have  sate  in  the  Strangers'  Gallery,  and  heard  your 
great  speakers  ;  I  have  been  in  the  pit  of  the  opera,  and 
seen  your  fine  ladies  ;  I  have  walked  your  streets ;  I  have 
lounged  in  your  parks, — and  I  say  that  I  can't  fall  in  love 
with  a  faded  dowager,  because  she  fills  up  her  wrinkles  with 
rouge." 

"  Of  what  dowager  do  you  speak  ?"  asked  the  matter-of- 
fact  Audley. 

"  She  has  a  great  many  titles.  Some  people  call  her 
Fashion — you  busy  men,  Politics  :  it  is  all  one — tricked  out 
and  artificial.  I  mean  London  Life.  No,  I  can't  fall  in 
love  with  her,  fawning  old  harridan  ! " 

"  I  wish  you  could  fall  in  love  with  something." 

"I  wish  I  could,  with  all  my  heart." 

"  But  you  are  so  blase" 

"  On  the  contrary,  I  am  so  fresh.  Look  out  of  the  win- 
dow— what  do  you  see  ? " 

"  Nothing." 

"  Nothing!" 

"Nothing  but  houses  and  dusty  lilacs,  my  coachman 
dozing  on  his  box,  and  two  women  in  pattens  crossing  the 
kennel." 

"  I  see  not  those  where  I  lie  on  the  sofa.  I  see  but  the 
stars.  And  I  feel  for  them  as  I  did  when  I  was  a  school- 
boy at  Eton.  It  is  you  who  are  blast,  and  not  I.  Enough 
of  this.  You  do  not  forget  my  commission  with  respect  to 
the  exile  who  has  married  into  your  brother's  family  ?  " 

"  No  ;  but  here  you  set  me  a  task  more  difficult  than 
that  of  saddling  your  cornet  on  the  War  Office." 

"  I  know  it  is  difficult,  for  the  counter  influence  is  vigi- 
lant and  strong  ;  but  on  the  other  hand,  the  enemy  is  so 
damnable  a  traitor  that  one  must  have  the  Fates  and  the 
household  gods  on  one's  side." 

"Nevertheless,"  said  the  practical  Audley,  bending  over 
a  book  on  the  table  ;  "  I  think  that  the  best  plan  would  be 
to  attempt  a  compromise  with  the  traitor." 

"To  judge  of  others  by  myself,"  answered  Harley,  with 
spirit,  "  it  were  less  bitter  to  put  up  with  wrong  than  to 
palter  with  it  for  compensation.  And  such  wrong !  Com- 
promise with  the  open  foe — that  may  be  done  with  honor  ; 
but  with  the  perjured  friend — that  were  to  forgive  the  per- 
jury ! " 

"  You  are  too  vindictive,"  said  Egerton  ;  "  there  may  be 
excuses  for  the  friend,  which  palliate  even " 


320  MY  NOVEL;    OR, 

"  Hush  !  Audley,  hush !  or  I  shall  think  the  world  has 
indeed  corrupted  you.  Excuse  for  the  friend  who  deceives, 
who  betrays  !  No,  such  is  the  true  outlaw  of  Humanity  ;  and 
the  Furies  surround  him  even  while  he  sleeps  in  the  temple." 

The  man  of  the  world  lifted  his  eyes  slowly  on  the  ani- 
mated face  of  one  still  natural  enough  for  the  passions.  He 
then  once  more  returned  to  his  book,  and  said,  after  a  pause, 
"It  is  time  you  should  marry,  Harley." 

"  No,"  answered  L'Estrange,  with  a  smile  at  this  sudden 
turn  in  the  conversation — "  not  time  yet  ;  for  my  chief  ob- 
jection to  that  change  in  life  is,  that  the  women  nowadays 
are  too  old  for  me,  or  I  am  too  young  for  them.  A  few, 
indeed,  are  so  infantine  that  one  is  ashamed  to  be  their  toy  ; 
but  most  are  so  knowing  that  one  is  afraid  to  be  their  dupe. 
The  first,  if  they  condescend  to  love  you,  love  you  as  the 
biggest  doll  they  have  yet  dandled,  and  for  a  doll's  good 
qualities— your  pretty  blue  eyes  and  your  exquisite  milli- 
nery. The  last,  if  they  prudently  accept  you,  do  so  on 
algebraical  principles  ;  you  are  but  the  X  or  the  Y  that 
represents  a  certain  aggregate  of  goods  matrimonial — pedi- 
gree, title,  rent-roll,  diamonds,  pin-money,  opera-box.  They 
cast  you  up  with  the  help  of  mamma,  and  you  wake  some 
morning  to  find  that  plus  wife  minus  affection  equals — the 
Devil!" 

"  Nonsense,"  said  Audley  with  his  quiet  grave  laugh.  "  I 
grant  that  it  is  often  the  misfortune  of  a  man  in  your 
station  to  be  married  rather  for  what  he  has,  than  for  what 
he  is  ;  but  you  are  tolerably  penetrating,  and  not  likely  to 
be  deceived  in  the  character  of  the  woman  you  court." 

"Of  the  woman  I  court1} — -No  !  But  of  the  woman  I 
marry,  very  likely  indeed.  Woman  is  a  changeable  thing, 
as  our  Virgil  informed  us  at  school  ;  but  her  change  par  ex- 
cellence is  from  the  fairy  you  woo  to  the  brownie  you  wed. 
It  is  not  that  she  has  been  a  hypocrite,  it  is  that  she  is  a 
transmigration.  You  marry  a  girl  for  her  accomplish- 
ments. She  paints  charmingly,  -or  plays  like  St.  Cecilia. 
Clap  a  ring  on  her  finger,  and  she  never  draws  again — 
except  perhaps  your  caricature  on  the  back  of  a  letter,  and 
never  opens  a  piano  after  the  honey-moon.  You  marry  her 
for  her  sweet  temper  ;  and  next  year,  her  nerves  are  so  shat- 
tered that  you  can't  contradict  her  but  you  are  whirled  into  • 
a  storm  of  hysterics.  You  marry  her  because  she  declares 
she  hates  balls  and  likes  quiet  ;  and  ten  to  one  but  what  she 
becomes  a  patroness  at  Almack's,  or  a  lady-in-waiting." 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  321 

"Yet  most  men  marry,  and  most  men  survive  the  op- 
eration." 

"  If  it  were  only  necessary  to  live,  that  would  be  a  con- 
solatory and  encouraging  reflection.  But  to  live  with 
peace,  to  live  with  dignity,  to  live  with  freedom,  to  live 
in  harmony  with  your  thoughts,  your  habits,  your  aspira- 
tions— and  this  in  the  perpetual  companionship  of  a  person 
to  whom  you  have  given  the  power  to  wound  your  peace, 
to  assail  your  dignity,  to  cripple  your  freedom,  to  jar  on 
each  thought  and  each  habit,  and  bring  you  down  to  the 
meanest  details  of  earth,  when  you  invite  her,  poor  soul,  to 
soar  to  the  spheres — that  makes  the  To  Be  or  Not  To  Be, 
which  is  the  question." 

"  If  I  were  you,  Harley,  I  would  do  as  I  have  heard  the 
author  of  Sanford  and  Merton  did — choose  out  a  child  and 
educate  her  yourself,  after  your  own  heart." 

•'You  have  hit  it,"  answered  Harley,  seriously.  "That 
has  long  been  my  idea—a  very  vague  one,  I  confess.  But 
I  fear  I  shall  be  an  old  man  before  I  find  even  the  child. 

"  Ah ! "  he  continued,  yet  more  earnestly,  while  the 
whole  character  of  his  varying  countenance  changed  again 
— "Ah!  if  indeed  I  could  discover  what  I  seek — one  who, 
with  the  heart  of  a  child,  has  the  mind  of  a  woman  ;  one 
who  beholds  in  nature  the  variety,  the  charm,  the  never 
feverish,  ever  healthful  excitement  that  others  vainly  seek 
in  the  bastard  sentimentalities  of  a  life  false  with  artificial 
forms,  one  who  can  comprehend,  as  by  intuition,  the  rich 
poetry  with  which  creation  is  clothed — poetry  so  clear  to 
the  child  when  enraptured  with  the  flower,  or  when  won- 
dering at  the  star  !  If  on  me  such  exquisite  companionship 
were  bestowed — why,  then — "  He  paused,  sighed  deeply, 
and,  covering  his  face  with  his  hand,  resumed,  in  faltering 
accents, — 

"  But  once — but  once  only,  did  such  vision  of  the  Beau- 
tiful made  Human  rise  before  me — rise  amidst  'golden  ex- 
halations of  the  dawn.'  It  beggared  my  life  in  vanishing. 
You  know  only — you  only — how — how — 

He  bowed  his  head,  and  the  tears  forced  themselves 
through  his  clenched  fingers. 

"  So  long  ago  !  "  said  Audley,  sharing  his  friend's  emo- 
tion. "  Years  so  long  and  so  weary,  yet  still  thus  tenacious 
of  a  mere  boyish  memory  !  " 

"  Away  with  it,  then  ! "  cried  Harley,  springing  to  his 
feet,  and  with  a  laugh  of  strange  merriment.  "  Your 

14* 


322  MY  NOVEL;    OR, 

carriage  still  waits  :  set  me  home  before  you  go   to  the 
House." 

Then  laying  his  hand  lightly  on  his  friend's  shoulder,  he 
said,  "  Is  it  for  you,  Audley  Egerton,  to  speak  sneeringly 
of  boyish  memories  ?  What  else  is  it  that  binds  us  to- 
gether ?  What  else  warms  my  heart  when  I  meet  you  ? 
What  else  draws  your  thoughts  from  blue-books  and  beer- 
bills,  to  waste  them  on  a  vagrant  like  me  ?  Shake  hands. 
Oh,  friend  of  my  boyhood  !  recollect  the  oar  that  we  plied 
and  the  bats  that  we  wielded  in  the  old  time,  or  the  mur- 
mured talk  on  the  moss-grown  bank,  as  we  sate  together, 
building  in  the  summer  air  castles  mightier  than  Windsor. 
Ah !  they  are  strong  ties,  those  boyish  memories,  believe 
me  !  I  remember,  as  if  it  were  yesterday,  my  translation  of 
that  lovely  passage  in  Persius,  beginning — let  me  see — 
ah!  — 

'  Quum  primum  pavido  custos  mihi  purpura  cernet,' 

that  passage  on   friendship  which   gushes  out  so   livingly 

from  the    stern  heart   of   the  satirist :   And  when  old 

complimented    me    on    my   verses,  my   eye    sought   yours. 
Verily,  I  now  say  as  then, 

'  Nescio  quod,  certe  est  quod  me  tibi  temperet  astrum.'  "  * 

Audley  turned  away  his  head  as  he  returned  the  grasp 
of  his  friend's  hand  ;  and  while  Harley,  with  his  light  elas- 
tic footstep  descended  the  stairs,  Egerton  lingered  behind, 
and  there  was  no  trace  of  the  worldly  man  upon  his  coun- 
tenance when  he  took  his  place  in  the  carriage  by  his  com- 
panion's side. 

Two  hours  afterward,  weary  cries  of  "  Question,  ques- 
tion !  "  "  Divide,  divide  !  "  sank  into  reluctant  silence  as 
Audley  Egerton  rose  to  conclude  the  debate — the  man  of 
men  to  speak  late  at  night,  and  to  impatient  benches  :  a 
man  who  would  be  heard  ;  whom  a  Bedlam  broke  loose 
would  not  have  roared  down  ;  with  a  voice  clear  and  sound 
as  a  bell,  and  a  form  as  firmly  set  on  the  ground  as  a  church- 
tower.  And  while,  on  the  dullest  of  dull  questions,  Audley 
Egerton  thus,  not  too  lively  himself,  enforced  attention, 
where  was  Harley  L'Estrange  ?  Standing  alone  by  the 
river  at  Richmond,  and  murmuring  low  fantastic  thoughts 
as  he  gazed  on  the  moonlit  tide. 

*  "  What  was  the  star  I  know  not,  but  certainly  some  star  it  was  that  attuned  me  unto 
thee." 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  323 

When  Audley  left  him  at  home,  he  had  joined  his  par- 
ents, made  them  gay  with  his  careless  gayety,  seen  the 
old-fashioned  folks  retire  to  rest,  and  then — while  they, 
perhaps,  deemed  him  once  more  the  hero  of  ball-rooms 
and  the  cynosure  of  clubs — he  drove  slowly  through  the  soft 
summer  night,  amidst  the  perfumes  of  many  a  garden  and 
many  a  gleaming  chestnut  grove,  with  no  other  aim  before 
him  than  to  reach  the  loveliest  margin  of  England's  loveli- 
est river,  at  the  hour  when  the  moon  was  fullest  and  the 
song  of  the  nightingale  most  sweet.  And  so  eccentric  a 
humorist  was  this  man,  that  I  believe,  as  he  there  loitered — 
no  one  near  to  cry  "  How  affected  !  "  or  "  How  romantic  ! " 
— he  enjoyed  himself  more  than  if  he  had  been  exchanging 
the  politest  "  how-d'ye-dos  "  in  the  hottest  of  London 
drawing-rooms,  or  betting  his  hundreds  on  the  odd  trick 
with  Lord  De  R for  his  partner. 


CHAPTER  VII. 

LEONARD  had  been  about  six  weeks  with  his  uncle,  and 
those  weeks  were  well  spent.  Mr.  Richard  had  taken  him 
to  his  counting-house,  and  initiated  him  into  business  and 
the  mysteries  of  double-entry  ;.  and,  in  return  for  the  young 
man's  readiness  and  zeal  in  matters  which  the  acute  trader 
instinctively  felt  not  exactly  to  his  tastes,  Richard  engaged 
the  best  master  the  town  afforded  to  read  with  his  nephew 
in  the  evening.  This  gentleman  was  the  head  usher  of  a 
large  school — who  had  his  hours  to  himself  after  eight 
o'clock — and  was  pleased  to  vary  the  dull  routine  of  enforced 
lessons  by  instructions  to  a  pupil  who  took  delightedly — 
even  to  the  Latin  grammar.  Leonard  made  rapid  strides, 
and  learned  more  in  those  six  weeks  than  many  a  cleverish 
boy  does  in  twice  as  many  months.  These  hours  which 
Leonard  devoted  to  study  Richard  usually  spent  from  home 
— sometimes  at  the  houses  of  his  grand  acquaintances  in  the 
Abbey  Gardens,  sometimes  in  the  Reading-room  appropri- 
ated to  those  aristocrats.  If  he  stayed  at  home,  it  was  in 
company  with  his  head  clerk,  and  for  the  purpose  of  check- 
ing his  account-books,  or  looking  over  the  names  of  doubt- 
ful electors. 

'Leonard  had  naturally  wished  to  communicate  his  al- 


324  MY  NOVEL;   OR, 

tered  prospects  to  his  old  friends,  that  they,  in  turn,  might 
rejoice  his  mother  with  such  good  tidings.  But  he  had  not 
been  two  days  in  the  house  before  Richard  had  strictly  for- 
bidden all  such  correspondence. 

"Look  you,"  said  he,  "  at  present  we  are  on  an  experi- 
ment— we  must  see  if  we  like  each  other.  Suppose  we 
don't,  you  will  only  have  raised  expectations  in  your  mother 
which  must  end  in  bitter  disappointment;  and  suppose  we 
do,  it  will  be  time  enough  to  write  when  something  definite 
is  settled." 

"  But  my  mother  will  be  so  anxious — " 

"  Make  your  mind  easy  on  that  score.  I  will  write  reg- 
ularly to  Mr.  Dale,  and  he  can  tell  her  that  you  are  well  and 
thriving.  No  more  words,  my  man — when  I  say  a  thing,  I 
say  it."  Then,  observing  that  Leonard  looked  blank  and 
•  dissatisfied,  Richard  added,  with  a  good-humored  smile,  "  I 
have  my  reasons  for  all  this — you  shall  know  them  later. 
And  I  tell  you  what, — if  you  do  as  I  bid  you,  it  is  my  inten- 
tion to  settle  something  handsome  on  your  mother ;  but  if 
you  don't,  devil  a  penny  she'll  get  from  me." 

With  that,  Richard  turned  on  his  heel,  and  in  a  few 
moments  his  voice  was  heard  loud  in  objurgation  with  some 
of  his  people. 

About  the  fourth  week  of  Leonard's  residence  at  Mr. 
Avenel's,  his  host  began  to  evince  a  certain  change  of  man- 
ner. He  was  no  longer  quite  so  cordial  with  Leonard,  nor 
did  he  take  the  same  interest  in  his  progress.  About  the 
same  period  he  was  frequently  caught  by  the  London  butler 
before  the  looking-glass.  He  had  always  been  a  smart  man 
in  his  dress,  but  he  was  now  more  particular.  He  would 
spoil  three  white  cravats  when  he  went  out  of  an  evening, 
before  he  could  satisfy  himself  as  to  the  tie.  He  also 
bought  a  "  Peerage,"  and  it  became  his  favorite  study  at 
odd  quarters  of  an  hour.  All  these  symptoms  proceeded 
from  a  cause,  and  that  cause  was — woman. 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

THE  first  people  at  Screwstown  were  indisputably  the 
Pompleys.  Colonel  Pompley  was  grand,  but  Mrs.  Ppm- 
pley  was  grander.  The  Colonel  was  stately  in  right  of 'his 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  325 

military  rank  and  his  service*  in  India  ;  Mrs.  Pompley  was 
majestic  in  right  of  her  connections.  Indeed,  Colonel 
Pompley  himself  would  have  been  crushed  under  the  weight 
of  the  dignities  which  his  lady  heaped  upon  him,  if  he  had 
not  been  enabled  to  prop  his  position  with  a  "  connection  " 
of  his  own.  He  would  never  have  held  his  own,  nor  been 
permitted  to  have  an  independent  opinion  on  matters  aris- 
tocratic, but  for  the  well-sounding  name  of  his  relations, 
"  the  Digbies."  Perhaps  on  the  principle  that  obscurity  in- 
creases the  natural  size  of  objects,  and  is  an  element  of  the 
Sublime,  the  Colonel  did  not  too  accurately  define  his  rela- 
tions "the  Digbies  :"  he  let  it  be  casually  understood  that 
they  were  the  Digbies  to  be  found  in  Debrett.  But  if  some 
indiscreet  Vulgarian  (a  favorite  word  with  both  the  Pom- 
pleys)  asked  point-plank  if  he  meant  "  my  Lord  Digby," 
the  Colonel,  with  a  lofty  air,  answered—"  The  elder  branch, 
sir."  No  one  at  Screwstown  had  ever  seen  these  Digbies  : 
they  lay  amidst  the  Far — the  Recondite — even  to  the  wife 
of  Colonel  Pompley's  bosom.  Now  and  then,  when  the 
Colonel  referred  to  the  lapse  of  years,  and  the  uncertainty 
of  human  affections,  he  would  say — "When  young  Digby 
and  I  were  boys  together,"  and  then  add  with  a  sigh,  "but 
\ve  shall  never  meet  again  in  this  world.  His  family  inter- 
ests secured  him  a  valuable  appointment  in  a  distant  part 
of  the  British  dominions."  Mrs.  Pompley  was  always  rather 
cowed  by  the  Digbies.  She  could  not  be  skeptical  as  to 
this  connection,  for  the  Colonel's  mother  was  certainly  a 
Digby,  and  the  Colonel  impaled  the  Digby  arms.  En  re- 
vanche, as  the  French  say,  for  these  martial  connections, 
Mrs.  Pompley  had  her  own  favorite  affinity,  which  she 
specially  selected  from  all  others  when  she  most  desired  to 
produce  effect ;  nay,  even  upon  ordinary  occasions  the  name 
rose  spontaneously  to  her  lips — the  name  of  the  Honorable 
Mrs.  M'Catchley.  Was  the  fashion  of  a  gown  or  cap  ad- 
mired, her  cousin,  Mrs.  M'Catchley,  had  just  sent  to  her  the 
pattern  from  Paris.  Was  it  a  question  whether  the  minis- 
try would  stand,  Mrs.  M'Catchley  was  in  the  secret,  but 
Mrs.  Pompley  had  been  requested  not  to  say.  Did  it  freeze, 
"  My  cousin,  Mrs.  M'Catchley,  had  written  word  that  the 
icebergs  at  the  Pole  were  supposed  to  be  coming  this  way." 
Did  the  sun  glow  with  more  than  usual  fervor,  Mrs. 
M'Catchley  had  informed  her  "that  it  was  Sir  Henry  Hal- 
ford's  decided  opinion  that  it  was  on  account  of  the  chol- 
era." The  good  people  knew  all  that  was  doing  at  London, 


326  MY  NOVEL;    OR, 

at  court,  in  this  world — nay,  almost  in  the  other — through 
the  medium  of  the  Honorable  Mrs.  M 'Catchley.  Mrs. 
M'Catchley  was,  moreover,  the  most  elegant  of  women,  the 
wittiest  creature,  the  dearest.  King  George  the  Fourth  had 
presumed  to  admire  Mrs.  M'Catchley;  but  Mrs/ M'Catch- 
ley, though  no  prude,  let  him  see  that  she  was  proof  against 
the  corruptions  of  a  throne.  So  long  had  the  ears  of  Mrs. 
Pompley's  friends  been  filled  with  the  renown  of  Mrs. 
M'Catchley,  that  at  last  Mrs.  M'Catchley  was  secretly  sup- 
posed to  be  a  myth,  a  creature  of  the  elements,  a  poetic 
fiction  of  Mrs.  Pompley's.  Richard  Avenel,  however, 
though  by  no  means  a  credulous  man,  was  an  implicit  be- 
liever in  Mrs.  M'Catchley.  He  had  learned  that  she  was  a 
widow — an  honorable  by  birth,  an  honorable  by  marriage — 
living  on  her  handsome  jointure,  and  refusing  offers  every 
day  that  she  so  lived.  Somehow  or  other,  whenever  Rich- 
ard Avenel  thought  of  a  wife,  he  thought  of  the  Honorable 
Mrs.  M'Catchley.  Perhaps  that  romantic  attachment  to  the 
fair  invisible  preserved  him  heart-whole  amongst  the  temp- 
tations of  Screwstown.  Suddenly,  to  the  astonishment  of 
the  Abbey  Gardens,  Mrs.  M'Catchley  proved  her  identity, 
and  arrived  at  Colonel  Pompley's  in  a  handsome  travelling- 
carriage,  attended  by  her  maid  and  footman.  She  had 
come  to  stay  some  weeks — a  tea-party  was  given  in  her 
honor.  Mr.  Avenel  and  his  nephew  were  invited.  Colonel 
Pompley,  who  kept  his  head  clear  in  the  midst  of  the  great- 
est excitement,  had  a  desire  to  get  from  the  Corporation  a 
lease  of  a  piece  of  ground  adjoining  his  garden,  and  he  no 
sooner  saw  Richard  Avenel  enter,  than  he  caught  him  by 
the  button,  and  drew  him  into  a  quiet  corner,  in  order  to 
secure  his  interest.  Leonard,  meanwhile,  was  borne  on  by 
the  stream,  till  his  progress  was  arrested  by  a  sofa-table  at 
which  sate  Mrs.  M'Catchley  herself,  with  Mrs.  Pompley  by 
her  side.  For,  on  this  great  occasion  the  hostess  had  aban- 
doned her  proper  post  at  the  entrance,  and,  whether  to 
show  her  respect  to  Mrs.  M'Catchley,  or  to  show  Mrs. 
M'Catchley  her  well-bred  contempt  for  the  people  of 
Screwstown,  remained  in  state  by  her  friend,  honoring  only 
the  elite  of  the  town  with  introductions  to  the  illustrious 
visitor. 

Mrs.  M'Catchley  was  a  very  fine  woman — a  woman  who 
justified  Mrs.  Pompley's  pride  in  her.  Her  cheek-bones 
were  rather  high,  it  is  true,  but  that  proved  the  purity  of 
her  Caledonian  descent ;  for  the  rest,  she  had  a  brilliant 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  327 

complexion,  heightened  by  a  soupfon  of  rouge — good  eyes 
and  teeth,  a  showy  figure,  and  all  the  ladies  of  Screwstown 
pronounced  her  dress  to  be  perfect.  She  might  have  ar- 
rived at  that  age  at  which  one  intends  to  stop  for  the  next 
ten  years,  but  even  a  Frenchman  would  not  have  called  her 
passes — that  is,  for  a  widow.  For  a  spinster,  it  would  have 
been  different. 

Looking  round  her  with  a  glass,  which  Mrs.  Pompley 
was  in  the  habit  of  declaring  that  "Mrs.  M'Catchley  used 
like  an  angel,"  this  lady  suddenly  perceived  Leonard  Fair- 
field  ;  and  his  quiet,  simple,  thoughtful  air  and  look  so  con- 
trasted with  the  stiff  beaux  to  whom  she  had  been  presented, 
that,  experienced  in  fashion  as  so  fine  a  personage  must  be 
supposed  to  be,  she  was  nevertheless  deceived  into  whis- 
pering to  Mrs.  Pompley 

"  That  young  man  has  really  an  air  distinguJ — who  is 
he?" 

"Oh,"  said  Mrs.  Pompley,  in  unaffected  surprise,  "that 
is  the  nephew  of  the  rich  Vulgarian  I  was  telling  you  of 
this  morning." 

"  Ah  !  and  you  say  that  he  is  Mr.  Arundel's  heir  ?  " 

"Avenel — not  Arundel — my  sweet  friend." 

"Avenel  is  not  a  bad  name,"  said  Mrs.  M'Catchley. 
"  But  is  the  uncle  really  so  rich  ?" 

"The  Colonel  was  trying  this  very  day  to  guess  what  he 
is  worth  ;  but  he  says  it  is  impossible  to  guess  it." 

"And  the  young  man  is  his  heir  ?  " 

"It  is  thought  so  ;  and  reading  for  College,  I  hear. 
They  say  he  is  clever." 

"  Present  him,  my  love  ;  I  like  clever  people,"  said  Mrs. 
M'Catchley,  falling  back  languidly. 

About  ten  minutes  afterward,  Richard  Avenel  having 
effected  his  escape  from  the  Colonel,  and  his  gaze  being 
attracted  toward  the  sofa-table  by  the  buzz  of  the  admiring 
crowd,  beheld  his  nephew  in  animated  conversation  with 
the  long-cherished  idol  of  his  dreams.  A  fierce  pang  of 
jealousy  shot  through  his  breast.  His  nephew  had  never 
looked  so  handsome  and  so  intelligent  ;  in  fact,  poor  Leon- 
ard had  never  before  been  drawn  out  by  a  woman  of  the 
world,  who  had  learned  how  to  make  the  most  of  what  little 
she  knew.  And,  as  jealousy  operates  like  a  pair  of  bellows 
on  incipient  flames,  so,  at  first  sight  of  the  smile  which  the 
fair  widow  bestowed  upon  Leonard,  the  heart  of  Mr.  Avenel 
felt  in  a  blaze. 


328  MY  NOVEL;    OR, 

He  approached  with  a  step  less  assured  than  usual,  and 
overhearing  Leonard's  talk,  marvelled  much  at  the  boy's 
audacity.  Mrs.  M'Catchley  had  been  speaking  of  Scotland 
and  the  Waverley  Novels,  about  which  Leonard  knew  noth- 
ing. But  he  knew  Burns,  and  on  Burns  he  grew  artlessly 
eloquent.  Burns  the  poet  and  peasant ;  Leonard  might  well 
be  eloquent  on  him.  Mrs.  M'Catchley  was  amused  and 
pleased  with  his  freshness  and  nafvetf,  so  unlike  anything 
she  had  ever  heard  or  seen,  and  she  drew  him  on  and  on, 
till  Leonard  fell  to  quoting  :  And  Richard  heard,  with  less 
respect  for  the  sentiment  than  might  be  supposed,  that 

"  Rank  is  but  the  guinea  stamp, 

The  man's  the  gowd  for  a'  that." 

"  Well !  "  exclaimed  Mr.  Avenel.  "  Pretty  piece  of  polite- 
ness to  tell  that  to  a  lady  like  the  Honorable  Mrs.  M'Catch- 
ley. You'll  excuse  him,  ma'am." 

"  Sir  !  "  said  Mrs.  M'Catchley,  startled,  and  lifting  her 
glass.  Leonard,  rather  confused,  rose  and  offered  his  chair 
to  Richard,  who  dropped  into  it.  The  lady,  without  wait- 
ing for  formal  introduction,  guessed  that  she  saw  the  rich 
uncle. 

"  Such  a  sweet  poet — Burns  ! M  said  she,  dropping  her 
glass.  "And  it  is  so  refreshing  to  find  so  much  youthful 
enthusiasm,"  she  added,  pointing  her  fan  toward  Leonard, 
who  was  receding  fast  among  the  crowd. 

"  Well,  he  is  youthful,  my  nephew — rather  green  !  '* 

"  Don't  say  green  !  "  said  Mrs.  M'Catchley.  Richard 
blushed  scarlet.  He  was  afraid  he  had  committed  himself 
to  some  expression  low  and  shocking.  The  lady  resumed, 
"  Say  unsophisticated  !  " 

"A  tarnation  long  word,"  thought  Richard  ;  but  he  pru- 
dently bowed,  and  held  his  tongue. 

"Young  men  nowadays,"  continued  Mrs.  M'Catchley, 
resettling  herself  on  the  sofa,  "affect  to  be  so  old.  They 
don't  dance,  and  they  don't  read,  and  they  don't  talk  much  ; 
and  a  great  many  of  them  wear  toupets  before  they  are  two- 
and-twenty  ! " 

Richard  mechanically  passed  his  hand  through  his  thick 
curls.  But  he  was  still  mute  ;  he  was  still  ruefully  chewing 
the  cud  of  the  epithet  green.  What  occult,  horrid  meaning 
did  the  word  convey  to  ears  polite  ?  Why  should  he  not 
say  "green  ?" 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  329 

"A  very  fine  young  man,  your  nephew,  sir,"  resumed 
Mrs.  M 'Catchley. 

Richard  grunted. 

"  And  seems  full  of  talent.  Not  yet  at  the  University  ? 
Will  he  go  to  Oxford  or  Cambridge  ?" 

"  I  have  not  made  up  my  mind,  yet,  if  I  shall  send  him 
to  the  University  at  all." 

"A  young  man  of  his  expectations!"  exclaimed  Mrs. 
M  'Catchley,  artfully. 

"  Expectations  !  "  repeated  Richard,  firing  up.  "  Has 
he  been  talking  to  you  of  his  expectations  ? " 

"No,  indeed,  sir.  But  the  nephew  of  the  rich  Mr. 
Avenel !  Ah,  one  hears  a  great  deal,  you  know,  of  rich 
people  ;  it  is  the  penalty  of  wealth,  Mr.  Avenel ! " 

Richard  was  very  much  flattered.     His  crest  rose. 

"And  they  say,"  continued  Mrs.  M 'Catchley,  dropping 
out  her  words  very  slowly,  as  she  adjusted  her  blonde  scarf, 
"that  Mr.  Avenel  has  resolved  not  to  marry." 

"  The  devil  they  do,  ma'am  ! "  bolted  out  Richard, 
gruffly  ;  and  then,  ashamed  of  his  lapsus  Itnguce,  screwed  up 
his  lips  firmly,  and  glared  on  the  company  with  an  eye  of 
indignant  fire. 

Mrs.  M 'Catchley  observed  him  over  her  fan.  Richard 
turned  abruptly,  and  she  withdrew  her  eyes  modestly,  and 
raised  the  fan. 

"  She's  a  real  beauty,"  said  Richard,  between  his  teeth. 

The  fan  fluttered. 

Five  minutes  afterward,  the  widow  and  the  bachelor 
seemed  so  much  at  their  ease  that  Mrs.  Pompley — who  had 
been  forced  to  leave  her  friend,  in  order  to  receive  the 
Dean's  lady — could  scarcely  believe  her  eyes  when  she  re- 
turned to  the  sofa. 

Now,  it  was  from  that  evening  that  Mr.  Richard  Avenel 
exhibited  the  change  of  mood  which  I  have  described. 
And  from  that  evening  he  abstained  from  taking  Leonard 
with  him  to  any  of  the  parties  in  the  Abbey  Gardens. 


330  MY  NOVEL;    OR, 


CHAPTER  IX. 

SOME  days  after  this  memorable  soirde,  Colonel  Pom- 
pley  sat  alone  in  his  study  (which  opened  pleasantly  on  an 
old-fashioned  garden)  absorbed  in  the  house  bills.  For 
Colonel  Pompley  did  not  leave  that  domestic  care  to  his 
lady — perhaps  she  was  too  grand  for  it.  Colonel  Pompley 
with  his  own  sonorous  voice  ordered  the  joints,  and  with  his 
own  heroic  hands  dispensed  the  stores.  In  justice  to  the 
Colonel,  I  must  add — at  whatever  risk  of  offence  to  the 
fair  sex — that  there  was  not  a  house  at  Screwstown  so  well 
managed  as  the  Pompley's :  none  which  so  successfully 
achieved  the  difficult  art  of  uniting  economy  with  show.  I 
should  despair  of  conveying  to  you  an  idea  of  the  extent  to 
which  Colonel  Pompley  made  his  income  go.  It  was  but 
seven  hundred  a  year  ;  and  many  a  family  contrive  to  do 
less  upon  three  thousand.  To  be  sure,  the  Pompleys  had 
no  children  to  sponge  upon  them.  What  they  had  they 
spent  all  on  themselves.  Neither,  if  the  Pompleys  never 
exceeded  their  income,  did  they  pretend  to  live  much  with- 
in it.  The  two  ends  of  the  year  met  at  Christmas — just  met, 
and  no  more. 

Colonel  Pompley  sate  at  his  desk.  He  was  in  his  well- 
brushed  blue  coat — buttoned  across  his  breast — his  gray 
trousers  fitted  tight  to  his  limbs,  and  fastened  under  his 
boots  with  a  link  chain.  He  saved  a  great  deal  of  money 
in  straps.  No  one  ever  saw  Colonel  Pompley  in  dressing- 
gown  and  slippers.  He  and  his  house  were  alike  in  order 
— always  fit  to  be  seen — 

"  From  morn  till  noon,  from  noon  to  dewy  eve." 

The  Colonel  was  a  short  compact  man,  inclined  to  be 
stout — with  a  very-  red  face,  that  seemed  not  only  shaved, 
but  rasped.  He  wore  his  hair  cropped  close,  except  just  in 
front,  where  it  formed  what  the  hair-dresser  called  a  feather  ; 
but  it  seemed  a  feather  of  iron,  so  stiff  and  so  strong  was  it. 
Firmness  and  precision  were  emphatically  marked  on  the 
Colonel's  countenance.  There  was  a  resolute  strain  on  his 
features,  as  if  he  was  always  employed  in  making  the  two 
ends  meet ! 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE. 


33* 


So  he  sate  before  his  house-book,  with  his  steel-pen  in 
his  hand,  and  making  crosses  here  and  notes  of  interroga- 
tion there.  "Mrs.  M'Catchley's  maid,"  said  the  Colonel  to 
himself,  "must  be  put  upon  rations.  The  tea  that  she 
drinks !  Good  Heavens  ! — tea  again  !  " 

There  was  a  modest  ring  at  the  outer  door.  "Too  early 
for  a  visitor  ! "  thought  the  Colonel.  "  Perhaps  it  is  the 
Water-rates." 

The  neat  man-servant — never  seen  beyond  the  offices, 
save  in  grande  tenue,  plushed  and  powdered — entered  and 
bowed. 

"  A  gentleman,  sir,  wishes  to  see  you." 

"  A  gentleman,"  repeated  the  Colonel,  glancing  toward 
the  clock. 

"Are you  sure  it  is  a  gentleman — ? " 

The  man  hesitated.  "  Why,  sir,  I  ben't  exactly  sure  ; 
but  he  speaks  like  a  gentleman.  He  clo  say  he  comes  from 
London  to  see  you,  sir." 

A  long  and  interesting  correspondence  was  then  being 
held  between  the  Colonel  and  one  of  his  wife's  trustees 
touching  the  investment  of  Mrs.  Pompley's  fortune.  It 
might  be  the  trustee — nay,  it  must  be.  The  trustee  had 
talked  of  running  down  to  see  him. 

"  Let  him  come  in,"  said  the  Colonel,  "and  when  I  ring 
— sandwiches  and  sherry  ! " 

"Beef,  sir?" 

"  Ham." 

The  Colonel  put  aside  his  house-book,  and  wiped  his 
pen. 

In  another  minute  the  door  opened,  and  the  servant 
announced 

"MR.    DlGBY." 

The  Colonel's  face  fell,  and  he  staggered  back. 

The  door  closed,  and  Mr.  Digby  stood  in  the  middle  of 
the  room,  leaning  on  the  great  writing-table  for  support. 
The  poor  soldier  looked  sicklier  and  shabbier,  and  nearer 
the  end  of  all  things  in  life  and  fortune,  than  when  Lord 
L'Estrange  had  thrust  the  pocket-book  into  his  hands. 
But  still  the  servant  showed  knowledge  of  the  world  in 
calling  him  gentleman  ;  there  was  no  other  word  to  apply 
to  him. 

"  Sir,"  began  Colonel  Pompley,  recovering  himself,  and 
with  great  solemnity,  "  I  did  not  expect  this  pleasure." 


332  MY  NOVEL;    OR, 

The  poor  visitor  stared  round  him  dizzily,  and  sank 
into  a  chair,  breathing  hard.  The  Colonel  looked  as  a 
man  only  looks  upon  a  poor  relation,  and  buttoned  up  first 
one  trouser  pocket  and  then  the  other. 

"  I  thought  you  were  in  Canada,"  said  the  Colonel,  at  last. 

Mr.  Digby  had  now  got  breath  to  speak,  and  he  said 
meekly,  "  The  climate  would  have  killed  my  child,  and  it  is 
two  years  since  I  returned." 

"  You  ought  to  have  found  a  very  good  place  in  Eng- 
land, to  make  it  worth  your  while  to  leave  Canada." 

"  She  could-  not  have  lived  through  another  winter  in 
Canada — the  doctor  said  so." 

"  Pooh,"  quoth  the  Colonel. 

Mr.  Digby  drew  a  long  breath.  "  I  would  not  come  to 
you,  Colonel  Pompley,  while  you  could  think  that  I  came 
as  a  beggar  for  myself." 

The  Colonel's  brow  relaxed.  "  A  very  honorable  sen- 
timent, Mr.  Digby." 

"  No  ;  I  have  gone  through  a  great  deal  ;  but  you  see, 
Colonel,"  added  the  poor  relation,  with  a  faint  smile,  "  the 
campaign  is  well-nigh  over,  and  peace  is  at  hand." 

The  colonel  seemed  touched. 

"  Don't  talk  so,  Digby — I  don't  like  it.  You  are 
younger  than  I  am — nothing  more  disagreeable  than  these 
gloomy  views  of  things.  You  have  got  enough  to  live  upon, 
you  say — at  least  so  I  understand  you.  I  am  very  glad  to 
hear  it ;  and,  indeed,  I  could  not  assist  you — so  many 
claims  on  me.  So  it  is  all  very  well,  Digby." 

"Oh,  Colonel  Pompley,"  cried  the  soldier,  clasping  his 
hands,  and  with  feverish  energy,  "  I  am  a  suppliant,  not 
for  myself,  but  my  child  !  I  have  but  one — only  one — a 
girl.  She  has  been  so  good  to  me.  She  will  cost  you  little. 
Take  her  when  I  die  ;  promise  her  a  shelter — a  home.  I 
ask  no  more.  You  are  my  nearest  relative.  I  have  no 
other  to  look  to.  You  have  no  children  of  your  own. 
She  will  be  a  blessing  to  you,  as  she  has  been  all  upon 
earth  to  me  !  " 

If  Colonel  Pompley's  face  was  red  in  ordinary  hours, 
no  epithet  sufficiently  rubicund  or  sanguineous  can  express 
its  color  at  this  appeal.  "  The  man's  mad,"  he  said,  at  last, 
with  a  tone  of  astonishment  that  almost  concealed  his 
wrath — "  stark  mad  !  I  take  his  child  !— lodge  and  board  a 
great,  positive,  hungry  child  !  Why,  sir,  many  and  many  a 
time  have  I  said  to  Mrs.  Pompley,  '  Tis  a  mercy  we  have  no 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  333 

children.  We  could  never  live  in  this  style  if  we  had  chil- 
dren— never  make  both  ends  meet.'  Child — the  most  expen- 
sive, ravenous,  ruinous  thing  in  the  world — a  child." 

"  She  has  been  accustomed  to  starve,"  said  Mr.  Digby, 
plaintively.  "  Oh,  Colonel,  let  me  see  your  wife.  Her 
heart  I  can  touch — she  is  a  woman." 

Unlucky  father  !  A  more  untoward,  unseasonable  re- 
quest the  Fates  could  not  have  put  into  his  lips. 

Mrs.  Pompley  see  the  Digbies  !  Mrs.  Pompley  learn 
the  condition  of  the  Colonel's  grand  connections !  The 
Colonel  would  never  have  been  his  own  man  again.  At 
the  bare  idea,  he  felt  as  if  he  could  have  sunk  into  the 
earth  with  shame.  In  his  alarm  he  made  a  stride  to  the 
door,  with  the  intention  of  locking  it.  Good  heavens,  if 
Mrs.  Pompley  should)  come  in  !  And  the  man,  too,  had 
been  announced  by  name.  Mrs.  Pompley  might  have 
learned  already  that  a  Digby  was  with  her  husband — she 
might  be  actually  dressing  to  receive  him  worthily — there 
was  not  a  moment  to  lose. 

The  Colonel  exploded.  "  Sir,  I  wonder  a't  your  impu- 
dence. See  Mrs  Pompley  !  Hush,  sir,  hush  ! — hold  your 
tongue.  I  have  disowned  your  connection.  I  will  not 
have  my  wife — a  woman,  sir,  of  the  first  family — disgraced 
by  it.  Yes  ;  you  need  not  fire  up.  John  Pompley  is  not  a 
man  to  be  bullied  in  his  own  house.  I  say  disgraced.  Did 
not  you  run  into  debt,  and  spend  your  fortune  ?  Did  not 
you  marry  a  low  creature — a  vulgarian — a  tradesman's 
daughter  ? — and  your  poor  father  such  a  respectable  man — 
a  beneficed  clergyman  !  Did  not  you  sell  your  commission  ? 
Heaven  knows  what  became  of  the  money !  Did  not  you 
turn  (I  shudder  to  say  it)  a  common  stage-player,  sir  ?  And 
then,  when  you  were  on  your  last  legs,  did  I  not  give  you 
£200  out  of  my  own  purse  to  go  to  Canada  ?  And  now 
here  you  are  again — and  ask  me,  with  a  coolness  that — that 
takes  away  my  breath — takes  away — my  breath,  sir — to  pro- 
vide for  the  child  you  have  thought  proper  to  have  ;  a  child 
whose  connections  on  the  mother's  side  are  of  the  most 
abject  and  discreditable  condition.  Leave  my  house,  leave 
it — good  heavens,  sir,  not  that  way ! — this."  And  the 
Colonel  opened  the  glass-door  that  led  into  the  garden. 
"  I  will  let  you  out  this  way.  If  Mrs.  Pompley  should 
see  you  !  "  And  with  that  thought  the  Colonel  absolutely 
hooked  his  arm  into  his  poor  relation's  and  hurried  him  into 
the  garden. 


334  MY  NOVEL;    OR, 

Mr.  Digby  said  not  a  word,  but  he  struggled  ineffectually 
to  escape  from  the  Colonel's  arm  ;  and  his  color  went  and 
came,  came  and  went,  with  a  quickness  that  showed  that  in 
those  shrunken  veins  there  were  still  some  drops  of  a  sol- 
dier's blood. 

But  the  Colonel  had  now  reached  a  little  postern-door 
in  the  garden-wall.  He  opened  the  latch  and  thrust  out  his 
poor  cousin.  Then  looking  down  the  lane,  which  was  long, 
straight,  and  narrow,  and  seeing  it  was  quite  solitary,  his 
eye  fell  upon  the  forlorn  man,  and  remorse  shot  through 
his  heart.  For  a  moment  the  hardest  of  all  kinds  of  avarice, 
that  of  the  genteel,  relaxed  its  gripe.  For  a  moment  the 
most  intolerant  of  all  forms  of  pride,  that  which  is  based 
upon  false  pretences,  hushed  its  voice,  and  the  Colonel 
hastily  drew  out  his  purse.  "  There,"  said  he,  "  that  is  all 
I  can  do  for  you.  Do  leave  the  town  as  quick  as  you  can, 
and  don't  mention  your  name  to  any  one.  Your  father  was 
such  a  respectable  man — beneficed  clergyman  ! " 

"And  paid  for  your  commission,  Mr.  Pompley.  My 
name  !  — I  am  not  ashamed  of  it.  But  do  not  fear  I  shall 
claim  your  relationship.  No  ;  I  am  ashamed  oiyou!" 

The  poor  cousin  put  aside  the  purse,  still  stretched  to- 
ward him,  with  a  scornful  hand,  and  walked  firmly  down 
the  lane. 

Colonel  Pompley  stood  irresolute.  At  that  moment  a 
window  in  his  house  was  thrown  open.  He  heard  the  noise, 
turned  round,  and  saw  his  wife  looking  out. 

Colonel  Pompley  sneaked  back  through  the  shrubbery, 
hiding  himself  amongst  the  trees. 


CHAPTER  X. 

"  ILL-LUCK  is  a  betise"  said  the  great  Cardinal  Richelieu  ; 
and  on  the  long  run,  I  fear,  his  eminence  was  right.  If  you 
could  drop  Dick  Avenel  and  Mr.  Digby  in  the  middle  of 
Oxford  Street — Dick  in  a  fustian  jacket,  Digby  in  a  suit  of 
superfine — Dick  with  five  shillings  in  his  pocket,  Digby  with 
a  thousand  pounds — and  if,  at  the  end  of  ten  years,  you 
looked  up  your  two  men,  Dick  would  be  on  his  road  to  a 
fortune,  Digby — what  we  have  seen  him  !  Yet  Digby  had 
no  vice  ;  he  did  not  drink,  nor  gamble.  What  was  he,  then  ? 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  335 

Helpless.  He  had  been  an  only  son — a  spoiled  child — 
brought  up  as  "  a  gentleman  ; "  that  is,  as  a  man  who  was 
not  expected  to  be  able  to  turn  his  hand  to  anything.  He 
entered,  as  we  have  seen,  a  very  expensive  regiment,  where- 
in he  found  himself,  at  his  father's  death,  with  ^4,000,  and 
the  incapacity  to  say  "No."  Not  naturally  extravagant, 
but  without  an  idea  of  the  value  of  money — the  easiest,  gen- 
tlest, best  tempered  man  whom  example  ever  led  astray. 
This  part  of  his  career  comprised  a  very  common  history — 
the  poor  man  living  on  equal  terms  with  the  rich.  Debt  ; 
recourse  to  usurers  ;  bills  signed  sometimes  for  others,  re- 
newed at  twenty  per  cent,  the  ^4,000  melted  like  snow  ; 
pathetic  appeal  to  relations  ;  relations  have  children  of  their 
own  ;  small  help  given  grudgingly,  eked  out  by  much  ad- 
vice, and  coupled  with  conditions.  Amongst  the  conditions 
there  was  a  very  proper  and  prudent  one — exchange  into  a 
less  expensive  regiment.  Exchange  effected  ;  peace  ;  ob- 
scure country  quarters  ;  ennui,  flute-playing,  and  idleness. 
Mr.  Digby  had  no  resources  on  a  rainy  day — except  flute- 
playing  ;  pretty  girl  of  inferior  rank  ;  all  the  officers  after 
her  ;  Digby  smitten  ;  pretty  girl  very  virtuous  ;  Digby  forms 
honorable  intentions  ;  excellent  sentiments  ;  imprudent  mar- 
riage. Digby  falls  in  life  ;  colonel's  lady  will  not  associate 
with  Mrs.  Digby  ;  Digby  cut  by  his  whole  kith  and  kin  ; 
many  disagreeable  circumstances  in  regimental  life  ;  Digby 
sells  out  ;  love  in  a  cottage  ;  execution  in  ditto.  Digby  had 
been  much  applauded  as  an  amateur  actor  ;  thinks  of  the 
stage  ;  genteel  comedy — a  gentleman-like  profession.  Tries 
in  a  provincial  town,  under  another  name  ;  unhappily  suc- 
ceeds ;  life  of  an  actor  ;  hand-to-mouth  life  ;  illness  ;  chest 
affected  ;  Digby 's  voice  becomes  hoarse  and  feeble  ;  not 
aware  of  it  ;  attributes  failing  success  to  ignorant  provincial 
public  ;  appears  in  London  ;  is  hissed  ;  returns  to  the  prov- 
inces ;  sinks  into  very  small  parts  ;  prison  ;  despair  ;  wife 
dies  ;  appeal  again  to  relations  ;  a  subscription  made  to  get 
rid  fo  him  ;  send  him  out  of  the  country ;  place  in  Canada 
— superintendent  to  an  estate,  ^150  a  year  ;  pursued  by  ill- 
luck  ;  never  before  fit  for  business,  not  fit  now  ;  honest  as  the 
day,  but  keeps  slovenly  accounts  ;  child  cannot  bear  the  win- 
ter of  Canada  ;  Digby  wrapped  up  in  the  child  ;  return  home ; 
mysterious  life  for  two  years  ;  child  patient,  thoughtful,  lov- 
ing ;  has  learned  to  work  ;  manages  for  father  ;  often  sup- 
ports him  ;  Constitution  rapidly  breaking  ;  thought  of  what 
will  become  of  his  child — worst  disease  of  all.  Poor  Digby  ! 


336  MY  NOVEL;    OR, 

— Never  did  a  base,  cruel,  unkind  thing  in  his  life  ;  and 
here  he  is,  walking  down  the  lane  from  Colonel  Pompley's 
house  !  Now,  if  Digby  had  but  learned  a  little  of  the  world's 
cunning,  I  think  he  would  have  succeeded  even  with  Colo- 
nel Pompley.  Had  he  spent  the  ^100  received  from  Lord 
L' Estrange  with  a  view  to  effect — had  he  bestowed  a  fitting 
wardrobe  on  himself  and  his  pretty  Helen  ;  had  he  stopped 
at  the  last  stage,  taken  thence  a  smart  chaise  and  pair,  and 
presented  himself  at  Colonel  Pompley's  in  away  that  would 
not  have  discredited  the  Colonel's  connection,  and  then, 
instead  of  praying  for  home  and  shelter,  asked  the  Colonel 
to  become  guardian  to  his  child  in  case  of  his  death,  I  have 
a  strong  notion  that  the  Colonel,  in  spite  of  his  avarice, 
would  have  stretched  both  ends  so  as  to  take  in  Helen  Digby. 
But  our  poor  friend  had  no  such  arts.  Indeed,  of  the  ^100 
he  had  already  very  little  left,  for  before  leaving  town  he 
had  committed  what  Sheridan  considered  the  extreme  of 
extravagance — frittered  away  his  money  in  paying  his  debts  ; 
and  as  for  dressing  up  Helen  and  himself — if  that  thought 
had  ever  occurred  to  him,  he  would  have  rejected  it  as  fool- 
ish. He  would  thought  that  the  more  he  showed  his  pov- 
erty, the  more  he  would  be  pitied — the  worst  mistake  a  poor 
cousin  can  commit.  According  to  Theophrastus,  the  par- 
tridge of  Paphlagonia  has  two  hearts  ;  so  have  most  men  ; 
it  is  the  common  mistake  of  the  unlucky  to  knock  at  the 
wrong  one. 


CHAPTER    XL 

MR.  DIGBY  entered  the  room  of  the  inn  in  which  he  had 
left  Helen.  She  was  seated  by  the  window,  and  looking 
out  wistfully  on  the  narrow  street,  perhaps  at  the  children 
at  play.  There  had  never  been  a  playtime  for  Helen  Digby. 
She  sprang  forward  as  her  father  came  in.  His  coming  was 
her  holiday. 

"We  must  go  back  to  London,"  said  Mr.  Digby,  sinking 
helplessly  on  the  chair.  Then  with  his  sort  of  sickly  smile 
— for  he  was  bland  even  to  his  child — "Will  you  kindly  in- 
quire when  the  first  coach  leaves  ?" 

All  the  active  cares  of  their  careful  life  devolved  upon 
that  quiet  child.  She  kissed  her  father,  placed  before  him 
a  cough  mixture  which  he  had  brought  from  London,  and 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  337 

went  out  silently  to  make  the  necessary  inquiries,  and  pre- 
pare for  the  journey  back. 

At  eight  o'clock  the  father  and  child  were  seated  in  the 
night-coach,  with  one  other  passenger — a  man  muffled  up 
to  the  chin.  After  the  first  mile,  the  man  let  down  one  of 
the  windows.  Though  it  was  summer,  the  air  was  chill  and 
raw.  Digby  shivered  and  coughed. 

Helen  placed  her  hand  on  the  window,  and,  leaning  to- 
ward the  passenger,  whispered  softly. 

"Eh!"  said  the  passenger,  "draw  up  the  windows? 
You  have  got  your  own  window  ;  this  is  mine.  Oxygen, 
young  lady,"  he  added  solemnly,  "oxygen  is  the  breath  of 
life.  Cott,  child  !  "  he  continued  with  suppressed  choler, 
and  a  Welsh  pronunciation,  "  Cott !  let  us  breathe  and 
live." 

Helen  was  frightened,  and  recoiled. 

Her  father,  who  had  not  heard,  or  had  not  heeded,  this 
colloquy,  retreated  into  the  corner,  put  up  the  collar  of  his 
coat,  and  coughed  again. 

"It  is  cold,  my  dear,"  said  he  languidly  to  Helen. 

The  passenger  caught  the  word,  and  replied  indignantly, 
but  as  if  soliloquizing — 

"  Cold — ugh  !  I  do  believe  the  English  are  the  stuffiest 
people  !  Look  at  their  four-post  beds ! — all  the  curtains 
drawn,  shutters  closed,  board  before  the  chimney — not  a 
house  with  a  ventilator  !  Cold — ugh  !  " 

The  window  next  Mr.  Digby  did  not  fit  well  into  its 
frame. 

"  There  is  a  sad  draught,"  said  the  invalid. 

Helen  instantly  occupied  herself  in  stopping  up  the 
chinks  of  the  windoAV  with  her  handkerchief.  Mr.  Digby 
glanced  ruefully  at  the  other  window.  The  look,  which  was 
very  eloquent,  aroused  yet  more  the  traveller's  spleen. 

"  Pleasant ! "  said  he.  "  Cott !  I  suppose  you  will  ask 
me  to  go  outside  next !  But  people  who  travel  in  a  coach 
should  know  the  law  of  a  coach.  I  don't  interfere  with 
your  window  ;  you  have  no  business  to  interfere  with 
mine." 

"Sir,  I  did  not  speak,"  said  Mr.  Digby,  meekly. 

"But  Miss  here  did." 

"Ah,  sir!"  said  Helen,  plaintively,  "if  you  knew  how 
papa  suffers  !  "  And  her  hand  again  moved  toward  the  ob- 
noxious window. 

"  No,  my  dear  ;  the  gentleman  is  in  his  right,"  said  Mr. 


338  MY  NOVEL;    OK, 

Digby  :  and,  bowing  with  his  wonted  suavity,  he  added, 
"  Excuse  her,  sir.  She  thinks  a  great  deal  too  much  of 
me." 

The  passenger  said  nothing,  and  Helen  nestled  closer  to 
her  father,  and  strove  to  screen  him  from  the  air. 

The  passenger  moved  uneasily.  "Well,"  said  he,  with 
a  sort  of  snort,  "air  is  air,  and  right  is  right :  but  here  goes  " 
— and  he  hastily  drew  up  the  window. 

Helen  turned  her  face  full  toward  the  passenger  with  a 
grateful  expression,  visible  even  in  the  dim  light. 

"You  are  very  kind,  sir,"  said  poor  Mr.  Digby;  "I  am 
ashamed  to  " — his  cough  choked  the  rest  of  the  sentence. 

The  passenger,  who  was  a  plethoric,  sanguineous  man, 
felt  as  if  he  were  stifling.  But  he  took  off  his  wrappers,  and 
resigned  the  oxygen  like  a  hero. 

Presently  he  drew  nearer  to  the  sufferer,  and  laid  hand 
on  his  wrist. 

"You  are  feverish,  I  fear.  I  am  a  medical  man.  St ! — 
one — two.  Cott !  you  should  not  travel  ;  you  are  not  fit 
for  it." 

Mr.  Digby  shook  his  head :  he  was  too  feeble  to  reply. 

The  passenger  thrust  his  hand  into  his  coat-pocket,  and 
drew  out  what  seemed  a  cigar-case,  but  what,  in  fact,  was  a 
leathern  repertory,  containing  a  variety  of  minute  phials. 
From  one  of  these  phials  he  extracted  two  tiny  globules. 
"  There,"  said  he,  "open  your  mouth — put  those  on  the  tip 
of  your  tongue.  They  will  lower  the  pulse — check  the 
fever.  Be  better  presently — but  should  not  travel — want 
rest — you  should  be  in  bed.  Aconite  ! — Henbane  ! — hum  ! 
Your  papa  is  of  fair  complexion — a  timid  character,  I  should 
say — a  horror  of  work,  perhaps.  Eh,  child?" 

"  Sir !  "  faltered  Helen,  astonished  and  alarmed. — Was 
the  man  a  conjuror  ? 

"A  case  for  Phosphor  !  "  cried  the  passenger  :  "that  fool 
Browne  would  have  said  arsenic.  Don't  be  persuaded  to 
take  arsenic  ! " 

"  Arsenic,  sir  !  "  echoed  the  mild  Digby.  "  No  ;  however 
unfortunate  a  man  may  be,  I  think,  sir,  that  suicide  is — 
tempting,  perhaps,  but  highly  criminal." 

"  Suicide,"  said  the  passenger  tranquilly — "  suicide  is  my 
hobby  !  You  have  no  symptom  of  that  kind,  you  say  !  " 

"  Good  heavens  !     No,  sir." 

"  If  ever  you  feel  violently  impelled  to  drown  yourself, 
take  pulsatilla.  But  if  you  feel  a  preference  toward  blowing 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  339 

out  your  brains,  accompanied  with  weight  in  the  limbs,  loss 
of  appetite,  dry  cough,  and  bad  corns — sulphuret  of  antimony, 
Don't  forget." 

Though  poor  Mr.  Digby  confusedly  thought  that  the 
gentleman  was  out  of  his  mind,  yet  he  tried  politely  to  say 
"that  he  was  much  obliged,  and  would  be  sure  to  remem- 
ber ; "  but  his  tongue  failed  him,  and  his  own  ideas  grew 
perplexed.  His  head  fell  back  heavily,  and  he  sank  into  a 
silence  which  seemed  that  of  sleep. 

The  traveller  looked  hard  at  Helen,  as  she  gently  drew 
her  father's  head  on  her  shoulder,  and  there  pillowed  it 
with  a  tenderness  which  was  more  that  of  mother  than 
child. 

"  Moral  affections — soft — compassionate  ! — a  good  child, 
and  would  go  well  Vfi\h—_pulsatilla" 

Helen  held  up  her  finger,  and  glanced  from  her  father 
to  the  traveller,  and  then  to  her  father  again. 

"  Certainly— -pulsatilla  !  "  muttered  the  homoeopathist ; 
and,  ensconcing  himself  in  his  own  corner,  he  also  sought 
to  sleep.  But  after  vain  efforts,  accompanied  by  restless 
gestures  and  movements,  he  suddenly  started  up,  and  again 
extracted  his  phial-book. 

"  What  the  deuce  are  they  to  me ! "  he  muttered. 
"Morbid  sensibility  of  character — coffee?  No! — accom- 
panied by  vivacity  and  violence — nux  !  "  He  brought  his 
book  to  the  window,  contrived  to  read  a  label  on  a  pigmy 
bottle.  Nux!  that's  it,  he  said — and  he  swallowed  a 
globule  ! 

"Now,"  quoth  he,  after  a  pause,  "  I  don't  care  a  straw 
for  the  misfortunes  of  other  people — nay, — I  have  half  a 
mind  to  let  down  the  window." 

Helen  looked  up. 

"  But  I'll  not,"  he  added,  resolutely;  and  this  time  he 
fell  fairly  asleep. 


CHAPTER  XII. 

THE  coach  stopped  at  eleven  o'clock  to  allow  the  passen- 
gers to  sup.  The  homoeopathist  woke  up,  got  out,  gave 
himself  a  shake,  and  inhaled  the  fresh  air  into  his  vigorous 
lungs  with  an  evident  sensation  of  delight.  He  then 
turned  and  looked  into  the  coach — 


340  MY  NOVEL;    OR, 

"  Let  your  father  get  out,  my  dear,"  said  he,  with  a  tone 
more  gentle  than  usual.  "  I  should  like  to  see  him  in-doors 
— perhaps  I  can  do  him  good." 

But  what  was  Helen's  terror  when  she  found  that  her 
father  did  not  stir  !  He  was  in  a  deep  swoon,  and  still  quite 
insensible  when  they  lifted  him  from  the  carriage.  When 
he  recovered  his  senses,  his  cough  returned,  and  the  effort 
brought  up  blood. 

It  was  impossible  for  him  to  proceed  farther.  The 
homceopathist  assisted  to  undress  and  put  him  to  bed.  And 
having  administered  another  of  his  mysterious  globules,  he 
inquired  of  the  landlady  how  far  it  was  to  the  nearest  doc- 
tor— for  the  inn  stood  by  itself  in  a  small  hamlet.  There 
was  the  parish  apothecary  three  miles  off.  But  on  hearing 
that  the  gentlefolks  employed  Dr.  Dosewell,  and  it  was  a 
good  seven  miles  to  his  house,  the  homceopathist  fetched  a 
deep  breath.  The  coach  only  stopped  a  quarter  of  an  hour. 

"Cott!"  said  he,  angrily,  to  himself — "the  mix  was  a 
failure.  My  sensibility  is  chronic.  I  must  go  through  a 
long  course  to  get  rid  of  it.  Hollo,  guard  !  get  out  my  car- 
pet-bag. I  shan't  go  on  to-night." 

And  the  good  man,  after  a  very  slight  supper,  went  up 
stairs  again  to  the  sufferer. 

"  Shall  I  send  for  Dr.  Dosewell,  sir  ?  "  asked  the  landlady, 
stopping  him  at  the  door. 

"  Hum  !  At  what  hour  to-morrow  does  the  next  coach 
to  London  pass  ?  " 

"  Not  before  eight,  sir." 

"  Well,  send  for  the  doctor  to  be  here  at  seven.  That 
leaves  us  at  least  some  hours  free  from  allopathy  and 
murder,"  grunted  the  disciple  of  Hahnemann,  as  he  entered 
the  room. 

Whether  it  was  the  globule  that  the  homceopathist  had 
administered,  or  the  effect  of  nature  aided  by  repose,  that 
checked  the  effusion  of  blood,  and  restored  some  tempo- 
rary strength  to  the  poor  sufferer,  is  more  than  it  becomes 
one  not  of  the  faculty  to  opine.  But  certainly  Mr.  Digby 
seemed  better,  and  he  gradually  fell  into  a  profound  sleep, 
but  not  till  the  doctor  had  put  his  ear  to  his  chest,  tapped 
it  with  his  hand,  and  asked  several  questions  ;  after  which 
the  homceopathist  retired  into  a  corner  of  the  room,  and 
leaning  his  face  on  his  hand,  seemed  to  meditate.  From 
his  thoughts  he  was  disturbed  by  a  gentle  touch.  Helen 
was  kneeling  at  his  feet. 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  341 

"  Is  he  very  ill- — very  ?"  said  she  ;  and  her  fond  wistful 
eyes  were  fixed  on  the  physician's  with  all  the  earnestness 
of  despair. 

"  Your  father  is  very  ill,"  replied  the  doctor,  after  a  short 
pause.  "  He  cannot  move  hence  for  some  days  at  least.  I 
am  going  to  London — shall  I  call  on  your  relations,  and  tell 
some  of  them  to  join  you  ?  " 

"  No,  thank  you,  sir,"  answered  Helen,  coloring.  "  But 
do  not  fear  ;  I  can  nurse  papa.  I  think  he  has  been  worse 
before — that  is,  he  has  complained  more." 

The  homoeopathist  rose,  and  took  two  strides  across  the 
room,  then  he  paused  by  the  bed,  and  listened  to  the  breath- 
ing of  the  sleeping  man. 

He  stole  back  to  the  child,  who  was  still  kneeling,  took 
her  in  his  arms  and  kissed  her.  "  Tamn  it,"  said  he,  angri- 
ly, and  putting  her  down,  "  go  to  bed  now — you  are  not 
wanted  any  more." 

"  Please,  sir,"  said  Helen,  "  I  cannot  leave  him  so.  If 
he  wakes,  he  would  miss  me." 

The  doctor's  hand  trembled ;  he  had  recourse  to  his 
globules.  "Anxiety — grief  suppressed,"  muttered  he. 
Don't  you  want  to  cry,  my  dear  ?  Cry — do  !  " 

"I  can't,"  murmured  Helen. 

"  Pulsatilla  !  "  said  the  doctor,  almost  with  triumph.  "  I 
said  so  from  the  first.  Open  your  mouth — here !  Good 
night.  My  room  is  opposite — No.  6  ;  call  me  if  he  wakes." 


CHAPTER  XIII. 

AT  seven  o'clock  Dr.  Dosewell  arrived,  and  was  shown 
into  the  room  of  the  homoeopathist,  who,  already  up  and 
dressed,  had  visited  his  patient. 

"  My  name  is  Morgan,"  said  the  homoeopathist — "  I  am 
a  physician.  I  leave  in  your  hands  a  patient  whom,  I  fear, 
neither  I  nor  you  can  restore.  Come  and  look  at  him." 

The  two  doctors  went  into  the  sick-room.  Mr.  Digby 
was  very  feeble,  but  he  had  recovered  his  consciousness, 
and  inclined  his  head  courteously. 

"I  am  sorry  to  cause  so  much  trouble,"  said  he.  The 
homceopathist  drew  away  Helen ;  the  allopathist  seated 
himself  by  the  bedside  and  put  his  questions,  felt  the  pulse, 


342  MY  NOVEL;    OR, 

sounded  the  lungs,  and  looked  at  the  tongue  of  the  patient. 
Helen's  eye  was  fixed  on  the  strange  doctor,  and  her  color 
rose,  and  her  eye  sparkled  when  he  got  up  cheerfully,  and 
said  in  a  pleasant  voice,  "  You  may  have  a  little  tea." 

"  Tea  ! "  growled  the  homoeopathist — "  barbarian  ! " 

"He  is  better,  then,  sir?"  said  Helen,  creeping  to  the 
allopathist. 

"  Oh,  yes,  my  dear — certainly  ;  and  we  shall  do  very 
well,  I  hope." 

The  two  doctors  then  withdrew. 

"  Last  about  a  week  !  "  said  Dr.  Dosewell,  smiling  pleas- 
antly, and  showing  a  very  white  set  of  teeth. 

"  I  should  have  said  a  month  ;  but  our  systems  are  dif- 
ferent," replied  Dr.  Morgan,  dryly. 

DR.  DOSEWELL  (courteously). — We  country  doctors  bow 
to  our  metropolitan  superiors  ;  what  would  you  advise  ? 
You  would  venture,  perhaps,  the  experiment  of  bleeding. 

DR.  MORGAN  (spluttering  and  growing  Welch,  which  he 
never  did  but  in  excitement). — Pleed  !  Cott  in  heaven !  do 
you  think  I  am  a  putcher — an  executioner  ?  Pleed  !  Never. 

DR.  DOSEWELL. — I  don't  find  it  answer,  myself,  when 
both  lungs  are  gone  !  But  perhaps  you  are  for  inhaling. 

DR.  MORGAN. — Fiddlededee  ! 

DR.  DOSEWELL  (with  some  displeasure). — What  would 
you  advise,  then,  in  order  to  prolong  our  patient's  life  for 
a  month  ? 

DR.  MORGAN. — Give  him  Rhus  ! 

DR.  DOSEWELL. — Rhus,  sir !  Rhus !  I  don't  know  that 
medicine.  Rhus ! 

DR.  MORGAN. — Rhus  Toxicodendron. 

The  length  of  the  last  word  excited  Dr.  Dosewell's  re- 
spect. A  word  of  five  syllables — this  was  something  like ! 
He  bowed  deferentially,  but  still  looked  puzzled.  At  last 
he  said,  smiling  frankly,  "You  great  London  practitioners 
have  so  many  new  medicines  ;  may  I  ask  what  Rhus  toxico 
— toxico " 

"Dendron." 

"  Is  ?  " 

"The  juice  of  the  Upas — vulgarly  called  the  Poison- 
Tree." 

Dr.  Dosewell  started. 

"  Upas — poison-tree — little  birds  that  come  under  the 
shade  fall  down  dead  !  You  give  upas-juice  in  these  des- 
perate cases — what's  the  dose  ? " 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  343 

Dr.  Morgan  grinned  maliciously,  and  produced  a  globule 
the  size  of  a  small  pin's  head. 

Dr.  Dosewell  recoiled  in  disgust. 

"  Oh  !  "  said  he  very  coldly,  and  assuming  at  once  an  air 
of  superb  superiority,  "  I  see — a  homoeopathist,  sir!  " 

"A  homoeopathist ! " 

"Urn  !" 

"  Urn  !  " 

"A  strange  system,  Dr.  Morgan,"  said  Dr.  Dosewell,  re- 
covering his  cheerful  smile,  but  with  a  curl  of  contempt  in 
it,  "  and  would  soon  do  for  the  druggists." 

"  Serve  'em  right.  The  druggists  soon  do  for  the  pa- 
tients." 

"Sir!" 

"  Sir  ! " 

DR.  DOSEWELL  (with  dignity). — You  don't  know,  perhaps, 
Dr.  Morgan,  that  I  am  an  apothecary  as  well  as  a  surgeon. 
In  fact  (he  added,  with  a  certain  grand  humility),  I  have  not 
yet  taken  a  diploma,  and  am  but  Doctor  by  courtesy. 

DR.  MORGAN. — All  one,  sir!  Doctor  signs  the  death- 
warrant — 'pothecary  does  the  deed  ! 

DR.  DOSEWELL  (with  a  withering  sneer). — Certainly  we 
don't  profess  to  keep  a  dying  man  alive  upon  the  juice  of 
the  deadly  upas-tree. 

DR.  MORGAN  (complacently). — Of  course  you  don't. 
There  are  no  poisons  with  us.  That's  just  the  difference 
between  you  and  me,  Dr.  Dosewell. 

DR.  DOSEWELL  (pointing  to  the  homoeopathist's  travel- 
ling pharmacopoeia,  and  with  affected  candor). — Indeed,  I 
have  always  said  that  if  you  can  do  no  good  you  can  do  no 
harm,  with  your  infinitesimals. 

Dr.  Morgan,  who  had  been  obtuse  to  the  insinuation  of 
poisoning,  fires  up  violently  at  the  charge  of  doing  no  harm. 

"  You  know  nothing  about  it  !  I  could  kill  quite  as 
many  people  as  you,  if  I  chose  it  ;  but  I  don't  choose." 

DR.  DOSEWELL  (shrugging  his  shoulders). — Sir !  'tis  no 
use  arguing  ;  the  thing's  against  common  sense.  In  short, 
it  is  my  firm  belief  that  it  is — is  a  complete — 

DR.  MORGAN. — A  complete  what  ? 

DR.  DOSEWELL  (provoked  to  the  utmost). — Humbug  ! 

DR.  MORGAN.  —  Humpug  !  Cott  in  heaven !  You 
old 

DP.  DOSEWELL. — Old  what,  sir  ? 

DR.  MORGAN  (at  home   in  a  series  of  alliteral  vowels, 


344  MY  NOVEL;    OR, 

which  none  but  a  Cimbrian  could  have  uttered  without 
gasping). — Old  allopathical  anthropophagite  ! 

DR.  DOSEWELL  (starting  up,  seizing  by  the  back  the  chair 
on  which  he  had  sate,  and  bringing  it  down  violently  on  its 
four  legs). — Sir! 

DR.  MORGAN  (imitating  the  action  with  his  own  chair). — 
Sir! 

DR.  DOSEWELL. — You're  abusive. 

DR.  MORGAN. — You're  impertinent. 

DR.  DOSEWELL. — Sir. 

DR.  MORGAN. — Sir. 

The  two  rivals  fronted  each  other. 

They  were  both  athletic  men,  and  fiery  men.  Dr.  Dose- 
well  was  the  taller,  but  Dr.  Morgan  was  the  stouter.  Dr. 
Dosewell  on  the  mother's  side  was  Irish  ;  but  Dr.  Morgan 
on  both  sides  was  Welsh.  All  things  considered,  I  would 
have  backed  Dr.  Morgan  if  it  had  come  to  blows.  But, 
luckily  for  the  honor  of  science,  here  the  chambermaid 
knocked  at  the  door,  and  said,  "  The  coach  is  coming, 
sir." 

Dr.  Morgan  recovered  his  temper  and  his  manners  at 
that  announcement.  "Dr.  Dosewell,"  said  he,  "I  have 
been  too  hot — I  apologize." 

"Dr.  Morgan,"  answered  the  allopathist,  "I  forgot  my- 
self. Your  hand,  sir." 

DR.  MORGAN. — We  are  both  devoted  to  humanity,  though 
with  different  opinions.  We  should  respect  each  other. 

DR.  DOSEWELL. — Where  look  for  liberality,  if  men  of 
science  are  illiberal  to  their  brethren  ? 

DR.  MORGAN  (aside). — The  old  hypocrite  !  He  would 
pound  me  in  a  mortar  if  the  law  would  let  him. 

DR.  DOSEWELL  (aside). — The  wretched  charlatan !  I 
should  like  to  pound  him  in  a  mortar. 

DR.  MORGAN. — Good  bye,  my  esteemed  and  worthy 
brother. 

DR.  DOSEWELL. — My  excellent  friend,  good  bye. 

DR.  MORGAN  (returning  in  haste). — I  forgot.  I  don't 
think  our  poor  patient  is  very  rich.  I  confide  him  to  your 
disinterested  benevolence. — (Hurries  away.) 

DR.  DOSEWELL  (in  a  rage). — Seven  miles  at  six  o'clock  in 
the  morning,  and  perhaps  done  out  of  my  fee !  Quack  ! 
Villain  ! 

Meanwhile  Dr.  Morgan  had  returned  to  the  sick-room. 

"  I  must  wish  you  farewell,"  said  he  to  poor  Mr.  Digby, 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  345 

who  was  languidly  sipping  his  tea.  "  But  you  are  in  the 
hands  of  a — of  a — gentleman  in  the  profession." 

"You  have  been  too  kind — I  am  shocked,"  said  Mr. 
Digby.  "  Helen,  where's  my  purse  ?  " 

Dr.  Morgan  paused. 

He  paused,  first,  because  it  must  be  owned  that  his 
practice  was  restricted,  and  a  fee  gratified  the  vanity 
natural  to  unappreciated  talent,  and  had  the  charm  of 
novelty,  which  is  sweet  to  human  nature  itself.  Secondly, 
he  was  a  man — 

"  Who  knew  his  rights  ;  and,  knowing,  dared  maintain." 

Fie  had  resigned  a  coach-fare — stayed  a  night — and  thought 
he  had  relieved  his  patient.  He  had  a  right  to  his  fee. 

On  the  other  hand,  he  paused,  because,  though  he  had 
small  practice,  he  was  tolerably 'well  off,  and  did  not  care 
for  money  in  itself,  and  he  suspected  his  patient  to  be  no 
Crcesus. 

Meanwhile  the  purse  was  in  Helen's  hand.  He  took  it 
from  her,  and  saw  but  a  few  sovereigns  within  the  well- 
worn  net-work.  He  drew  the  child  a  little  aside. 

"Answer  me,  my  dear,  frankly — is  your  papa  rich?" 
And  he  glanced  at  the  shabby  clothes  strewed  on  the  chair, 
and  Helen's  faded  frock. 

"  Alas,  no  !"  said  Helen,  hanging  her  head. 

"  Is  that  all  you  have  ? " 

"  All." 

"  I  am  ashamed  to  offer  you  two  guineas,"  said  Mr. 
Digby's  hollow  voice  from  the  bed. 

"  And  I  should  be  still  more  ashamed  to  take  them. 
Good  bye,  sir.  Come  here,  my  child.  Keep  your  money, 
and  don't  waste  it  on  the  other  doctor  more  than  you  can 
help.  His  medicines  can  do  your  father  no  good.  But  I 
suppose  you  must  have  some.  He's  no  physician,  therefore 
there's  no  fee.  He'll  send  a  bill — it  can't  be  much.  You 
understand.  And  now,  God  bless  you." 

Dr.  Morgan  was  off.  But,  as  he  paid  the  landlady  his 
bill,  he  said,  considerately,  "  The  poor  people  up-stairs  can 
pay  you,  but  not  that  doctor — and  he's  of  no  use.  Be  kind 
to  the  little  girl,  and  get  the  doctor  to  tell  his  patient 
(quietly,  of  course)  to  write  to  his  friends — soon — you  un- 
derstand. Somebody  must  take  charge  of  the  poor  child. 
And  stop — hold  your  hand  ;  take  care— these  globules  for 


346  My  NOVEL;    OR, 

the  little  girl  when  her  father  dies — (here  the  Doctor 
muttered  to  himself,  '  grief — aconite  ') — and  if  she  cries  too 
much  afterward — these — (don't  mistake).  Tears — caustic  !  " 

"  Come,  sir,"  cried  the  coachman. 

"  Coming  ; — tears — caustic"  repeated  the  hornceopathist, 
pulling  out  his  handkerchief  and  his  phial-book  together  as 
he  got  into  the  coach  ;  and  he  hastily  swallowed  his  anti- 
lachrymal. 


CHAPTER  XIV. 

RICHARD  AVENEL  was  in  a  state  of  great  nervous  ex- 
citement. He  proposed  to  give  an  entertainment  of  a 
kind  wholly  new  to  the  experience  of  Screwstown.  Mrs. 
M'Catchley  had  described  with  much  eloquence  the  Dejeuners 
dansants  of  her  fashionable  friends  residing  in  the  elegant 
suburbs  of  Wimbledon  and  Fulham.  She  declared  that 
nothing  was  so  agreeable.  She  had  even  said  point-blank 
to  Mr.  Avenel,  "Why  don't  you  give  a  De'jetiner  dansant  ?  " 
And,  therewith,  a  Dejef.ner  dansant  Mr.  Avenel  resolved  to 
give. 

The  day  was  fixed,  and  Mr.  Avenel  entered  into  all  the 
requisite  preparations,  with  the  energy  of  a  man  and  the 
providence  of  a  woman. 

One  morning  as  he  stood  musing  on  the  lawn,  irresolute 
as  to  the  best  site  for  the  tents,  Leonard  came  up  to  him 
with  an  open  letter  in  his  hand. 

"  My  dear  uncle,"  said  he,  softly. 

"  Ha  ! "  exclaimed  Mr.  Avenel,  with  a  start.  "  Ha — 
well — what  now  ? " 

"  I  have  just  received  a  letter  from  Mr.  Dale.  He  tells 
me  that  my  poor  mother  is  very  restless  and  uneasy,  because 
he  cannot  assure  her  that  he  has  heard  from  me  ;  and  his 
letter  requires  an  answer.  Indeed  I  shall  seem  very  ungrate- 
ful to  him — to  all — if  I  do  not  write." 

Richard  Avenel's  brows  met.  He  uttered  an  impatient 
"  pish  !  "  and  turned  away.  Then  coming  back,  he  fixed  his 
clear  hawk-like  eye  on  Leonard's  ingenuous  countenance, 
linked  his  arm  in  his  nephew's,  and  drew  him  into  the 
shrubbery. 

"  Well,  Leonard,"  said  he,  after  a  pause,  "  it  is  time  that 
I  should  give  you  some  idea  of  my  plans  with  regard  to  you. 


VARIETIES     IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  347 

You  have  seen  my  manner  of  living — some  difference  from 
what  you  ever  saw  before,  I  calculate  !  Now  I  have  given 
you,  what  no  one  gave  me,  a  lift  in  the  world  ;  and  where  I 
place  you,  there  you  must  help  yourself." 

"Such  is  my  duty,  and  my  desire,"  said  Leonard 
heartily. 

"  Good.  You  are  a  clever  lad,  and  a  genteel  lad,  and 
will  do  me  credit.  I  have  had  doubts  of  what  is  best  for 
you.  At  one  time  I  thought  of  sending  you  to  college. 
That,  I  know,  is  Mr.  Dale's  wish  ;  perhaps  it  is  your  own. 
But  I  have  given  up  that  idea  ;  I  have  something  better  for 
you.  You  have  a  clear  head  for  business,  and  are  a  capital 
arithmetician.  I  think  of  bringing  you  up  to  superintend 
my  business ;  by-and-by  I  will  admit  you  into  partnership  ; 
and  before  you  are  thirty  you  will  be  a  rich  man.  Come, 
does  that  suit  you  ?  " 

"  My  dear  uncle,"  said  Leonard,  frankly,  but  much 
touched  by  this  generosity,  "it  is  not  for  me  to  have  a 
choice.  I  should  have  preferred  going  to  college,  because 
there  I  might  gain  independence  for  myself,  and  cease  to  be 
a  burden  on  you.  Moreover,  my  heart  moves  me  to  studies 
more  congenial  with  the  college  than  the  counting-house. 
But  all  this  is  nothing  compared  with  my  wish  to  be  of  use 
to  you,  and  to  prove  in  any  way,  however  feebly,  my  grati- 
tuie  for  all  your  kindness." 

"You're  a  good,  grateful,  sensible  lad,"  exclaimed  Rich- 
ard, heartily  ;  "  and  believe  me,  though  I'm  a  rough  dia- 
mond, I  have  your  true  interest  at  heart.  You  can  be  of 
use  to  me,  and  in  being  so  you  will  best  serve  yourself. 
To  tell  you  the  truth,  I  have  some  idea  of  changing  my  con- 
dition. There's  a  lady  of  fashion  and  quality  who,  I  think, 
may  condescend  to  become  Mrs.  Avenel  ;  and  if  so,  I  shall 
probably  reside  a  great  part  of  the  year  in  London.  I  don't 
want  to  give  up  my  business.  No  other  investment  will 
yield  the  same  interest.  But  you  can  soon  learn  to  superin- 
tend it  for  me,  as  some  day  or  other  I  may  retire,  and  then 
you  can  step  in.  Once  a  member  of  our  great  commercial 
class,  and  with  your  talents  you  may  be  anything — member 
of  parliament,  and  after  that,  minister  of  state,  for  what  I 
know.  And  my  wife — hem! — that  is  to  be — has  great  con- 
nections, and  you  shall  marry  well ;  and — oh,  the  Avenels 
will  hold  their  heads  with  the  highest,  after  all !  Damn  the 
aristocracy — we  clever  fellows  will  be  the  aristocrats — 
eh  ? "  Richard  rubbed  his  hands. 


348  MY  NOVEL;    OR, 

Certainly,  as  we  have  seen,  Leonard,  especially  in  his 
earlier  steps  to  knowledge,  had  repined  at  his  position  in 
the  many  degrees  of  life — certainly  he  was  still  ambitious — 
certainly  he  could  not  now  have  returned  contentedly  to  the 
humble  occupation  he  had  left ;  and  woe  to  the  young  man 
who  does  not  hear  with  a  quickened  pulse,  and  brightening 
eye,  words  that  promise  independence,  and  flatter  with  the 
hope  of  distinction.  Still,  it  was  with  all  the  reaction  of 
chill  and  mournful  disappointment  that  Leonard,  a  few 
hours  after  this  dialogue  with  his  uncle,  found  himself  alone 
in  the  fields,  and  pondering  over  the  prospects  before  him. 
He  had  set  his  heart  upon  completing  his  intellectual  edu- 
tion,  upon  developing  those  powers  within  him  which 
yearned  for  an  arena  of  literature,  and  revolted  from  the 
routine  of  trade.  But  to  his  credit  be  it  said,  that  he  vig- 
orously resisted  this  natural  disappointment,  and  by  degrees 
schooled  himself  to  look  cheerfully  on  the  path  imposed  on 
his  duty,  and  sanctioned  by  the  manly  sense  that  was  at  the 
core  of  his  character. 

I  believe  that  this  self-conquest  showed  that  the  boy  had 
true  genius.  The  false  genius  would  have  written  sonnets 
and  despaired. 

But  still,  Richard  Avenel  left  his  nephew  sadly  perplexed 
as  to  the  knotty  question  from  which  their  talk  on  the  future 
had  diverged — viz.,  should  he  write  to  the  Parson,  and 
assure  the  fears  of  his  mother?  How  do  so  without  Rich- 
ard's consent,  when  Richard  had  on  a  former  occasion  so 
imperiously  declared  that,  if  he  did,  it  would  lose  his  mother 
all  that  Richard  intended  to  settle  on  her?  While  he  was 
debating  this  matter  with  his  conscience,  leaning  against  a 
stile  that  interrupted  a  path  to  the  town,  Leonard  Fairfield 
was  startled  by  an  exclamation.  He  looked  up,  and  beheld 
Mr.  Sprott,  the  tinker. 


CHAPTER   XV. 

THE  tinker,  blacker  and  grimmer  than  ever,  stared  hard 
at  the  altered  person  of  his  old  acquaintance,  and  extended 
his  sable  fingers,  as  if  inclined  to  convince  himself  by  the 
sense  of  touch  that  it  was  Leonard  in  the  flesh  that  he  be- 
held, under  vestments  so  marvellously  elegant  and  preter- 
natu  rally  spruce. 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  349 

Leonard  shrunk  mechanically  from  the  contact,  while  in 
great  surprise  he  faltered — 

"You  here,  Mr.  Sprott !  What  could  bring  you  so  far 
from  home  ?  " 

"  'Ome  ! "  echoed  the  tinker,  "  I  'as  no  'ome  !  or  rather, 
d'ye  see,  Muster  Fairfilt,  I  makes  myself  at  'ome  verever  I 
goes !  Lor'  love  ye,  I  ben't  settled  on  no  parridge.  I 
vanders  here  and  I  vanders  there,  and  that's  my  'ome  verever 
I  can  mend  my  kettles  and  sell  my  tracks ! " 

So  saying,  the  tinker  slid  his  panniers  on  the  ground,  gave 
a  grunt  of  release  and  satisfaction,  and  seated  himself  with 
great  composure  on  the  stile,  from  which  Leonard  had 
retreated. 

"  But,  dash  my  vig,"  resumed  Mr.  Sprott,  as  he  once 
more  surveyed  Leonard,  "  vy,  you  bees  a  rale  gentleman, 
now  surety  /  Vot's  the  dodge — eh  ?  " 

"  Dodge  !  "  repeated  Leonard,  mechanically — "  I  don't 
understand  you."  Then,  thinking  that  it  was  neither  neces- 
sary nor  expedient  to  keep  up  his  acquaintance  with  Mr. 
Sprott,  nor  prudent  to  expose  himself  to  the  battery  of 
questions  which  he  foresaw  that  further  parley  would  bring 
upon  him,  he  extended  a  crown-piece  to  the  tinker  ;  and 
saying  with  a  half-smile,  "You  must  excuse  me  for  leaving 
you — I  have  business  in  the  town  ;  and  do  me  the  favor  to 
accept  this  trifle,"  he  walked  briskly  off. 

The  tinker  looked  long  at  the  crown-piece,  and  then 
sliding  it  into  his  pocket,  said  to  himself — 

"  Ho — 'ush-money  !     No  go,  my  swell  cove." 

After  venting  that  brief  soliloquy,  he  sat  silent  a  little 
while,  till  Leonard  was  nearly  out  of  sight,  then  rose,  re- 
sumed his  fardel,  and  creeping  quick  along  the  hedge-rows, 
followed  Leonard  toward  the  town.  Just  in  the  last  field, 
as  he  looked  over  the  hedge,  he  saw  Leonard  accosted  by  a 
gentleman  of  comely  mien  and  important  swagger.  That 
gentleman  soon  left  the  young  man,  and  came,  whistling 
loud,  up  the  path,  and  straight  toward  the  tinker.  Mr. 
Sprott  looked  round,  but  the  hedge  Was  too  neat  to  allow 
of  a  good  hiding-place,  so  he  put  a  bold  front  on  it,  and 
stepped  forth  like  a  man.  But,  alas  for  him  !  before  he  got 
into  the  public  path,  the  proprietor  of  the  land,  Mr.  Richard 
Avenel  (for  the  gentleman  was  no  less  a  personage),  had 
spied  out  the  trespasser,  and  called  to  him  with  a  "  Hillo, 
fellow,"  that  bespoke  all  the  dignity  of  a  man  who  owns 


3$o  MY  NOVEL;    OR, 

acres,  and  all  the  wrath  of  a  man  who  beholds  those  acres 
impudently  invaded. 

The  Tinker  stopped,  and  Mr.  Avenel  stalked  up  to  him. 

"  What  the  devil  are  you  doing  on  my  property,  lurking 
by  my  hedge  ?  I  suspect  you  are  an  incendiary  ! " 

"  I  be  a  tinker,"  quoth  Mr.  Sprott,  not  louting  low  (for 
a  sturdy  republican  was  Mr.  Sprott),  but,  like  a  lord  of 
human-kind, 

"  Pride  in  his  port,  defiance  in  his  eye." 

Mr.  Avenel's  fingers  itched  to  knock  the  tinker's  villan- 
ous  hat  off  his  Jacobinical  head,  but  he  repressed  the  un- 
dignified impulse  by  thrusting  both  hands  deep  into  his 
trousers  pockets." 

"A  tinker  !  "  he  cried — "  that's  a  vagrant  ;  and  I'm  a 
magistrate,  and  I've  a  great  mind  to  send  you  to  the  tread- 
mill— that  I  have.  What  do  you  do  here,  I  say  ?  You  have 
not  answered  my  question  ?  " 

"What  does  I  do  'ere  ?"  said  Mr.  Sprott.  "  Vy  you  had 
better  ax  my  crakter  of  the  young  gent  I  saw  you  talking 
with  just  now  ;  he  knows  me  !" 

"  What !  my  nephew  know  you  ?  " 

"W — hew,"  whistled  the  Tinker,  ''your  nephew,  is  it, 
sir?  I  have  a  great  respeck  for  your  family.  I've  known 
Mrs.-  Fairfilt,  the  vasher-voman,  this  many  a  year.  I  'umbly 
ax  your  pardon."  And  he  took  off  his  hat  this  time. 

Mr.  Avenel  turned  red  and  white  in  a  breath.  He  growled 
out  something  inaudible,  turned  on  his  heel,  and  strode  off. 

The  Tinker  watched  him  as  he  had  watched  Leonard, 
and  then  dogged  the  uncle  as  he  had  dogged  the  nephew. 
I  don't  presume  to  say  that  there  was  cause  and  effect  in 
what  happened  that  night,  but  it  was  what  is  called  a 
"curious  coincidence"  that  that  night  one  of  Richard 
Avenel's  ricks  was  set  on  fire  ;  and  that  that  day  he  had 
called  Mr.  Sprott  an  incendiary.  Mr.  Sprott  was  a  man  of 
a  very  high  spirit,  and  did  not  forgive  an  insult  easily.  His 
nature  was  inflammatory,  and  so  was  that  of  the  lucifers 
which  he  always  carried  about  him,  with  his  tracts  and  glue- 
pots. 

The  next  morning  there  was  an  inquiry  made  for  the 
Tinker,  but  he  had  disappeared  from  the  neighborhood. 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE. 


CHAPTER    XVI. 

IT  was  a  fortunate  thing  that  the  dejefiner  dansant  so  ab- 
sorbed Mr.  Richard  Avenel's  thoughts,  that  even  the  confla- 
gration of  his  rick  could  not  scare  away  the  graceful  and 
poetic  images  connected  with  that  pastoral  festivity.  He 
was  even  loose  and  careless  in  the  questions  he  put  to 
Leonard  about  the  Tinker  ;  nor  did  he  send  justice  in  pur- 
suit of  that  itinerant  trader ;  for,  to  say  truth,  Richard 
Avenel  was  a  man  accustomed  to  make  enemies  amongst  the 
lower  orders ;  and  though  he  suspected  Mr.  Sprott  of 
destroying  his  rick,  yet,  when  he  once  set  about  suspecting, 
he  found  he  had  quite  as  good  cause  to  suspect  fifty  other 
persons.  How  on  earth  could  a  man  puzzle  himself  about 
ricks  and  tinkers,  when  all  his  cares  and  energies  wrere  de- 
voted to  a  deje  finer  dansant?  It  Was  a  maxim  of  Richard 
Avenel's,  as  it  ought  to  be  of  every  clever  man,  "  to  do  one 
thing  at  a  time  ; "  and  therefore  he  postponed  all  other  con- 
siderations till  the  de'jefiner  dansant  was  fairly  done  with. 
Amongst  these  considerations  was  the  letter  which  Leonard 
wished  to  write  to  the  Parson.  "Wait  a  bit,  and  we  will 
both  write  ! "  said  Richard,  good-humoredly,  "  the  moment 
the  cttjc&ner  dansant  is  over  !  " 

It  must  be  owned  that  this  fete  was  no  ordinary  pro- 
vincial ceremonial.  Richard  Avenel  was  a  man  to  do  a  thing 
well  when  he  set  about  it — 

"  He  soused  the  cabbage  with  a  bounteous  heart." 

By  little  and  little  his  first  notions  had  expanded,  till  what 
had  been  meant  to  be  only  neat  and  elegant  now  embraced 
the  costly  and  magnificent.  Artificers  accustomed  to 
dejefiners  dansants  came  all  the  way  from  London  to  assist,  to 
direct,  to  create.  Hungarian  singers,  and  Tyrolese  singers, 
and  Swiss  peasant-women  who  were  to  chaunt  the  Ranz  des 
Vaches,  and  milk  cows,  or  make  syllabubs,  were  engaged. 
The  great  marquee  was  decorated  as  a  Gothic  banquet-hall ; 
the  breakfast  itself  was  to  consist  of  "  all  the  delicacies  of 
the  season."  In  short,  as  Richard  Avenel  said  to  himself, 
"  It  is  a  thing  once  in  a  way  ;  a  thing  on  which  I  don't  ob- 
ject to  spend  money,  provided  that  the  thing  is — the  thing !  " 


352  MY  NOVEL;    OR, 

It  had  been  a  matter  of  grave  meditation  how  to  make 
the  society  worthy  of  the  revel  ;  for  Richard  Avenel  was 
not  contented  with  a  mere  aristocracy  of  the  town — his  am- 
bition had  grown  with  his  expenses.  "  Since  it  will  cost  so 
much,"  said  he,  "  I  may  as  well  come  it  strong,  and  get  in 
the  county." 

True,  that  he  was  personally  acquainted  with  very  few 
of  what  are  called  county  families.  But  still,  when  a  man 
makes  himself  a  mark  in  a  large  town,  and  can  return  one 
of  the  members  whom  that  town  sends  to  Parliament  ;  and 
when,  moreover,  that  man  proposes  to  give  some  superb 
and  original  entertainment,  in  which  the  old  can  eat  and 
the  young  can  dance,  there  is  no  county  in  the  island  that 
has  not  families  enow  who  will  be  delighted  by  an  invitation 
from  THAT  MAN.  And  so  Richard,  finding  that,  as  the  thing 
got  talked  of,  the  Dean's  lady,  and  Mrs.  Pompley,  and 
various  other  great  personages,  took  the  liberty  to  suggest 
that  Squire  this,  and  Sir  Somebody  that,  would  be  so  pleased 
if  they  wrere  asked,  fairly  took  the  bull  by  the  horns,  and 
sent  out  his  cards  to  Park,  Hall,  and  Rectory,  within  a  cir- 
cumference of  twelve  miles.  He  met  with  but  few  refusals, 
and  he  now  counted  upon  five  hundred  guests. 

"  In  for  a  penny,  in  for  a  pound,"  said  Mr.  Richard 
Avenel.  "  I  wonder  what  Mrs.  M'Catchley  will  say  ?  "  In- 
deed, if  the  whole  truth  must  be  known,  Mr.  Richard  Avenel 
not  only  gave  that  dejeuner  dansant  in  honor  of  Mrs.  M 'Catch- 
ley,  but  he  had  fixed  in  his  heart  of  hearts  upon  that  occa- 
sion (when  surrounded  by  all  his  splendor,  and  assisted  by 
the  seductive  arts  of  Terpsichore  and  Bacchus),  to  whisper 
to  Mrs.  M'Catchley  those  soft  words  which — but  why  not 
here  let  Mr.  Richard  Avenel  use  his  own  idiomatic  and  un- 
sophisticated expression?  "Please  the  pigs,  then,"  said 
Mr.  Avenel  to  himself,  "  I  shall  pop  the  question  !" 


CHAPTER  XVII. 

THE  Great  Day  arrived  at  last ;  and  Mr.  Richard  Avenel, 
from  his  dressing-room  window,  looked  on  the  scene  below 
as  Hannibal  or  Napoleon  looked  from  the  Alps  on  Italy. 
It  was  a  scene  to  gratify  the  thought  of  conquest,  and  re- 
ward the  labors  of  ambition.  Placed  on  a  little  eminence 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  353 

stood  the  singers  from  the  mountains  of  the  Tyrol,  their 
high-crowned  hats  and  filigree  buttons  and  gay  sashes 
gleaming  in  the  sun.  Just  seen  from  his  place  of  watch, 
though  concealed  from  the  casual  eye,  the  Hungarian  mu- 
sicians lay  in  ambush  amidst  a  little  belt  of  laurels  and 
American  shrubs.  Far  to  the  right  lay  what  had  once  been 
called  (Jiorre:>co  refer  ens)  the  duck-pond,  where — Dulce  sonant 
tenui  gutture  carmen  aves.  But  the  ruthless  ingenuity  of  the 
head  artificer  had  converted  the  duck-pond  into  a  Swiss 
lake,  despite  grievous  wrong  and  sorrow  to  the  assuetum 
innocuumque  genus — the  familiar  and  harmless  inhabitants, 
who  had  been  all  expatriated  and  banished  from  their  native 
waves.  Large  poles  twisted  with  fir-branches,  stuck  thickly 
around  the  lake,  gave  to  the  waters  the  becoming  Helvetian 
gloom.  And  here,  beside  three  cows  all  bedecked  with 
ribbons,  stood  the  Swiss  maidens  destined  to  startle  the 
shades  with  the  Ranz  des  Vaches.  To  the  left,  full  upon  the 
sward,  which  it  almost  entirely  covered,  stretched  the  great 
Gothic  marquee,  divided  into  two  grand  sections — one  for 
the  dancing,  one  for  the  de'jefiner. 

The  day  was  propitious — not  a  cloud  in  the  sky.  The 
musicians  were  already  tuning  their  instruments  ;  figures 
of  waiters  hired  of  Gunter — trim  and  decorous,  in  black 
trousers  and  white  waistcoats — passed  to  and  fro  the  space 
between  the  house  and  marquee.  Richard  looked  and 
looked  ;  and  as  he  looked  he  drew  mechanically  his  razor 
across  the  strop  ;  and  when  he  had  looked  his  fill,  he  turned 
reluctantly  to  the  glass  and  shaved  !  All  that  blessed  morn- 
ing he  had  been  too  busy,  till  then,  to  think  of  shaving. 

There  is  a  vast  deal  of  character  in  the  way  that  a  man 
performs  that  operation  of  shaving !  You  should  have 
seen  Richard  Avenel  shave  !  You  could  have  judged  at 
once  how  he  would  shave  his  neighbors,  when  you  saw  the 
celerity,  the  completeness  with  which  he  shaved  himself — • 
a  forestroke  and  a  backstroke,  and  tondenti  barba  cadebat! 
Cheek  and  chin  were  as  smooth  as  glass.  You  would  have 
buttoned  up  your  pockets  instinctively,  if  you  had  seen  him. 

But  the  rest  of  Mr.  Avenel's  toilet  was  not  completed 
with  correspondent  despatch.  On  his  bed,  and  on  his 
chairs,  and  on  his  sofa,  and  on  his  drawers,  lay  trousers, 
and  vests,  and  cravats  enough  to  distract  the  choice  of  a 
Stoic.  And  first  one  pair  of  trousers  was  tried  on,  and 
then  another — and  one  waistcoat,  and  then  a  second,  and 
then  a  third.  Gradually  that  chef-dozuvre  of  Civilization — a 


354  MY  tfOVEL;    OR, 

man  dressed — grew  into  development  and  form  ;  and,  finally, 
Mr.  Richard  Avenel  emerged  into  the  light  of  day.  He 
had  been  lucky  in  his  costume — he  felt  it.  It  might  not 
suit  every  one  in  color  or  cut,  but  it  suited  him. 

And  this  was  his  garb.  On  such  occasions,  what  epic 
poet  would  not  describe  the  robe  and  tunic  of  a  hero  ? 

His  surtout — in  modern  phrase,  his  frock-coat — was  blue, 
a  rich  blue — a  blue  that  the  royal  brothers  of  George  the 
Fourth  were  wont  to  favor.  And  the  surtout,  single- 
breasted,  was  thrown  open  gallantly  ;  and  in  the  second 
button-hole  thereof  was  a  moss-rose.  The  vest  was  white, 
and  the  trousers  a  pearl-gray,  with  what  tailors  style  "a 
handsome  fall  over  the  boot."  A  blue  and  white  silk 
cravat,  tied  loose  and  dcbonnaire  ;  an  ample  field  of  shirt- 
front,  with  plain  gold  studs  ;  a  pair  of  lemon-colored  kid 
gloves,  and  a  white  hat,  placed  somewhat  too  knowingly 
on  one  side,  complete  the  description,  and  "give  the  world 
assurance  of  the  man."  And,  with  his  light,  firm,  well- 
shaped  figure,  his  clear  complexion,  his  keen,  bright  eye, 
and  features  that  bespoke  the  courage,  precision,  and  alert- 
ness of  his  character — that  is  to  say,  features  bold,  not  large, 
well-defined  and  regular — you  might  walk  long  through 
town  or  country  before  you  would  see  a  handsomer  speci- 
men of  humanity  than  our  friend,  Richard  Avenel. 

Handsome,  and  feeling  that  he  was  handsome  ;  rich,  and 
feeling  that  he  was  rich  ;  lord  of  the  fete,  and  feeling  that 
he  was  lord  of  the  fete,  Richard  Avenel  stepped  out  upon 
his  lawn. 

And  now  the  dust  began  to  rise  along  the  road,  and  car- 
riages, and  gigs,  and  chaises,  and  flies,  might  be  seen  at 
near  intervals,  and  in  quick  procession.  People  came  pretty 
much  about  the  same  time — as  they  do  in  the  country — 
Heaven  reward  them  for  it ! 

Richard  Avenel  was  not  quite  at  his  ease  at  first  in  re- 
ceiving his  guests,  especially  those  whom  he  did  not  know 
by  sight.  But  when  the  dancing  began,  and  he  had  secured 
the  fair  hand  of  Mrs.  M'Catchley  for  the  initiatory  quadrille, 
his  courage  and  presence  of  mind  returned  to  him  ;  and, 
seeing  that  many  people  whom  he  had  not  received  at  all 
seemed  to  enjoy  themselves  very  much,  he  gave  up  the  at- 
tempt to  receive  those  who  came  after — and  that  was  a 
great  relief  to  all  parties. 

Meanwhile  Leonard  looked  on  the  animated  scene  with 
a  silent  melancholy,  which  he  in  vain  endeavored  to  shake 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  355 

off — a  melancholy  more  common  amongst  very  young  men 
in  such  scenes  than  we  are  apt  to  suppose.  Somehow  or 
other,  the  pleasure  was  not  congenial  to  him  ;  he  had  no 
Mrs.  M'Catchley  to  endear  it — he  knew  very  few  people — 
he  was  shy — he  felt  his  position  with  his  uncle  was  equivo- 
cal— he  had  not  the  habit  of  society — he  heard  incidentally 
many  an  ill-natured  remark  upon  his  uncle  and  the  enter- 
tainment— he  felt  indignant  and  mortified.  He  had  been 
a  great  deal  happier  eating  his  radishes,  and  reading  his 
book  by  the  little  fountain  in  Riccabocca's  garden.  He  re- 
tired to  a  quiet  part  of  the  grounds,  seated  himself  under 
a  tree,  leaned  his  cheek  on  his  hand,  and  mused.  He  was 
soon  far  away  : — happy  age,  when,  whatever  the  present,  the 
future  seems  so  far  and  so  infinite  ! 

But  now  the  ddjefiner  had  succeeded  the  earlier  dances  ; 
and,  as  champagne  flowed  royally,  it  is  astonishing  how  the 
entertainment  brightened. 

The  sun  was  beginning  to  slope  toward  the  west  when, 
during  a  temporary  cessation  of  the  dance,  all  the  guests 
had  assembled  in  such  space  as  the  tent  left  on  the  lawn,  or 
thickly  filled  the  walks  immediately  adjoining  it.  The  gay 
dresses  of  the  ladies,  the  joyous  laughter  heard  everywhere, 
and  the  brilliant  sunlight  over  all,  conveyed  even  to  Leon- 
ard the  notion,  not  of  mere  hypocritical  pleasure,  but  actual 
healthful  happiness.  He  was  attracted  from  his  reverie, 
and  timidly  mingled  with  the  groups.  But  Richard  Avenel, 
with  the  fair  Mrs.  M'Catchley — her  complexion  more  vivid, 
and  her  eyes  more  dazzling,  and  her  step  more  elastic  than 
usual — had  turned  from  the  gaiety  just  as  Leonard  had 
turned  toward  it,  and  was  now  on  the  very  spot  (remote, 
obscure,  shaded  by  the  few  trees  above  five  years  old  that 
Mr.  Avenel's  property  boasted)  which  the  young  dreamer 
had  deserted. 

And  then  !  Ah,  then  ! — moment  so  meet  for  the  sweet 
question  of  questions,  place  so  appropriate  for  the  delicate, 
bashful,  murmured  popping  thereof  ! — suddenly  from  the 
sward  before,  from  the  groups  beyond,  there  floated  to  the 
ears  of  Richard  Avenel  an  indescribable,  mingled,  ominous 
sound — a  sound  as  of  a  general  titter, — a  horrid,  malignant, 
but  low  cachinnation.  And  Mrs.  M'Catchley,  stretching 
forth  her  parasol,  exclaimed,  "  Dear  me,  Mr.  Avenel,  what 
can  they  be  all  crowding  there  for  ?  " 

There  are  certain  sounds  and  certain  sights — the  one 
indistinct,  the  other  vaguely  conjccturable — which,  never- 


356  MY  NOVEL;    OR, 

theless,  we  know,  by  an  instinct,  bode  some  diabolical 
agency  at  work  in  our  affairs.  And  if  any  man  gives  an  en- 
tertainment, and  hears  afar  a  general,  ill-suppressed,  derisive 
titter,  and  sees  all  his  guests  hurrying  toward  one  spot,  I 
defy  him  to  remain  unmoved  and  uninquisitive.  I  defy  him 
still  more  to  take  that  precise  occasion  (however  much  he 
may  have  before  designed  it)  to  drop  gracefully  on  his  right 
knee  before  the  handsomest  Mrs.  M'Catchley  in  the  universe, 
and, — pop  the  question !  Richard  Avenel  blurted  out 
something  very  like  an  oath  ;  and,  half  guessing  that  some- 
thing must  have  happened  that  it  would  not  be  pleasing  to 
bring  immediately  under  the  notice  of  Mrs.  M'Catchley,  he 
said  hastily — "  Excuse  me.  I'll  just  go  and  see  what  is  the 
matter  ;  pray,  stay  till  I  come  back."  With  that  he  sprang 
forward  ;  in  a  minute  he  was  in  the  midst  of  the  group, 
that  parted  aside  with  the  most  obliging  complacency  to 
make  way  for  him. 

"  But  what's  the  matter  ? "  he  asked,  impatiently,  yet 
fearfully.  Not  a  voice  answered.  He  strode  on,  and  be- 
held his  nephew  in  the  arms  of  a  woman  ! 

"God  bless  my  soul !"  said  Richard  Avenel. 


CHAPTER  XVIII. 

AND  such  a  woman  ! 

She  had  on  a  cotton  gown — very  neat,  I  dare  say — for  an 
under-housemaid  ;  and  such  thick  shoes  !  She  had  on  a 
little  black  straw  bonnet ;  and  a  kerchief,  that  might  have 
cost  tenpence,  pinned  across  her  waist  instead  of  a  shawl ; 
and  she  looked  altogether — respectable,  no  doubt,  but  ex- 
ceedingly dusty  !  And  she  was  hanging  upon  Leonard's 
neck,  and  scolding,  and  caressing,  and  crying,  very  loud. 
"  God  bless  my  soul !  "  said  Mr.  Richard  Avenel. 

As  he  uttered  that  innocent  self-benediction,  the  woman 
hastily  turned  round,  and,  darting  from  Leonard,  threw 
herself  right  upon  Richard  Avenel — burying  under  her  em- 
brace blue  coat,  moss-rose,  white  waistcoat  and  all — with  a 
vehement  sob  and  a  loud  exclamation  ! 

"  Oh  !  brother  Dick  ! — dear,  dear  brother  Dick  !  And 
I  lives  to  see  thee  agin  ! "  And  then  came  two  such  kisses 
— you  might  have  heard  them  a  mile  off  !  The  situation 


VARIETIES   IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  357 

of  brother  Dick  was  appalling  ;  and  the  crowd  that  had  be- 
fore only  tittered  politely,  could  not  now  resist  the  effect 
of  this  sudden  embrace.  There  was  a- general  explosion  ! 
— It  was  a  roar.  That  roar  would  have  killed  a  weak  man  ; 
but  it  sounded  to  the  strong  heart  of  Richard  Avenel  like 
the  defiance  of  a  foe,  and  it  plucked  forth  in  an  instant 
from  all  conventional  let  and  barrier  the  native  spirit  of  the 
Anglo-Saxon. 

He  lifted  abruptly  his  handsome  masculine  head,  and 
looked  round  the  ring  of  his  ill-bred  visitors  with  a  haughty 
stare  of  rebuke  and  surprise. 

"  Ladies  and  gentlemen,"  then  said  he,  very  coolly,  "  I 
don't  see  what  there  is  to  laugh  at  ?  A  brother  and  sister 
meet  after  many  years'  separation,  and  the  sister  cries, 
poor  thing !  For  my  part  I  think  it  very  natural  that  she 
should  cry;  but  not  that  you  should  laugh!"  In  an  in- 
stant the  whole  shame  was  removed  from  Richard  Avenel, 
and  rested  in  full  weight  upon  the  bystanders.  It  is  im- 
possible to  say  how  foolish  and  sheepish  they  all  looked,  nor 
how  slinkingly  each  tried  to  creep  off. 

Richard  Avenel  seized  his  advantage  with  the  prompti- 
tude of  a  man  who  had  got  on  in  America,  and  was,  there- 
fore, accustomed  to  make  the  best  of  things.  He  drew 
Mrs.  Fairfield's  arm  in  his,  and  led  her  into  the  house  ; 
but  when  he  had  got  her  safe  into  his  parlor — Leonard  fol- 
lowing all  the  time — and  the  door  was  closed  upon  those 
three,  then  Richard  Avenel's  ire  burst  forth. 

"You  impudent,  ungrateful,  audacious — drab  !" 

Yes,  drab  was  the  word.  I  was  shocked  to  say  it,  but 
the  duties  of  an  historian  are  stern,  and  the  word  was — 
drab. 

"  Drab !  "  faltered  poor  Jane  Fairfield  ;  and  she  clutched 
hold  of  Leonard,  to  save  herself  from  falling. 

"  Sir  !  "  cried  Leonard,  fiercely. 

You  might  as  well  have  cried  "  Sir  "  to  a  mountain  tor- 
rent. Richard  hurried  on,  for  he  was  furious. 

"  You  nasty  dirty  dusty  dowdy  !  How  dare  you  come 
here  to  disgrace  me  in  my  own  house  and  premises,  after 
my  sending  you  fifty  pounds  !  To  take  the  very  time  too, 
when — when " 

Richard  gasped  for  breath  ;  and  the  laugh  of  his 
guests  rang  in  his  ears,  and  got  into  his  chest,  and  choked 
him.  Jane  Fairfield  drew  herself  up,  and  her  tears  were 
dried 


358  MY  NOVEL;    OK, 

"  I  did  not  come  to  disgrace  you  ;  I  came  to  see  my  boy, 
and " 

"  Ha  !"  interrupted  Richard,  "to  see  him." 

He  turned  to  Leonard :  "  You  have  written  to  this 
woman,  then  ? " 

"No,  sir,  I  have  not." 

"  I  believe  you  lie." 

"  He  does  not  lie  ;  and  he  is  as  good  as  yourself,  and 
better,  Richard  Avenel,"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Fairfield  ;  "and  I 
won't  stand  here  and  hear  him  insulted — that's  what  I 
won't.  And  as  for  your  fifty  pounds,  there  are  forty-five  of 
it ;  and  I'll  work  my  fingers  to  the  bone  till  I  pay  back  the 
other  five.  And  don't  be  afeard  I  shall  disgrace  you,  for  I'll 
never  look  on  your  face  agin  ;  and  you're  a  wicked,  bad 
man — that's  what  you  are." 

The  poor  woman's  voice  was  so  raised  and  so  shrill, 
that  any  other  and  more  remorseful  feeling  which  Richard 
might  have  conceived  was  drowned  in  his  apprehension 
that  she  would  be  overheard  by  his  servants  or  his  guests 
— a  masculine  apprehension,  with  which  females  rarely 
sympathize  ;  which,  on  the  contrary,  they  are  inclined  to 
consider  a  mean  and  cowardly  terror  on  the  part  of  their 
male  oppressors. 

"Hush!  hold  your  infernal  squall — do!"  said  Mr. 
Avenel,  in  a  tone  that  he  meant  to  be  soothing.  "There — 
sit  down — and  don't  stir  till  I  come  back  again,  and  can 
talk  to  you  calmly.  Leonard,  follow  me,  and  help  to  ex- 
plain things  to  our  guests." 

Leonard  stood  still,  but  shook  his  head  slightly. 

"What  do  you  mean,  sir?"  said  Richard  Avenel,  in  a 
very  portentous  growl.  "Shaking  your  head  at  me?  Do 
you  intend  to  disobey  me  ?  You  had  better  take  care  !  " 

Leonard's  front  rose  ;  he  drew  one  arm  round  his 
mother,  and  thus  he  spoke  : — 

"  Sir,  you  have  been  kind  to  me,  and  generous,  and  that 
thought  alone  silenced  my  indignation,  when  I  heard  you 
address  such  language  to  my  mother  ;  for  I  felt  that,  if  I 
spoke,  I  should  say  too  much.  Now  I  speak,  and  it  is  to 
say,  shortly,  that 

"  Hush,  boy,"  said  poor  Mrs.  Fairfield,  frightened ; 
"  don't  mind  me.  I  did  not  come  to  make  mischief,  and 
ruin  your  prospex.  I'll  go  !" 

"Will  you  ask  her  pardon,  Mr.  Avenel  ?"  said  Leonard, 
firmly  ;  and  he  advanced  toward  his  uncle. 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  359 

Richard,  naturally  hot  and  intolerant  of  contradiction, 
was  then  excited,  not  only  by  the  angry  emotion,  which,  it 
must  be  owned,  a  man  so  mortified,  and  in  the  very  flush 
of  triumph,  might  well  experience,  but  by  much  more  wine 
than  he  was  in  the  habit  of  drinking  ;  and  when  Leonard 
approached  him,  he  misinterpreted  the  movement  into  one 
of  menace  and  aggression.  He  lifted  his  arm  :  "Come  a 
step  nearer,"  said  he,  between  his  teeth,  "  and  I'll  knock 
you  down."  Leonard  advanced  the  forbidden  step  ;  but  as 
Richard  caught  his  eye,  there  was  something  in  that  eye — 
not  defying,  not  threatening,  but  bold  and  dauntless — 
which  Richard  recognized  and  respected,  for  that  something 
spoke  the  Freeman.  The  uncle's  arm  mechanically  fell  to 
his  side. 

"You  cannot  strike  me,  Mr.  Avenel,"  said  Leonard, 
"for  you  are  aware  that  I  could  not  strike  again  my 
mother's  brother.  As  her  son,  I  once  more  say  to  you — ask 
her  pardon." 

"  Ten  thousand  devils  !  Are  you  mad  ? — or  do  you  want 
to  drive  me  mad  ?  you  insolent  beggar,  fed  and  clothed  by 
my  charity.  Ask  her  pardon  ! — what  for  ?  That  she  has 

made  me  the  object  of  jeer  and  ridicule  with  that  d d 

cotton  gown,  and  those  double  d d  thick  shoes.  I  vow 

and  protest  they've  got  nails  in  them  !  Hark  ye,  sir,  I've 
been  insulted  by  her,  but  I'm  not  to  be  bullied  by  you. 
Come  with  me  instantly,  or  I  discard  you  ;  not  a  shilling  of 
mine  shall  you  have  as  long  as  I  live.  Take  your  choice — 
be  a  peasant,  a  laborer,  or " 

"A  base  renegade  to  natural  affection,  a  degraded 
beggar  indeed ! "  cried  Leonard,  his  breast  heaving,  and  his 
cheeks  in  a  glow.  "  Mother,  mother,  come  away.  Never 
fear — I  have  strength  and  youth,  and  we  will  work  together 
as  before." 

But  poor  Mrs.  Fairfield,  overcome  by  her  excitement,  had 
sunk  down  into  Richard's  own  handsome  morocco  leather 
easy-chair,  and  could  neither  speak  nor  stir. 

"  Confound  you  both  !  "  muttered  Richard.  "You  can't 
be  seen  creeping  out  of  my  house  now.  Keep  her  here,  you 
young  viper,  you  ;  keep  her  till  I  come  back  ;  and  then,  if 
you  choose  to  go,  go  and  be " 

Not  finishing  his  sentence,  Mr.  Avenel  hurried  out  of  the 
room,  and  locked  the  door,  putting  the  key  into  his  pocket. 
He  paused  for  a  moment  in  the  Hall,  in  order  to  collect  his 
thoughts — drew  three  or  four  deep  breaths — gave  himself  a 


36o  MY  NOVEL;    OR, 

great  shake — and,  resolved  to  be  faithful  to  his  principle  of 
doing  one  thing  at  a  time,  shook  off  in  that  shake  all  disturb- 
ing recollection  of  his  mutinous  captives.  Stern  as  Achilles 
when  he  appeared  to  the  Trojans,  Richard  Avenel  stalked 
back  to  his  lawn. 


CHAPTER  XIX. 

BRIEF  as  had  been  his  absence,  the  host  could  see  that, 
in  the  interval,  a  great  and  notable  change  had  come  over 
the  spirit  of  his  company.  Some  of  those  who  lived  in  the 
town  were  evidently  preparing  to  return  home  on  foot ;  those 
who  lived  at  a  distance,  and  whose  carriages  (having  been 
sent  away,  and  ordered  to  return  at  a  fixed  hour)  had  not  yet 
arrived,  were  gathered  together  in  small  knots  and  groups  ; 
all  looked  sullen  and  displeased,  and  all  instinctively  turned 
from  their  host  as  he  passed  them  by.  They  felt  they  had 
been  lectured,  and  they  were  more  put  out  than  Richard 
himself.  They  did  not  know  if  they  might  not  be  lectured 
again.  This  vulgar  man,  of  what  might  he  not  be  capable  ? 

Richard's  shrewd  sense  comprehended  in  an  instant  all 
the  difficulties  of  his  position;  but  he  walked  on  deliberately 
and  directly  toward  Mrs.  M'Catchley",  who  was  standing 
near  the  grand  marquee  with  the  Pompleys  and  the  Dean's 
lady.  As  these  personages  saw  him  make  thus  boldly 
toward  them,  there  wras  a  flutter.  "  Hang  the  fellow  !  "  said 
the  Colonel,  intrenching  himself  in  his  stock,  "he  is  coming 
here.  Low  and  shocking — what  shall  we  do  ?  Let  us  stroll 
on." 

But  Richard  threw  himself  in  the  way  of  the  retreat. 

"Mrs.  M'Catchley,"  said  he,  very  gravely,  and  offering 
her  his  arm,  "allow  me  three  words  with  you." 

The  poor  widow  looked  very  much  discomposed.  Mrs. 
Pompley  pulled  her  by  the  sleeve.  Richard  still  stood  gaz- 
ing into,  her  face,  with  his  arm  extended.  She  hesitated  a 
minute,  and  then  took  the  arm. 

"Monstrous  impudent!  "  cried  the  Colonel. 

"Let  Mrs.  M'Catchley  alone,  my  dear, "responded  Mrs. 
Pompley  ;  "she  will  know  how  to  give  him  a  lesson." 

"  Madam,"  said  Richard,  as  soon  as  he  and  his  compan- 
ion were  out  of  hearing,  "  I  rely  on  you  to  do  me  a  favor." 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  361 

"On  me?" 

"  On  you,  and  you  alone.  You  have  influence  with  all 
those  people,  and  a  word  from  you  will  effect  what  I  desire. 
Mrs.  M'Catchley,"  added  Richard,  with  a  solemnity  that  was 
actually  imposing,  "  I  flatter  myself  that  you  have  some 
friendship  for  me,  which  is  more  than  I  can  say  of  any  other 
soul  in  these  grounds — will  you  do  me  this  favor,  ay  or  no  ?  " 

"What  is  it,  Mr.  Avenel?"  asked  Mrs.  M'Catchley, 
much  disturbed,  and  somewhat  softened — for  she  was  by  no 
means  a  woman  without  feeling  ;  indeed,  she  considered 
herself  nervous. 

"  Get  all  your  friends — all  the  company,  in  short — to 
come  back  into  the  tent  for  refreshments — for  anything.  I 
want  to  say  a  few* words  to  them." 

"  Bless  me  !  Mr.  Avenel — a  few  words  ! "  cried  the  widow  ; 
"  but  that's  just  what  they're  all  afraid  of  !  You  must  pardon 
me,  but  you  really  can't  ask  people  to  a  dcjefiner  dansant,  and 
then — scold  'em !  " 

"  I'm  not  going  to  scold  them,"  said  Mr.  Avenel,  very 
seriously — "upon  my  honor,  I'm  not  !  I'm  going  to  make 
all  right,  and  I  even  hope  afterward  that  the  dancing  may 
go  on — and  that  you  will  honor  me  again  with  your  hand. 
I  leave  you  to  your  task — and  believe  me,  I'm  not  an  un- 
grateful man."  He  spoke,  and  bowed — not  without  some 
dignity — and  vanished  within  the  breakfast  division  of  the 
marquee.  There  he  busied  himself  in  recollecting  the 
waiters,  and  directing  them  to  rearrange  the  mangled  re- 
mains of  the  table  as  they  best  could.  Mrs.  M'Catchley, 
whose  curiosity  and  interest  were  aroused,  executed  her 
commission  with  all  the  ability  and  tact  of  a  woman  of  the 
world,  and  in  less  than  a  quarter  of  an  hour  the  marquee 
was  filled — the  corks  flew — the  champagne  bounced  and 
sparkled — people  drank  in  silence,  munched  fruits  and 
cakes,  kept  up  their  courage  with  the  conscious  sense  of 
numbers,  and  felt  a  great  desire  to  know  what  was  coming. 
Mr.  Avenel,  at  the  head  of  the  table,  suddenly  rose. 

"  Ladies  and  gentlemen,"  said  he,  "  I  have  taken  the 
liberty  to  invite  you  once  more  into  this  tent,  in  order  to 
ask  you  to  sympathize  with  me  upon  an  occasion  which  took 
us  all  a  little  by  surprise  to-day. 

"Of  course,  you  all  know  I  am  a  new  man — the  maker 
of  my  own  fortunes." 

A  great  many  heads  bowed  involuntarily.  The  words 
were  said  manfully,  and  there  wasageneral  feeling  of  respect. 
16 


362  MY  NOVEL;    OR, 

"  Probably,  too,"  resumed  Mr.  Avenel,  "you  may  know 
that  I  am  the  son  of  very  honest  trades-people.  I  say  hon- 
est, and  they  are  not  ashamed  of  me — I  say  trades-people, 
and  I'm  not  ashamed  of  them.  My  sister  married  and 
settled  at  a  distance.  I  took  her  son  to  educate  and  bring 
up.  But  I  did  not  tell  her  where  he  was,  nor  even  that  I  had 
returned  from  America — I  wished  to  choose  my  own  time 
for  that,  when  I  could  give  her  the  surprise,  not  only  of  a 
rich  brother,  but  of  a  son  whom  I  intended  to  make  a  gen- 
tleman, so  far  as  manners  and  education  can  make  one. 
Well,  the  poor  dear  woman  has  found  me  out  sooner  than  I 
expected,  and  turned  the  tables  on  me  by  giving  me  a  sur- 
prise of  her  own  invention.  Pray,  forgive  the  confusion 
this  little  family  scene  has  created  ;  and  though  I  own  it  was 
very  laughable  at  the  moment,  and  I  was  wrong  to  say 
otherwise,  yet  I  am  sure  I  don't  judge  ill  of  your  good  hearts 
when  I  ask  you  to  think  what  brother  and  sister  must  feel 
who  parted  from  each  other  when  they  were  boy  and  girl. 
To  me  (and  Richard  gave  a  great  gulp — for  he  felt  that  a 
great  gulp  alone  could  swallow  the  abominable  lie  he  was 
about  to  utter) — to  me  this  has  been  a  very  happy  occasion  ! 
I'm  a  plain  man  ;  no  one  can  take  ill  what  I've  said.  And, 
wishing  that  you  may  be  all  as  happy  in  your  family  as  I  am 
in  mine — humble  though  it  be — I  beg  to  drink  your  very 
good  healths  ! " 

There  was  a  universal  applause  when  Richard  sat  down  ; 
and  so  well  in  his  plain  way  had  he  looked  the  thing,  and 
done  the  thing,  that  at  least  half  of  those  present — who  till 
then  had  certainly  disliked  and  half-despised  him — suddenly 
felt  that  they  were  proud  of  his  acquaintance.  For  how- 
ever aristocratic  this  country  of  ours  may  be,  and  however 
especially  aristocratic  be  the  gcnteeler  classes  in  provincial 
towns  and  coteries — there  is  nothing  which  English  folks, 
from  the  highest  to  the  lowest,  in  their  hearts  so  respect  as 
a  man  who  has  risen  from  nothing,  and  owns  it  frankly. 
Sir  Cornpton  Delaval,  an  old  baronet,  with  a  pedigree  as 
long  as  a  Welshman's,  who  had  been  reluctantly  decoyed  to 
the  feast  by  his  three  unmarried  daughters — not  one  of 
whom,  however,  had  hitherto  condescended  even  to  bow  to 
the  host — now  rose.  It  was  his  right — he  was  the  first  per- 
son there  in  rank  and  station. 

"  Ladies  and  gentlemen,"  quoth  Sir  Compton  Delaval, 
"  I  am  sure  that  I  express  the  feelings  of  all  present  when  I 
say  that  we  have  heard  with  great  delight  and  admiration 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  363 

the  words  addressed  to  us  by  our  excellent  host.  (Applause.) 
And  if  any  of  us,  in  what  Mr.  Avenel  describes  justly  as  the 
surprise  of  the  moment,  were  betrayed  into  an  unseemly 
merriment  at — at — (the  Dean's  lady  whispered  'some  of 
the ') — some  of  the — "  repeated  Sir  Compton,  puzzled,  and 
coming  to  a  dead  lock — ('holiest  sentiments,'  whispered  the 
Dean's  lady) — "ay,  some  of  the  holiest  sentiments  in  our 
nature — I  beg  him  to  accept  our  sincerest  apologies.  I  can 
only  say,  for  my  part,  that  I  am  proud  to  rank  Mr.  Avenel 
amongst  the  gentlemen  of  the  county  (here  Sir  Compton 
gave  a  sounding  thump  on  the  table),  and  to  thank  him  for 
one  of  the  most  brilliant  entertainments  it  has  ever  been 
my  lot  to  witness.  If  he  won  his  fortune  honestly,  he 
knows  how  to  spend  it  nobly." 

Whiz  went  a  fresh  bottle  of  champagne. 

"  I  am  not  accustomed  to  public  speaking,  but  I  could 
not  repress  my  sentiments.  And  I've  now  only  to  propose 
to  you  the  health  of  our  host,  Richard  Avenel,  Esquire  ; 
and  to  couple  with  that  the  health  of  his — very  interesting 
sister,  and  long  life  to  them  both." 

The  sentence  was  half-drowned  in  enthusiastic  plaudits 
and  in  three  cheers  for  Richard  Avenel,  Esquire,  and  his 
very  interesting  sister. 

"  I'm  a  cursed  humbug,"  thought  Richard  Avenel,  as  he 
wiped  his  forehead  ;  "  but  the  world  is  such  a  humbug." 

Then  he  glanced  toward  Mrs.  M'Catchley,  and,  to  his 
great  satisfaction,  saw  Mrs.  M'Catchley  with  her  handker- 
chief before  her  eyes. 

Truth  must  be  told — although  the  fair  widow  might  cer- 
tainly have  contemplated  the  probability  of  accepting  Mr. 
Avenel  as  a  husband,  she  had  never  before  felt  the  least  bit 
in  love  with  him  ;  and  now  she  did.  There  is  something  in 
courage  and  candor — at  a  word,  in  manliness — that  all  wo- 
men, the  most  worldly,  do  admire  in  men  ;  and  Richard 
Avenel,  humbug  though  his  conscience  said  he  was,  seemed 
to  Mrs.  M'Catchley  like  a  hero. 

The  host  saw  his  triumph.  "  Now  for  another  dance  !" 
said  he,  gaily  ;  and  he  was  about  to  offer  his  hand  to  Mrs. 
M'Catchley,  when  Sir  Compton  Delaval,  seizing  it,  and  giv- 
ing it  a  hearty  shake,  cried,  "You  have  not  yet  danced  with 
my  eldest  daughter  ;  so,  if  you'll  not  ask  her,  why,  I  must 
offer  her  to  you  as  your  partner.  Here — Sarah." 

Miss  Sarah  Delaval,  who  was  five  feet  eight,  and  as 
stately  as  she  was  tall,  bowed  her  head  graciously  ;  and 


364  MY  NOVEL;    OR, 

Mr.  Avenel,  before  he  knew  where  he  was,  found  her  lean- 
ing on  his  arm.  But  as  he  passed  into  the  next  division  of 
the  tent,  he  had  to  run  the  gauntlet  of  all  the  gentlemen, 
who  thronged  round  to  shake  hands  with  him.  Their 
warm  English\hearts  could  not  be  satisfied  till  they  had  so 
repaired  the  sin  of  their  previous  haughtiness  and  mockery. 
Richard  Avenel  might  then  have  introduced  his  sister — 
gown,  kerchief,  thick  shoes  and  all — to  the  crowd  ;  but  he 
had  no  such  thought.  He  thanked  Heaven  devoutly  that 
she  was  safely  under  lock  and  key. 

It  was  not  till  the  third  dance  that  he  could  secure  Mrs. 
M'Catchley's  hand,  and  then  it  was  twilight.  The  carriages 
were  at  the  door,  but  no  one  yet  thought  of  going.  People 
were  really  enjoying  themselves.  Mr.  Avenel  had  had  time, 
in  the  interim,  to  mature  all  his  plans  for  completing  and 
consummating  that  triumph  which  his  tact  and  pluck  had 
drawn  from  his  momentary  disgrace.  Excited  as  he  was 
with  wine  and  suppressed  passion,  he  had  yet  the  sense  to 
feel  that,  when  all  the  halo  that  now  surrounded  him  had 
evaporated,  and  Mrs.M'Catchley  was  re-delivered  up  to  the 
Pompleys,  whom  he  felt  to  be  the  last  persons  his  interest 
could  desire  for  her  advisers — the  thought  of  his  low  rela- 
tions could  return  with  calm  reflection.  Now  was  the  time. 
The  iron  was  hot — now  was  the  time  to  strike  it,  and  forge 
the  enduring  chain. 

As  he  led  Mrs.  M'Catchley  after  the  dance  into  the  lawn 
he  therefore  said  tenderly 

"  How  shall  I  thank  you  for  the  favor  you  have  done 
me  ? " 

"  Oh  !"  said  Mrs.  M'Catchley,  warmly,  "  it  was  no  favor 
— and  I  am  so  glad —  She  stopped. 

"  You're  not  ashamed  of  me,  then,  in  spite  of  what  has 
happened  ?  " 

"  Ashamed  of  you  !  Why,  I  should  be  so  proud  of  .you, 
if  I  were " 

"  Finish  the  sentence  and  say — '  your  wife  ! ' — there,  it  is 
out.  My  dear  madam,  I  am  rich,  as  you  know  ;  I  love  you 
very  heartily.  With  your  help,  I  think  I  can  make  a  figure 
in  a  larger  world  than  this  ;  and  that,  whatever  my  father, 
my  grandson  at  least  will  be — but  it  is  time  enough  to  speak 
of  him.  What  say  you  ? — you  turn  away.  I'll  not  tease 
you — it  is  not  my  way.  I  said  before,  ay  or  no  ;  and  your 
kindness  so  emboldens  me  that  I  say  it  again — ay  or  no  ? " 

"  But  you  take  me  so  unawares — so — so — Lord,  my  dear 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  365 

Mr.  Avenel  ;  you  are  so  hasty — I — I — "  And  the  widow 
actually  blushed,  and  was  genuinely  bashful. 

"  Those  horrid  Pompleys !  "  thought  Richard,  as  he  saw 
the  Colonel  bustling  up  with  Mrs.  M'Catchley's  cloak  on 
his  arm. 

"  I  press  for  your  answer,"  continued  the  suitor,  speak- 
ing very  fast.  "  I  shall  leave  this  place  to-morrow,  if  you 
will  not  give  it." 

"  Leave  this  place — leave  me  ? " 

"  Then  you  will  be  mine  !  " 

"  Ah,  Mr.  Avenel  !  "  said  the  widow,  languidly,  and  leav- 
ing her  hand  in  his  ;  "  who  can  resist  you  ?  " 

Up  came  Colonel  Pompley  ;  Richard  took  the  shawl. 
"No  hurry  for  that  now,  Colonel — Mrs.  M'Catchley  feels 
already  at  home  here." 

Ten  minutes  afterward,  Richard  Avenel  so  contrived 
that  it  was  known  by  the  whole  company  that  their  host 
was  accepted  by  the  Honorable  Mrs.  M'Catchley.  And 
every  one  said,  "  He  is  a  very  clever  man,  and  a  very  good 
fellow,"  except  the  Pompleys — and  the  Pompleys  were 
frantic.  Mr.  Richard  Avenel  has  forced  his  way  into  the 
aristocracy  of  the  country  ;  the  husband  of  an  Honorable — 
connected  with  peers  ! 

"  He  will  stand  for  our  city — Vulgarian  !  "  cried  the 
Colonel. 

"  And  his  wife  will  walk  out  before  me,"  cried  the 
Colonel's  lady — "  nasty  woman  !  "  And  she  burst  into 
tears. 

The  guests  were  gone  ;  and  Richard  had  now  leisure  to 
consider  what  course  to  pursue  with  regard  to  his  sister  and 
her  son. 

His  victory  over  his  guests  had  in  much  softened  his 
heart  toward  his  relations  ;  but  he  still  felt  bitterly  aggrieved 
at  Mrs.  Fairfield's  unseasonable  intrusion,  and  his  pride  was 
greatly  chafed  by  the  boldness  of  Leonard.  He  had  no 
idea  of  any  man  whom  he  had  served,  or  meant  to  serve, 
having  a  will  of  his  own — having  a  single  thought  in  opposi- 
tion to  his  pleasure.  He  began,  too,  to  feel  that  words  had 
passed  between  him  and  Leonard  which  could  not  be  well 
forgotten  by  either,  and  would  render  their  close  connection 
less  pleasant  than  heretofore.  He,  the  great  Richard  Avenel, 
beg  pardon  of  Mrs.  Fairfield,  the  washerwoman  !  No  ;  she 
and  Leonard  must  beg  his.  "  That  must  be  the  first  step," 
said  Richard  Avenel  ;  "  and  I  suppose  they  have  come  to 


366  MY  NOVEL;    OR, 

their  senses."  With  that  expectation  he  unlocked  the  door 
of  his  parlor,  and  found  himself  in  complete  solitude.  The 
moon,  lately  risen,  shone  full  into  the  room,  and  lit  up  every 
corner.  He  stared  round  bewildered — the  birds  had  flown. 
"Did  they  go  through  the  keyhole?"  said  Mr.  Avenel. 
"  Ha  !  I  see  ! — the  window  is  open  !  "  The  window  reached 
to  the  ground.  Mr.  Avenel,  in  his  excitement,  had  forgotten 
that  easy  mode  of  egress. 

"  Well,"  said  he,  throwing  himself  into  his  easy  chair, 
"  I  suppose  I  shall  soon  hear  from  them  ;  they'll  be  wanting 
my  money  fast  enough,  I  fancy."  His  eye  caught  sight  of 
a  letter,  unsealed,  lying  on  the  table.  He  opened  it,  and 
saw  bank-notes  to  the  amount  of  ^50 — the  widow's  forty- 
five  country  notes,  and  a  new  note,  Bank  of  England,  that 
he  had  lately  given  to  Leonard.  With  the  money  were  these 
lines,  written  in  Leonard's  bold,  clear  writing,  though  a 
word  or  two  here  and  there  showed  that  the  hand  had 
trembled — 

"  I  thank  you  for  all  you  have  done  to  one  whom  you 
regarded  as  the  object  of  charity.  My  mother  and  I  forgive 
what  has  passed.  I  depart  with  her.  You  bade  me  make 
my  choice,  and  I  have  made  it. 

"LEONARD  FAIRFIELD." 

The  paper  dropped  from  Richard's  hand,  and  he  re- 
mained mute  and  remorseful  for  a  moment.  He  soon  felt, 
however,  that  he  had  no  help  for  it  but  working  himself  up 
into  a  rage.  "  Of  all  people  in  the  world,"  cried  Richard, 
stamping  his  foot  on  the  floor,  "  there  are  none  so  disagree- 
able, insolent,  and  ungrateful  as  poor  relations.  I  wash  my 
hands  of  them  !  " 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  367 


BOOK    SIXTH. 


INITIAL   CHAPTER. 

WHEREIN    MR.    CAXTON    IS   PROFOUNDLY    METAPHYSICAL. 

"  LIFE,"  said  my  father,  in  his  most  dogmatical  tone,  "  is 
a  certain  quantity  in  time,  which  may  be  regarded  in  two 
ways — ist,  as  life  Integral ;  2nd,  as  life  Fractional.  Life 
integral  is  that  complete  whole,  expressive  of  a  certain 
value,  large  or  small,  which  each  man  possesses  in  himself. 
Life  fractional  is  that  same  whole  seized  upon  and  invaded 
by  other  people,  and  subdivided  amongst  them.  They  who 
get  a  large  slice  of  it  say  '  A  very  valuable  life  this  ! ' — those 
who  get  but  a  small  handful  say,  '  So,  so  ;  nothing  very 
great ! ' — those  who  get  none  of  it  in  the  scramble  exclaim, 
'  Good  for  nothing  ! '  ' 

"  I  don't  understand  a  word  you  are  saying,"  growled 
Captain  Roland. 

My  father  surveyed  his  brother  with  compassion — "  I 
will  make  it  all  clear,  even  to  your  understanding.  When 
I  sit  down  by  myself  in  my  study,  having  carefully  locked 
the  door  on  all  of  you,  alone  with  my  books  and  thoughts, 
I  am  in  full  possession  of  my  integral  life.  I  am  lotus, 
teres,  alque  rotundus — a  whole  human  being — equivalent  in 
value,  we  will  say,  for  the  sake  of  illustration,  to  a  fixed 
round  sum — ^100  for  example.  But  when  I  go  forth  into 
the  common  apartment,  each  of  those  to  whom  I  am  of 
any  worth  whatsoever  puts  his  finger  into  the  bag  that  con- 
tains me,  and  takes  out  of  me  what  he  wants.  Kitty  requires 
me  to  pay  a  bill  ;  Pisistratus  to  save  him  the  time  and 
trouble  of  looking  into  a  score  or  two  of  books  ;  the  children 
to  tell  them  stories,  or  play  at  hide-and-seek  ;  and  so  on 
throughout  the  circle  to  which  I  have  incautiously  given 
myself  up  for  plunder  and  subdivision.  The  ^100  which  I 
represented  in  my  study  is  now  parcelled  out ;  I  am  worth 
or  ^"50  to  Kitty,  ,£20  to  Pisistratus,  and  perhaps  305.  to 


368  MY  NOVEL;    OR, 

the  children.  This  is  life  fractional.  And  I  cease  to  be  an 
integral  till  once  more  returning  to  my  study,  and  again  clos- 
ing the  door  on  all  existence  but  my  own.  Meanwhile,  it  is 
perfectly  clear  that,  to  those  who,  whether  I  am  in  the  study, 
or  whether  I  am  in  the  common  sitting-room,  get  nothing 
at  all  out  of  me,  I  am  not  worth  a  farthing.  It  must  be 
wholly  indifferent  to  a  native  of  Kamtschatka  whether  Austin 
Caxton  be  or  be  not  raised  out  of  the  great  account-book  of 
human  beings. 

"  Hence,"  continued  my  father, — "  hence  it  follows  that 
the  more  fractional  a  life  is — id  est,  the  greater  the  number 
of  persons  among  whom  it  can  be  subdivided — why,  the 
more  there  are  to  say,  '  A  very  valuable  life  that  ! '  Thus, 
the  leader  of  apolitical  party,  a  conqueror,  a  king,  an  author 
who  is  amusing  hundreds,  or  thousands,  or  millions,  has  a 
greater  number  of  persons  whom  his  worth  interests  and 
affects  than  a  Saint  Simon  Stylites  could  have  when  he 
perched  himself  at  the  top  of  a  column  ;  although,  regarded 
each  in  himself,  Saint  Simon,  in  his  grand  mortification  of 
flesh,  in  the  idea  that  he  thereby  pleased  his  Divine  Bene- 
factor, might  represent  a  larger  sum  of  moral  value  per  se, 
than  Buonaparte  or  Voltaire." 

PISISTRATUS. — Perfectly  clear,  sir  ;  but  I  don't  see  what 
it  has  to  do  with  My  Novel. 

MR.  CAXTON. — Everything.  Your  novel,  if  it  is  to  be  a 
full  and  comprehensive  survey  of  the  "  Quicquid  agunt  homi- 
nes "  (which  it  ought  to  be,  considering  the  length  and 
breadth  to  which  I  foresee,  from  the  slow  development  of 
your  story,  you  meditate  extending  and  expanding  it),  will 
embrace  the  two  views  of  existence — the  integral  and  the 
fractional.  You  have  shown  us  the  former  in  Leonard,  when 
he  is  sitting  in  his  mother's  cottage,  or  resting  from  his 
work  by  the  little  fount  in  Riccabocca's  garden.  And  in  har- 
mony with  that  view  of  his  life,  you  have  surrounded  him 
with  comparative  integrals,  only  subdivided  by  the  tender 
hands  of  their  immediate  families  and  neighbors — your 
Squires  and  Parsons,  your  Italian  exile  and  his  Jemima. 
With  all  these  life  is,  more  or  less,  the  life  Natural,  and  this 
is  always,  more  or  less,  the  life  Integral.  Then  comes  the 
life  Artificial,  which  is  always,  more  or  less,  the  life  Frac- 
tional. In  the  life  Natural,  wherein  we  are  swayed  but  by 
our  native  impulses  and  desires,  subservient  only  to  the 
great  silent  law  of  Virtue  (which  has  pervaded  the  universe 
since  it  swung  out  of  chaos),  a  man  is  worth  from  what  he 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  369 

is  in  himself — Newton  was  as  worthy  before  the  apple  fell 
from  the  tree  as  when  ,all  Europe  applauded  the  discoverer 
of  the  Principle  of  Gravity.  But  in  the  life  Artificial  we 
are  only  of  worth  inasmuch  as  we  affect  others.  And,  rela- 
tive to  that  life,  Newton  rose  in  value  more  than  a  million 
per  cent,  when  down  fell  the  apple  from  which,  ultimately, 
sprang  up  his  discovery.  In  order  to  keep  civilization  go- 
ing", and  spread  over  the  world  the  light  of  the  human  in- 
tellect, we  have  certain  desires  within  us,  ever  swelling  be- 
yond the  ease  and  independence  which  belongs  to  us  as  in- 
tegrals. Cold  man  as  Newton  might  be  (he  once  took  a 
lady's  hand  in  his  own,  Kitty,  and  used  her  forefinger  for 
his  tobacco-stopper  ; — great  philosopher  !) — cold  as  he  might 
be,  he  was  yet  moved  into  giving  his  discoveries  to  the 
world,  and  that  from  motives  very  little  differing  in  their 
quality  from  the  motives  that  made  Dr.  Squills  communi- 
cate articles  to  the  Phrenological  Journal  upon  the  skulls  of 
Bushmen  and  Wombats.  For  it  is  the  property  of  light  to 
travel.  When  a  man  has  light  in  him,  forth  it  must  go.  But 
the  first  passage  of  Genius  from  its  integral  state  (in  which 
it  has  been  reposing  on  its  own  wealth)  into  the  fractional, 
is  usually  thought  a  hard  and  vulgar  pathway.  It  leaves 
behind  it  the  reveries  of  solitude,  that  self-contemplating 
rest  which  maybe  called  the  Visionary,  and  enters  suddenly 
into  the  state  that  may  be  called  the  Positive  and  Actual. 
There,  it  sees  the  operations  of  money  on  the  outer  life — 
sees  all  the  ruder  and  commoner  springs  of  action — sees 
ambition  without  nobleness — love  without  romance — is 
bustled  about,  and  ordered,  and  trampled,  and  cowed — in 
short,  it  passes  an  apprenticeship  with  some  Richard  Avenel, 
and  does  not  yet  detect  what  good  and  what  grandeur,  what 
addition  even  to  the  true  poetry  of  the  social  universe,  frac- 
tional existences  like  Richard  Avenel's  bestow  ;  for  the  pil- 
lars that  support  society  are  like  those  of  the  Court  of  the 
Hebrew  Tabernacle — they  are  of  brass,  it  is  true,  but  they 
are  filleted  with  silver.  From  such  intermediate  state  Genius 
is  expelled  and  driven  on  in  its  way,  and  would  have  been 
so  in  this  case  had  Mrs.  Fairfield  (who  is  but  the  represen- 
tative of  the  homely  natural  affections,  strongest  ever  in  true 
genius — for  light  is  warm)  never  crushed  Mr.  Avenel's  moss- 
rose  on  her  sisterly  bosom.  Now,  forth  from  this  passage 
and  defile  of  transition  into  the  larger  world,  must  Genius 
go  on,  working  out  its  natural  destiny  amidst  things  and 
forms  the  most  artificial.  Passions  that  move  and  influence 
16* 


370  MY  NOVEL;    OR, 

the  world  are  at  work  around  it.  Often  lost  sight  of  itself, 
its  very  absence  is  a  silent  contrast  to  the  agencies  present. 
Merged  and  vanished  for  a  while  amidst  the  Practical 
World,  yet  we  ourselves  feel  all  the  while  that  it  is  there  ;  is 
at  work  amidst  the  workings  around  it.  This  practical 
world  that  effaces  it,  rose  out  of  some  genius  that  has  gone 
before  ;  and  so  each  man  of  genius,  though  we  never  come 
across  him,  as  his  operations  proceed,  in  places  remote  from 
our  thoroughfares,  is  yet  influencing  the  practical  world  that 
ignores  him,  for  ever  and  ever.  That  is  GENIUS  !  We  can't 
describe  it  in  books — we  can  only  hint  and  suggest  it,  by 
the  accessories  which  we  artfully  heap  about  it.  The  en- 
trance of  a  true  Probationer  into  the  terrible  ordeal  of  Prac- 
tical Life  is  like  that  into  the  miraculous  cavern,  by  which, 
legend  informs  us,  St.  Patrick  converted  Ireland. 

BLANCHE. — What  is  that  legend  ?     I  never  heard  of  it. 

MR.  CAXTON. — My  dear,  you  will  find  it  in  a  thin  folio 
at  the  right  on  entering  my  study,  written  by  Thomas  Mes- 
singham,  and  called  "  Florilegium  Insulae  Sanctorum,"  etc. 
The  account  therein  is  confirmed  by  the  relation  of  an 
honest  soldier,  one  Louis  Ennius,  who  had  actually  entered 
the  cavern.  In  short,  the  truth  of  the  legend  is  undeni- 
able, unless  you  mean  to  say,  which  I  can't  for  a  moment 
suppose,  that  Louis  Ennius  was  a  liar.  Thus  it  runs  :  St. 
Patrick,  finding  that  the  Irish  pagans  were  incredulous  as  to 
his  pathetic  assurances  of  the  pains  and  torments  destined 
to  those  who  did  not  expiate  their  sins  in  this  world,  prayed 
for  a  miracle  to  convince  them.  His  prayer  was  heard  ;  and 
a  certain  cavern,  so  small  that  a  man  could  not  stand  up 
therein  at  his  ease,  was  suddenly  converted  into  a  Purga- 
tory, comprehending  tortures  sufficient  to  convince  the 
most  incredulous.  One  unacquainted  with  human  nature 
might  conjecture  that  few  would  be  disposed  to  venture 
voluntarily  into  such  a  place  ; — on  the  contrary,  pilgrims 
came  in  crowds.  Now,  all  who  entered  from  vain  curiosity, 
or  with  souls  unprepared,  perished  miserably  ;  but  those 
who  entered  with  deep  and  earnest  faith,  conscious  of  their 
faults,  and  if  bold,  yet  humble,  not  only  came  out  safe  and 
sound,  but  purified,  as  if  from  the  waters  of  a  second  bap- 
tism. See  Savage  and  Johnson,  at  night  in  Fleet  Street  ; — 
and  who  shall  doubt  the  truth  of  St.  Patrick's  Purgatory  ! 
— (Therewith  my  father  sighed — closed  his  Lucian,  which 
had  lain  open  on  the  table,  and  would  read  none  but  "good 
books  "  for  the  rest  of  the  evening.) 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  371 


CHAPTER  II. 

ON  their  escape  from  the  prison  to  which  Mr.  Avenel 
had  condemned  them,  Leonard  and  his  mother  found  their 
way  to  a  small  public-house  that  lay  at  a  little  distance  from 
the  town,  and  on  the  outskirts  of  the  high-road.  With  his 
arm  round  his  mother's  waist,  Leonard  supported  her  steps, 
and  soothed  her  excitement.  In  fact,  the  poor  woman's 
nerves  were  greatly  shaken,  and  she  felt  an  uneasy  re- 
morse at  the  injury  her  intrusion  had  inflicted  on  the  young 
man's  worldly  prospects.  As  the  shrewd  reader  has  guessed 
already,  that  infamous  Tinker  was  the  prime  agent  of  evil 
in  this  critical  turn  in  the  affairs  of  his  quondam  customer. 
For,  on  his  return  to  his  haunts  around  Hazeldean  and  the 
Casino,  the  Tinker  had  hastened  to  apprise  Mrs.  Fairfield 
of  his  interview  with  Leonard,  and,  on  finding  that  she  was 
not  aware  that  the  boy  was  under  the  roof  of  his  uncle,  the 
pestilent  vagabond  (perhaps  from  spite  against  Mr.  Avenel, 
or  perhaps  from  that  pure  love  of  mischief  by  which  meta- 
physical critics  explain  the  character  of  lago,  and  which 
certainly  formed  a  main  element  in  the  idiosyncrasy  of  Mr. 
Sprott)  had  so  impressed  on  the  widow's  mind  the  haughty 
demeanor  of  the  uncle  and  the  refined  costume  of  the 
nephew,  that  Mrs.  Fairfield  had  been  seized  with  a  bitter 
and  insupportable  jealousy.  There  was  an  intention  to  rob 
her  of  her  boy  ! — he  was  to  be  made  too  fine  for  her.  His 
silence  was  now  accounted  for.  This  sort  of  jealousy,  al- 
ways more  or  less  a  feminine  quality,  is  often  very  strong 
amongst  the  poor;  and  it  was  the  more  strong  in  Mrs.  Fair- 
field,  because,  lone  woman  that  she  was,  the  boy  was  all  in 
all  to  her.  And  though  she  was  reconciled  to  the  loss  of 
his  presence,  nothing  could  reconcile  her  to  the  thought 
that  his  affections  should  be  weaned  from  her.  Moreover, 
there  were  in  her  mind  certain  impressions,  of  the  justice  of 
which  the  reader  may  better  judge  hereafter,  as  to  the  grat- 
itude— more  than  ordinarily  filial — which  Leonard  owed  to 
her.  In  short,  she  did  not  like,  as  she  phrased  it,  "  to  be 
shaken  off  ;  "  and  after  a  sleepless  night  she  resolved  to 
judge  for  herself,  much  moved  thereto  by  the  malicious 
suggestions  to  that  effect  made  by  Mr.  Sprott,  who  mightily 


372  MY  NOVEL;    OR, 

enjoyed  the  idea  of  mortifying  the  gentleman  by  whom  he 
had  been  so  disrespectfully  threatened  with  the  treadmill. 
The  widow  felt  angry  with  Parson  Dale,  and  with  the  Ric- 
caboccas  ;  she  thought  they  were  in  the  plot  against  her  ; 
she  communicated,  therefore,  her  intentions  to  none — and 
off  she  set,  performing  the  journey  partly  on  the  top  of  the 
coach,  -partly  on  foot.  No  wonder  that  she  was  dusty,  poor 
woman  ! 

"And,  O  boy!"  said  she,  half-sobbing,  "when  I  got 
through  the-  lodge-gates,  came  on  the  lawn,  and  saw  all  that 
power  o'  fine  folk — I  said  to  myself,  says  I — (for  I  felt 
fritted) — I'll  just  have  a  look  at  him  and  go  back.  But  ah, 
Lenny,  when  I  saw  thee,  looking  so  handsome — and  when 
thee  turned  and  cried  '  mother,'  my  heart  was  just  ready  to 
leap  out  o'  my  mouth — and  so  I  could  not  help  hugging  thee, 
if  I  had  died  for  it.  And  thou  wert  so  kind,  that  I  forgot  all 
Mr.  Sprott  had  said  about  Dick's  pride,  or  thought  he  had  just 
told  a  fib  about  that,  as  he  had  wanted  me  to  believe  a  fib 
about  thee.  Then  Dick  came  up — and  I  had  not  seen  him 
for  so  many  long  years — and  we  come  o'  the  same  father 
and  mother  ;  and  so — and  so — "  The  widow's  sobs  here 
fairly  choked  her.  "Ah,"  she  said,  after  giving  vent  to  her 
passion,  and  throwing  her  arms  round  Leonard's  neck,  as 
they  sat  in  the  little  sanded  parlor  of  the  public  house — 
"  Ah,  and  I've  brought  thee  to  this.  Go  back  ;  go  back, 
boy,  and  never  mind  me." 

With  some  difficulty  Leonard  pacified  poor  Mrs.  Fair- 
field,  and  got  her  to  retire  to  bed  ;  for  she  was,  indeed, 
thoroughly  exhausted.  He  then  stepped  forth  into  the 
road,  musingly.  All  the  stars  were  out  ;  and  Youth,  in  its 
troubles,  instinctively  looks  up  to  the  stars.  Folding  his 
arms,  Leonard  gazed  on  the  heavens,  and  his  lips  murmured. 

From  this  trance,  for  so  it  might  be  called,  he  was 
awakened  by  a  voice  in  a  decidedly  London  accent  ;  and, 
turning  hastily  round,  saw  Mr.  Avenel's  very  gentlemanlike 
butler.  Leonard's  first  idea  was  that  his  uncle  had  re- 
pented, and  sent  in  search  of  him.  But  the  butler  seemed 
as  much  surprised  at  the  rencontre  as  himself  ;  that  person- 
age, indeed,  the  fatigues  of  the  day  being  over,  was  accom- 
panying one  of  Mr.  Gunter's  waiters  to  the  public-house 
(at  which  the  latter  had  secured  his  lodging),  having  discov- 
ered an  old  friend  in  the  waiter,  and  proposing  to  regale 
himself  with  a  cheerful  glass,  and — (that,  of  course) — abuse 
of  his  present  sitiz'ation. 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  373 

"  Mr.  Fairfield  !  "  exclaimed  the  butler,  while  the  waiter 
walked  discreetly  on. 

Leonard  looked,  and  said  nothing.  The  butler  began  to 
think  that  some  apology  was  due  for  leaving  his  plate  and 
his  pantry,  and  that  he  might  as  well  secure  Leonard's  pro- 
pitiatory influence  with  his  master. 

"  Please,  sir,"  said  he,  touching  his  hat,  "  I  was  just 
a-showing  Mr.  Giles  the  way  to  the  Blue  Bells,  where  he 
puts  up  for  the  night.  I  hope  my  master  will  not  be  offended. 
If  you  are  a-going  back,  sir,  would  you  kindly  mention  it  ?" 

"  I  am  not  going  back,  Jarvis,"  answered  Leonard,  after 
a  pause  ;  <;  I  am  leaving  Mr.  Avenel's  house  to  accompany 
my  mother,  rather  suddenly.  I  should  be  very  much 
obliged  to  you  if  you  would  bring  some  things  of  mine  to 
me  at  the  Blue  Bells.  I  will  give  you  the  list,  if  you  will 
step  with  me  to  the  inn." 

Without  waiting  for  a  reply,  Leonard  then  turned  to- 
ward the  inn,  and  made  his  humble  inventory  : — item,  the 
clothes  he  had  brought  with  him  from  the  Casino  ;  item,  the 
knapsack  that  had  contained  them  ;  item,  a  few  books,  ditto  ; 
item,  Dr.  Riccabocca's  watch  ;  item,  sundry  MSS.,  on  which 
the  young  student  now  built  all  his  hopes  of  fame  and  for- 
tune. This  list  he  put  into  Mr.  Jarvis's  hand. 

"  Sir,"  said  the  butler,  twirling  the  paper  between  his 
finger  and  thumb,  "you're  not  a-going  for  long,  I  hope?" 
and  he  looked  on  the  face  of  the  young  man,  who  had  always 
been  "  civil-spoken  to  him,"  with  as  much  curiosity  and  as 
much  compassion  as  so  apathetic  and  princely  a  personage 
could  experience  in  matters  affecting  a  family  less  aristo- 
cratic than  he  had  hitherto  condescended  to  serve. 

"Yes,"  said  Leonard,  simply  and  briefly;  ''and  your 
master  will  no  doubt  excuse  you  for  rendering  me  this 
service." 

Mr.  Jarvis  postponed  for  the  present  his  glass  and  chat 
with  the  waiter,  and  went  back  at  once  to  Mr.  Avenel.  That 
gentleman,  still  seated  in  his  library,  had  not  been  aware  of 
the  butler's  absence  ;  and  when  Mr.  Jarvis  entered  and  told 
him  that  he  had  met  Mr.  Fairfield,  and,  communicating  the 
commission  with  which  he  was  intrusted,  asked  leave  to 
execute  it,  Mr.  Avenel  felt  the  man's  inquisitive  eye  was  on 
him,  and  conceived  new  wrath  against  Leonard  for  a  new 
humiliation  to  his  pride.  It  was  awkward  to  give  no  explan- 
ation of  his  nephew's  departure,  still  more  awkward  to  ex- 
plain. 


374  MY  NOVEL;    OR, 

After  a  short  pause,  Mr.  Avenel  said,  sullenly,  "  My 
nephew  is  going  away  on  business  for  some  time — do  what 
he  tells  you  ;  "  and  then  turned  his  back,  and  lighted  his 
cigar. 

"That  beast  of  a  boy,"  said  he,  soliloquizing,  "either 
means  this  as  an  affront,  or  an  overture  ;  if  an  affront,  he  is 
indeed  well  got  rid  of  ;  if  an  overture,  he  will  soon  make  a 
more  respectful  and  proper  one.  After  all,  I  can't  have  too 
little  of  relations  till  I  have  fairly  secured  Mrs.  M'Catchley. 
An  Honorable  !  I  wonder  if  that  makes  me  an  Honorable 
too  ?  This  cursed  Debrett  contains  no  practical  information 
on  those  points.'' 

The  next  morning,  the  clothes  and  the  watch  with  which 
Mr.  Avenel  presented  Leonard  were  returned,  with  a  note 
meant  to  express  gratitude,  but  certainly  written  with  very 
little  knowledge  of  the  world,  and  so  full  of  that  somewhat 
over-resentful  pride  which  had  in  earlier  life  made  Leonard 
fly  from  Hazeldean,  and  refuse  all  apology  to  Randal,  that 
it  is  not  to  be  wondered  at  that  Mr.  Avenel's  last  remorseful 
feelings  evaporated  in  ire.  "  I  hope  he  will  starve  !  "  said 
the  uncle,  vindictively. 


CHAPTER  III. 

"  LISTEN  to  me,  my  dear  mother,"  said  Leonard  the  next 
morning,  as  with  knapsack  on  his  shoulder  and  Mrs.  Fair- 
field  on  his  arm,  he  walked  along  the  high-road;  "I  do 
assure  you,  from  my  heart,  that  I  do  not  regret  the  loss  of 
favors  which  I  see  plainly  would  have  crushed  out  of  me  the 
very  sense  of  independence.  But  do  not  fear*  for  me  ;  I 
have  education  and  energy — I  shall  do  well  for  myself,  trust 
me.  No,  I  cannot,  it  is  true,  go  back  to  our  cottage — I  can- 
not be  a  gardener  again.  Don't  ask  me — I  should  be  discon- 
tented, miserable.  But  I  will  go  up  to  London  !  That's  the 
place  to  make  a  fortune  and  a  name  ;  I  will  make  both.  O 
yes.  trust  me,  I  will.  You  shall  soon  be  proud  of  your  Leon- 
ard ;  and  then  we  will  always  live  together — always  !  Don't 
cry." 

"  But  what  can  you  do  in  Lunnon — such  a  big  place, 
Lenny  ? " 

"  What !     Every  year  does  not  some  lad  leave  our  village, 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  375 

and  go  and  seek  his  fortune,  taking  with  him  but  health  and 
strong  hands  ?  I  have  these,  and  I  have  more  :  I  have 
brains,  and  thoughts,  and  hopes,  that — again  I  say,  no,  no 
— never  fear  for  me  !  " 

The  boy  threw  back  his  head  proudly  ;  there  was  some- 
thing sublime  in  his  young  trust  in  the  future. 

"Well.  But  you  will  write  to  Mr.  Dale,  or  to  me?  I 
will  get  Mr.  Dale  or  the  good  Mounseer  (now  I  know  they 
were  not  agin  me)  to  read  your  letters." 

"  I  will,  indeed  !  " 

"And,  boy,  you  have  nothing  in  your  pockets.  We  have 
paid  Dick  ;  these,  at  least,  are  my  own,  after  paying  the 
coach-fare."  And  she  would  thrust  a  sovereign  and  some 
shillings  into  Leonard's  waistcoat-pocket. 

After  some  resistance,  he  was  forced  to  consent. 

"And  there's  a  sixpence  with  a  hole  in  it.  Don't  part 
with  that,  Lenny ;  it  will  bring  thee  good  luck." 

Thus  talking,  they  gained  the  inn  where  the  three  roads 
met,  and  from  which  a  coach  went  direct  to  the  Casino. 
And  here,  without  entering  the  inn,  they  sat  on  the  green- 
sward by  the  hedgerow,  waiting  the  arrival  of  the  coach. 
Mrs.  Fairfield  was  much  subdued  in  spirits,  and  there  was 
evidently  on  her  mind  something  uneasy — some  struggle 
with  her  conscience.  She  not  only  upbraided  herself  for 
her  rash  visit,  but  she  kept  talking  of  her  dead  Mark.  And 
what  would  he  say  of  her,  if  he  could  see  her  in  heaven  ? 

"  It  was  so  selfish  in  me.  Lenny." 

"  Pooh,  pooh  !     Has  not  a  mother  a  right  to  her  child  ?  " 

"  Ay,  ay,  ay  !  "  cried  Mrs.  Fairfield.  "  I  do  love  you  as 
a  child — my  own  child.  But  if  I  was  not  your  mother,  after 
all,  Lenny,  and  cost  you  all  this — oh,  what  would  you  say 
of  me  then  ?  " 

"  Not  my  own  mother  !  "  said  Leonard,  laughing,  as  he 
kissed  her.  "  Well,  I  don't  know  what  I  should  say  then 
differently  from  what  I  say  now — that  you,  who  brought 
me  up,  and  nursed  and  cherished  me,  had  a  right  to  my 
home  and  my  heart,  wherever  I  was." 

"  Bless  thee  !  "  cried  Mrs.  Fairfield,  as  she  pressed  him 
to  her  heart.  "  But  it  weighs  here — it  weighs,"  she  said, 
starting  up. 

At  that  instant  the  coach  appeared,  and  Leonard  ran 
forward  to  inquire  if  there  was  an  outside  place.  Then 
there  was  a  short  bustle  while  the  horses  were  being 
changed  ;  and  Mrs.  Fairlield  was  lifted  up  to  the  roof  of 


376  MY  NOVEL;    OR, 

the  vehicle.  So  all  farther  private  conversation  between 
her  and  Leonard  ceased.  But  as  the  coach  whirled  away, 
and  she  waved  her  hand  to  the  boy,  who  stood  on  the  road- 
side gazing  after  her,  she  still  murmured — "  It  weighs  here 
— it  weighs  !  " 


CHAPTER    IV. 

LEONARD  walked  sturdily  on  in  the  high-road  to  the 
Great  City.  The  day  was  calm  and  sunlit,  but  with  a 
gentle  breeze  from  gray  hills  at  the  distance.;  and  with 
each  rnile  that  he  passed,  his  step  seemed  to  grow  more 
firm,  and  his  front  more  elate.  Oh !  it  is  such  joy  in 
youth  to  be  alone  with  one's  day-dreams.  And  youth 
feels  so  glorious  a  vigor  in  the  sense  of  its  own  strength, 
though  the  world  be  before  and — against  it !  Removed 
from  that  chilling  counting-house — from  the  imperious 
will  of  a  patron  and  master — all  friendless,  but  all  inde- 
pendent— the  young  adventurer  felt  a  new  being — felt  his 
grand  nature  as  Man.  And  on  the  Man  rushed  the  genius 
long  interdicted  and  thrust  aside — rushing  back,  with  the 
first  breath  of  adversity,  to  console— no  !  the  Man  needed 
not  consolation — to  kindle,  to  animate,  to  rejoice  !  If  there 
is  a  being  in  the  world  worthy  of  our  envy,  after  we  have 
grown  wise  philosophers  of  the  fireside,  it  is  not  the  palled 
voluptuary,  nor  the  careworn  statesman,  nor  even  the  great 
prince  of  arts  and  letters,  already  crowned  with  the  laurel, 
whose  leaves  are  as  fit  for  poison  as  for  garlands  ;  it  is  the 
young  child  of  adventure  and  hope.  Ay,  and  the  emptier 
his  purse,  ten  to  one  but  the  richer  his  heart,  and  the  wider 
the  domains  which  his  fancy  enjoys  as  he  goes  on  with 
kingly  step  to  the  Future. 

Not  till  toward  the  evening  did  our  adventurer  slacken 
his  pace,  and  think  of  rest  and  refreshment.  There,  then, 
lay  before  him  on  either  side  the  road,  those  wide  patches 
of  unenclosed  land,  which  in  England  often  denote  the 
entrance  to  a  village.  Presently  one  or  two  neat  cottages 
came  in  sight — then  a  small  farm-house,  with  its  yard  and 
barns.  And  some  way  farther  yet,  he  saw  the  sign  swing- 
ing before  an  inn  of  some  pretensions — the  sort  of  inn 
often  found  on  a  long  stage  between  two  great  towns, 
commonly  called  "  The  Half-way  House."  But  the  inn 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  377 

stood  back  from  the  road,  having  its  own  separate  sward 
in  front,  whereon  was  a  great  beech-tree  (from  which  the 
sign  extended)  and  a  rustic  arbor — so  that  to  gain  the 
inn,  fhe  coaches  that  stopped  there  took  a  sweep  from 
the  main  thoroughfare.  Between  our  pedestrian  and  the 
inn  there  stood,  naked  and  alone,  on  the  common  land,  a 
church  ;  our  ancestors  never  would  have  chosen  that  site 
for  it ;  therefore  it  was  a  modern  church — modern  Gothic 
— handsome  to  an  eye  not  versed  in  the  attributes  of 
ecclesiastical  architecture — very  barbarous  to  an  eye  that 
was.  Somehow  or  other  the  church  looked  cold  and  raw 
and  uninviting.  It  looked  a  church  for  show — much  too 
big  for  the  scattered  hamlet — and  void  of  all  the  venera- 
ble associations  which  give  their  peculiar  and  unspeakable 
atmosphere  of  piety  to  the  churches  in  which  succeeding 
generations  have  knelt  and  worshipped.  Leonard  paused 
and  surveyed  the  edifice  with  an  unlearned  but  poetical 
gaze — it  dissatisfied  him.  And  he  was  yet  pondering  why, 
when  a  young  girl  passed  slowly  before  him,  her  eyes 
fixed  on  the  ground,  opened  the  little  gate  that  led  into  the 
church-yard,  and  vanished.  He  did  not  see  the  child's 
face  ;  but  there  was  something  in  her  movements  so  ut- 
terly listless,  forlorn,  and  sad,  that  his  heart  was  touched. 
What  did  she  there  ?  He  approached  the  low  wall  with  a 
noiseless  step,  and  looked  over  it  wistfully. 

There,  by  a  grave  evidently  quite  recent,  with  no  wooden 
tomb  nor  tombstone  like  the  rest,  the  little  girl  had  thrown 
herself,  and  she  was  sobbing  loud  and  passionately.  Leon- 
ard opened  the  gate,  and  approached  her  with  a  soft  step. 
Mingled  with  her  sobs,  he  heard  broken  sentences,. wild  and 
vain,  as  all  human  sorrowings  over  graves  must  be. 

"  Father! — oh,  father  !  do  you  not  really  hear  me  ?  I  am 
so  lone — so  lone  !  Take  me  to  you — take  me  !  "  And  she 
buried  her  face  in  the  deep  grass. 

"  Poor  child  !"  said  Leonard,  in  a  half-whisper — "  he  is 
not  there.  Look  above  !  " 

The  girl  did  not  heed  him — he  put  his  arm  round  her 
waist  gently — she  made  a  gesture  of  impatience  and  anger, 
but  she  would  not  turn  her  face — and  she  clung  to  the 
grave  with  her  hands. 

After  clear  sunny  days  the  dews  fall  more  heavily  ;  and 
now,  as  the  sun  set,  the  herbage  was  bathed  in  a  vaporous 
haze — a  dim  mist  rose  around.  The  young  man  seated 
himself  beside  her,  and  tried  to  draw  the  child  to  his 


378  MY  NOVEL;    OR, 

breast.     Then  she  turned  eagerly,  indignantly,  and  pushed 
him  aside  with  jealous  arms.     He  profaned  the  grave.     He 
understood  her  with  his  deep  poet-heart,  and  rose.     TJiere 
was  a  pause. 
|        Leonard  was  the  first  to  break  it. 

"  Come  to  your  home  with  me,  my  child,  and  we  will 
talk  of  him  by  the  way." 

•  "  Him  !  Who  are  you  ?  You  did  not  know  him  !  " — said 
the  girl,  still  with  anger.  "  Go  away — why  do  you  disturb 
me  ?  I  do  no  one  harm.  Go— go  !  " 

"  You  do  yourself  harm,  and  that  will  grieve  him  if  he 
sees  you  yonder  !  Come  !  " 

The  child  looked  at  him  through  her  blinding  tears,  and 
his  face  softened  and  soothed  her. 

"  Go  ! "  she  said,  very  plaintively,  and  in  subdued  ac- 
cents. "  I  will  but  stay  a  minute  more.  I — I  have  so  much 
to  say  yet." 

Leonard  left  the  church-yard,  and  waited  without  ;  and 
in  a  short  time  the  child  came  forth,  waived  him  aside  as  he 
approached  her,  and  hurried  away.  He  followed  her  at  a 
distance,  and  saw  her  disappear  within  the  inn. 


CHAPTER  V. 

"  HIP — HIP— HURRAH  ! "  Such  was  the  sound  that 
greeted  our  young  traveller  as  he  reached  the  inn-door — a 
sound  joyous  in  itself,  but  sadly  out  ot  harmony  with  the 
feeling  which  the  child  sobbing  on  the  tombless  grave  had 
left  at  his  heart.  The  sound  came  from  within,  and  was 
followed  by  thumps  and  stamps,  and  the  jingle  of  glasses. 
A  strong  odor  of  tobacco  was  wafted  to  his  olfactory  sense. 
He  hesitated  a  moment  at  the  threshold.  Before  him,  on 
benches  under  the  beech-tree  and  within  the  arbor,  were 
grouped  sundry  athletic  forms  with  "  pipes  in  the  liberal  air." 

The  landlady,  as  she  passed  across  the  passage  to  the 
tap-room,  caught  sight  of  his  form  at  the  door-way,  and 
came  forward.  Leonard  still  stood  irresolute.  He  would 
have  gone  on  his  way,  but  for  the  child  ;  she  had  interested 
him  strongly. 

"You  seem  full,  ma'am,"  said  he.  "Can. I  have  accom- 
modation for  the  night  ?  " 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  379 

"  Why,  indeed,  sir,"  said  the  landlady,  civilly,  "  I  can 
give  you  a  bed-room,  but  I  don't  know  where  to  put  you 
meanwhile.  The  two  parlors  and  the  tap-room  and  the 
kitchen  are  all  choke-full.  There  has  been  a  great  cattle- 
fair  in  the  neighborhood,  and  I  suppose  we  have  as  many 
as  fifty  farmers  and  drovers  stopping  here." 

"As  to  that,  ma'am,  I  can  sit  in  the  bed-room  you  are 
kind  enough  to  give  me  ;  and  if  it  does  not  cause  you  much 
trouble  to  let  me  have  some  tea  there,  I  should  be  glad  ;  but 
I  can  wait  your  leisure.  Do  not  put  yourself  out  of  the 
way  for  me." 

The  landlady  was  touched  by  a  consideration  she  was 
not  much  habituated  to  receive  from  her  bluff  customers. 

"  You  speak  very  handsome,  sir,  and  we  will  do  our  best 
to  serve  you,  if  you  will  excuse  all  faults.  This  way,  sir." 
Leonard  lowered  his  knapsack,  stepped  into  the  passage, 
with  some  difficulty  forced  his  way  through  a  knot  of  sturdy 
giants  in  top-boots  or  leathern  gaiters,  who  were  swarming 
in  and  out  the  tap-room,  and  followed  his  hostess  up-stairs 
to  a  little  bed-room  at  the  top  of  the  house. 

"  It  is  small,  sir,  and  high,"  said  the  hostess,  apologeti- 
cally. "But  there  be  four  gentlemen  farmers  that  have 
come  a  great  distance,  and  all  the  first  floor  is  engaged  ; 
you  will  be  more  out  of  the  noise  here." 

"  Nothing  can  suit  me  better.  But,  stay — pardon  me  ; " 
and  Leonard,  glancing  at  the  garb  of  the  hostess,  observed 
she  was  not  in  mourning.  "A  little  girl  whom  I  saw  in  the 
church-yard,  yonder,  weeping  very  bitterly — is  she  a  relation 
of  yours  ?  Poor  child,  she  seems  to  have  deeper  feelings 
than  are  common  at  her  age." 

"Ah,  sir,"  said  the  landlady,  putting  the  corner  of  her 
apron  to  her  eyes,  "  it  is  a  very  sad  story — I  dpn't  know 
what  to  do.  Her  father  was  taken  ill  on  his  way  to  Lunnon, 
and  stopped  here,  and  has  been  buried  four  days.  And  the 
poor  little  girl  seems  to  have  no  relations — and  where  is  she 
to  go  ?  Laryer  Jones  says  we  must  pass  her  to  Marybone 
parish,  where  her  father  lived  last  ;  and  what's  to  become 
of  her  then  ?  My  heart  bleeds  to  think  on  it."  Here  there 
rose  such  an  uproar  from  below,  that  it  was  evident  some 
quarrel  had  broken  out;  and  the  hostess,  recalled  to  her 
duties,  hastened  to  carry  thither  her  propitiatory  influences. 

Leonard  seated  himself  pensively  by  the  little  lattice. 
Here  was  some  one  more  alone  in  the  world  than  he.  And 
she,  poor  orphan,  had  no  stout  man's  heart  to  grapple  with 


380  MY  NOVEL;    OR, 

fate,  and  no  golden  manuscripts  that  were  to  be  as  the 
"  Open-Sesame  "  to  the  treasures  of  Aladdin.  By-and-by 
the  hostess  brought  him  up  a  tray  with  tea  and  other 
refreshments,  and  Leonard  resumed  his  inquiries.  "  No  rel- 
atives ? "  said  he  ;  "  surely  the  child  must  have  some  kins- 
folk in  London  ?  Did  her  father  leave  no  directions,  or" 
was  he  in  possession  of  his  faculties  ?  " 

"  Yes,  sir  ;  he  was  quite  reasonable  like  to  the  last.  And 
I  asked  him  if  he  had  not  anything  on  his  mind,  and  he  said, 
'I  have.'  And  I  said,  'Your  little  girl,  sir?'  And  he  an- 
swered me,  '  Yes,  ma'am  ; '  and  laying  his  head  on  his  pillow, 
he  wept  very  quietly.  I  could  not  say  more  myself,  for  it 
set  me  off  to  see  him  cry  so  meekly  ;  but  my  husband  is 
harder  nor  I,  and  he  said,  '  Cheer  up,  Mr.  Digby  ;  had  not 
you  better  write  t )  your  friends  ? ' 

'  Friends  ! '  said  the  gentleman,  in  such  a  voice ! 
'  Friends  !  I  have  but  one,  and  I  am  going  to  Him  !  I  can- 
not take  her  there  ! '  Then  he  seemed  suddenly  to  recollect 
hisself,  and  called  for  his  clothes,  and  rummaged  in  the 
pockets  as  if  looking  for  some  address,  and  could  not  find 
it.  He  seemed  a  forgetful  kind  of  gentleman,  and  his  hands 
were  what  I  call  helpless  hands,  sir  !  And  then  he  gasped 
out,  '  Stop — stop  !  I  never  had  the  address.  Write  to  Lord 

Les ,'  something  like  Lord  Lester  ;  but  we  could  not 

make  out  the  name.  Indeed  he  did  not  finish  it,  for  there 
was  a  rush  of  blood  to  his  lips  ;  and  though  he  seemed  sen- 
sible when  he  recovered  (and  knew  us  and  his  little  girl  too, 
till  he  went  off  smiling),  he  never  spoke  word  more." 

"  Poor  man  !  "  said  Leonard,  wiping  his  eyes.  "  But  his 
little  girl  surely  remembers  the  name  that  he  did  not 
finish  ?" 

"  No.  jShe  says  he  must  have  meant  a  gentleman  whom 
they  had  met  in  the  Park  not  long  ago,  who  was  very  kind 
to  her  father,  and  was  Lord  something  ;  but  she  don't  re- 
member the  name,  for  she  never  saw  him  before  or  since, 
and  her  father  talked  very  little  about  any  one  lately,  but 
thought  he  should  find  some  kind  friends  at  Screwstown, 
and  travelled  down  there  with  her  from  Lunnon.  But  she 
supposes  he  was  disappointed,  for  he  went  out,  came  back, 
and  merely  told  her  to  put  up  the  things,  as  they  must  go 
back  to  Lunnon.  And  on  his  way  there  he — died.  Hush, 
what's  that  ?  I  hope  she  did  not  overhear  us.  No,  we  were 
talking  low.  She  has  the  next  room  to  your'n,  sir.  I 
thought  I  heard  her  sobbing.  Hush  !  " 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  381 

"  In  the  next  room  ?  I  hear  nothing.  Well,  with  your 
leave  I  will  speak  to  her  before  I  quit  you.  And  had  her 
father  no  money  with  him  ?" 

"  Yes,  a  few  sovereigns,  sir  ;  they  paid  for  his  funeral, 
and  there  is  a  little  left  still — enough  to  take  her  to  town  ; 
for  my  husband  said,  says  he,  'Hannah,  the  widow  gave  her 
mite,  and  we  must  not  take  the  orphan's  ; '  and  my  husband 
is  a  hard  man,  too,  sir — bless  him  !  " 

"  Let  me  take  your  hand,  ma'am.  God  reward  you 
both  ! " 

"  La,  sir  ! — why,  even  Dr.  Dosewell  said,  rather  grumpily 
though,  'Never  mind  my  bill ;  but  don't  call  me  up  at  six 
o'clock  in  the  morning  again,  without  knowing  a  little  more 
about  people.'  And  I  never  afore  knew  Dr.  Dosewell  go 
without  his  bill  being  paid.  He  said  it  was  a  trick  o' the 
other  Doctor  to  spite  him." 

"What  other  Doctor  ?  " 

"  Oh,  a  very  good  gentleman,  who  got  out  with  Mr. 
Digby  when  he  was  taken  ill,  and  stayed  till  the  next  morn- 
ing ;  and  our  Doctor  says  his  name  is  Morgan,  and  he  lives 
in — Lunnon,  and  is  a  homy — something." 

"  Homicide,"  suggested  Leonard,  ignorantly. 

"  Ah — homicide  ;  something  like  that,  only  a  deal  longer 
and  worse.  But  he  left  some  of  the  tiniest  little  balls  you 
ever  see,  sir,  to  give  the  child  ;  but,  bless  you,  they  did  her 
no  good — how  should  they  ? " 

"  Tiny  balls,  oh — homceopathist — I  understand.  And 
the  Doctor  was  kind  to  her  ;  perhaps  he  may  help  her. 
Have  you  written  to  him  ? " 

"  But  we  don't  know  his  address,  and  Lunnon  is  a  vast 
place,  sir." 

"  I  am  going  to  London,  and  will  find  it  out." 

"Ah,  sir,  you  seem  very  kind  ;  and  sin'  she  must  go  to 
Lunnon  (for  what  can  we  do  with  her  here  ? — she's  too 
genteel  for  service),  I  wish  she  was  going  with  you." 

"With  me!"  said  Leonard,  startled — "with  me!  Well, 
why  not  ?  " 

"  I  am  sure  she  comes  of  good  blood,  sir.  You  would 
have  known  her  father  was  quite  the  gentleman,  only  to  see 
him  die,  sir.  He  went  off  so  kind  and  civil  like,  as  if  he 
was  ashamed  to  give  so  much  trouble — quite  a  gentleman, 
if  ever  there  was  one.  And  so  are  you,  sir,  I'm  sure,"  said 
the  landlady,  courtesying  ;  "  I  know  what  gentlefolk  be.  I've 
been  a  housekeeper  in  the  first  of  families  in  this  very  shire, 


382  MY  NOl'EL;    OR, 

sir,  though  I  can't  say  I've  served  in  Lunnon  ;  and  so,  as 
gentlefolks  know  each  other,  I've  no  doubt  you  could  find 
out  her  relations.  Dear — dear!  Coming,  coming  !  " 

.Here  there  were  loud  cries  for  the  hostess,  and  she 
hurried  away.  The  farmers  and  drovers  were  beginning  to 
depart,  and  their  bills  were  to  be  made  out  and  paid.  Leon- 
ard saw  his  hostess  no  more  that  night.  The  last  hip — hip 
— hurrah,  was  heard  ;  some  toast,  perhaps  to  the  health  of 
the  county  members  ; — and  the  chamber  of  woe,  beside 
Leonard's,  rattled  with  the  shout.  By-and-by,  silence  gradu- 
ally succeeded  the  various  dissonant  sounds  below.  The 
carts  and  gigs  rolled  away  :  the  clatter  of  hoofs  on  the  road 
ceased  :  there  was  then  a  dumb  dull  sound  as  of  locking- 
up,  and  low  humming  voices  below  and  footsteps  mounting 
the  stairs  to  bed,  with  now  and  then  a  drunken  hiccough  or 
maudlin  laugh,  as  some  conquered  votary  of  Bacchus  was 
fairly  carried  up  to  his  domicile. 

All,  then,  at  last  was  silent,  just  as  the  clock  from  the 
church  sounded  the  stroke  of  eleven. 

Leonard,  meanwhile,  had  been  looking  over  his  MSS. 
There  was  first  a  project  for  an  improvement  on  the  steam- 
engine, — a  project  that  had  long  lain  in  his  mind,  begun 
with  the  first  knowledge  of  mechanics  that  he  had  gleaned 
from  his  purchases  of  the  Tinker.  He  put  that  aside  now 
— it  required  too  great  an  effort  of  the  reasoning  faculty  to 
re-examine. 

He  glanced  less  hastily  over  a  collection  of  essays  on 
various  subjects — some  that  he  thought  indifferent,  some 
that  he  thought  good.  He  then  lingered  over  a  collection 
of  verses,  written  in  his  best  hand,  with  loving  care — verses 
first  inspired  by  his  perusal  of  Nora's  melancholy  memorials. 
These  verses  were  as  a  diary  of  his  heart  and  his  fancy — those 
deep  unwitnessed  struggles  which  the  boyhood  of  all  more 
thoughtful  natures  has  passed  in  its  bright  yet  murky  storm 
of  the  cloud  and  the  lightning-flash, — though  but  few  boys 
pause  to  record  the  crisis  from  which  slowly  emerges  Man. 
And  these  first  desultory  grapplings  with  the  fugitive  airy 
images  that  flit  through  the  dim  chambers  of  the  brain,  had 
become  with  each  effort  more  sustained  and  vigorous,  till 
the  phantoms  were  spelled,  the  flying  ones  arrested,  the  Im- 
material seized,  and  clothed  with  Form.  Gazing  on  his  last 
effort,  Leonard  felt  that  there,  at  length,  spoke  forth  the 
Poet.  It  was  a  work  which,  though  as  yet  but  half  com- 
pleted, came  from  a  strong  hand  ;  not  that  shadow  trembling 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  383 

on  unsteady  waters,  which  is  but  the  pale  reflex  and  imita- 
tion of  some  bright  mind,  sphered  out  of  reach  and  afar, 
but  an  original  substance — a  life — a  thing  of  the  Creative 
Faculty, — breathing  back  already  the  breath  it  had  received. 
This  work  had  paused  during  Leonard's  residence  with  Mr. 
Avenel,  or  had  only  now  and  then,  in  stealth,  and  at  night, 
received  a  rare  touch.  Now,  as  with  a  fresh  eye,  he  re- 
perused  it,  and  with  that  strange,  innocent  admiration,  not 
of  self — for  a  man's  work  is  not,  alas  !  himself, — it  is  the 
beautified  and  idealized  essence  (extracted,  he  knows  not 
how,  from  his  own  human  elements  of  clay),  admiration 
known  but  to  poets — their  purest  delight,  often  their  sole 
reward.  And  then,  with  a  warmer  and  more  earthly  beat  of 
his  full  heart,  he  rushed  in  fancy  to  the  Great  City,  where 
all  rivers  of  Fame  meet,  but  not  to  be  merged  and  lost, — 
sallying  forth  again,  individualized  and  separate,  to  flow 
through  that  one  vast  Thought  of  God  which  we  call  THE 
WORLD. 

He  put  up  his  papers,  and  opened  his  window,  as  was  his 
ordinary  custom,  before  he  retired  to  rest — for  he  had  many 
odd  habits  ;  and  he  loved  to  look  out  into  the  night  when 
he  prayed.  His  soul  seemed  to  escape  from  the  body, — to 
mount  on  the  air, — to  gain  more  rapid  access  to  the  far 
Throne  in  the  Infinite, — when  his  breath  went  forth  among 
the  winds,  and  his  eyes  rested  fixed  on  the  stars  of  heaven. 

So  the  boy  prayed  silently  ;  and  after  his  prayer,  he  was 
about,  lingering,  to  close  the  lattice,  when  he  heard  dis- 
tinctly sobs  close  at  hand.  He  paused,  and  held  his  breath  ; 
then  looked  gently  out  ;  the  casement  next  his  own  was 
also  open.  Some  one  was  also  at  watch  by  that  casement — 
perhaps  also  praying.  He  listened  yet  more  intently,  and 
caught,  soft  and  low,  the  words,  "  Father, — father, — do  you 
hear  me  now  ?  " 


CHAPTER  VI. 

LEONARD  opened  his  door,  and  stole  toward  that  of  the 
room  adjoining  ;  for  his  first  natural  impulse  had  been  to 
enter  and  console.  But  when  his  touch  was  on  the  handle, 
he  drew  back.  Child  though  the  mourner  was,  her  sorrows 
were  rendered  yet  more  sacred  from  intrusion  by  her  sex. 
Something,  he  knew  not  what,  in  his  young  ignorance, 


3S4  MY  NOVEL;   OR, 

withheld  him  from  the  threshold.  To  have  crossed  it  then 
would  have  seemed  to  him  profanation  ;  so  he  returned,  and 
for  hours  yet  he  occasionally  heard  the  sobs,  till  they  died 
away,  and  childhood  wept  itself  to  sleep. 

But  the  next  morning,  when  he  heard  his  neighbor  astir, 
he  knocked  gently  at  her  door  ;  there  was  no  answer.  He 
entered  softly,  and  saw  her  seated  very  listlessly  in  the  cen- 
tre of  the  room — as  if  it  had  no  familiar  nook  or  corner,  as 
the  rooms  of  home  have, — her  hands  drooping  on  her  lap, 
and  her  eyes  gazing  desolately  on  the  floor.  Then  he  ap- 
proached and  spoke  to  her. 

Helen  was  very  subdued,  and  very  silent.  Her  tears 
seemed  dried  up  ;  and  it  was  long  before  she  gave  sign  or 
token  that  she  heeded  him.  At  length,  however,  he  gradu- 
ally succeeded  in  rousing  her  interest ;  and  the  first  symptom 
of  his  success  was  in  the  quiver  of  her  lip,  and  the  overflow 
of  her  downcast  eyes. 

By  little  and  little  he  wormed  himself  into  her  confi- 
dence ;  and  she  told  him,  in  broken  whispers,  her  simple 
story.  But  what  moved  him  the  most  was,  that,  beyond  her 
sense  of  loneliness,  she  did  not  seem  to  feel  her  own  unpro- 
tected state.  She  mourned  the  object  she  had  nursed,  and 
heeded,  and  cherished  ;  for  she  had  been  rather  the  protec- 
tress than  the  protected  to  the  helpless  dead.  He  could  not 
gain  from  her  any  more  satisfactory  information  than  the 
landlady  had  already  imparted,  as  to  her  friends  and  pros- 
pects ;  but  she  permitted  him  passively  to  look  among  the 
effects  her  father  had  left — save  only  that,  if  his  hand 
touched  something  that  seemed  to  her  associations  especi- 
ally holy,  she  waived  him  back,  or  drew  it  quickly  away. 
There  were  many  bills  receipted  in  the  name  of  Captain 
Digby — old  yellow  faded  music-scores  for  the  flute, — ex- 
tracts of  parts  from  Prompt  Books, — gay  parts  of  lively 
comedies,  in  which  heroes  have  so  noble  a  contempt  for 
money — fit  heroes  for  a  Sheridan  and  a  Farquhar  ;  close  by 
these  were  several  pawnbroker's  tickets  ;  and  not  arrayed 
smoothly,  but  crumpled  up,  as  if  with  an  indignant,  nervous 
clutch  of  the  helpless  hands,  some  two  or  three  letters.  He 
asked  Helen's  permission  to  glance  at  these,  for  they  might 
afford  a  clue  to  friends.  Helen  gave  the  permission  by  a 
silent  bend  of  the  head.  The  letters,  however,  were  but 
short  and  freezing  answers  from  what  appeared  to  be  distant 
connections,  or  former  friends,  or  persons  to  whom  the  de- 
ceased had  applied  for  some  situation.  They  were  all  very 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  385 

disheartening  in  their  tone.  Leonard  next  endeavored  to 
refresh  Helen's  memory  as  to  the  name  of  the  nobleman 
which  had  been  last  on  her  father's  lips  ;  but  there  he  failed 
wholly.  For  it  may  be  remembered  that  Lord  L'Estrange, 
when  he  pressed  his  loan  on  Mr.  Digby,  and  subsequently 
told  that  gentleman  to  address  to  him  at  Mr.  Egerton's,  had, 
from  a  natural  delicacy,  sent  the  child  on,  that  she  might 
not  witness  the  charity  bestowed  on  the  father  ;  and  Helen 
said  truly,  that  Mr.  Digby  had  sunk  latterly  into  an  habitual 
silence  on  all  his  affairs.  She  might  have  heard  her  father 
mention  the  name,  but  she  had  not  treasured  it  up  ;  all  she 
could  say  was,  that  she  should  know  the  stranger  again  if 
she  met  him,  and  his  dog  too.  Seeing  that  the  child  had 
grown  calm,  Leonard  was  then  going  to  leave  the  room,  in 
order  to  confer  with  the  hostess  ;  when  she  rose  suddenly 
though  noiselessly,  and  put  her  little  hand  in  his,  as  if  to  de- 
tain him.  She  did  not  say  a  word — the  action  said  all — said, 
"Do  not  desert  me."  And  Leonard's  heart  rushed  to  his 
lips,  and  he  answered  to  the  action,  as  he  bent  down  and 
kissed  her  cheek,  "  Orphan,  will  you  go  with  me  ?  We  have 
one  Father  yet  to  both  of  us,  and  He  will  guide  us  on  earth. 
I  am  fatherless,  like  you."  She  raised  her  eyes  to  his — 
looked  at  him  long — and  then  leant  her  head  confidingly  on 
his  strong  young  shoulder. 


CHAPTER  VII. 

AT  noon  that  same  day,  the  young  man  and  the  child 
were  on  their  road  to  London.  The  host  had  at  first  a  little 
demurred  at  trusting  Helen  to  so  young  a  companion  ; 
but  Leonard,  in  his  happy  ignorance,  had  talked  so  san- 
guinely  of  finding  out  this  lord,  or  some  adequate  protectors 
for  the  child  ;  and  in  so  grand  a  strain,  though  with  all 
sincerity — had  spoken  of  his  own  great  prospects  in  the 
metropolis  (he  did  not  say  what  they  were  !) — that  had  he 
been  the  craftiest  impostor,  he  could  not  more  have  taken 
in  the  rustic  host.  And  while  the  landlady  still  cherished 
the  illusive  fancy,  that  all  gentlefolks  must  know  each  other 
in  London,  as  they  did  in  a  county,  the  landlord  believed, 
at  least,  that  a  young  man  so  respectably  dressed,  although 
but  a  foot-traveller— who  talked  in  so  confident  a  tone,  and 


386  MY  NOVEL;    OR, 

who  was  willing  to  undertake  what  might  be  rather  a  bur- 
densome charge,  unless  he  saw  how  to  rid  himself  of  it — - 
would  be  sure  to  have  friends,  older  and  wiser  than  himself, 
who  would  judge  what  could  best  be  done  for  the  orphan. 

And  what  was  the  ho^t  to  do  with  her  ?  Better  this  vol- 
unteered escort,  at  least,  than  vaguely  passing  her  on  from 
parish  to  parish,  and  leaving  her  friendless  at  last  in  the 
streets  of  London.  Helen,  too,  smiled  for  the  first  time  on 
being  asked  her  wishes,  and  again  put  her  hand  in  Leon- 
ard's. In  short,  so  it  was  settled. 

The  little  girl  made  up  a  bundle  of  the  things  she  most 
prized  or  needed.  Leonard  did  not  feel  the  additional  load, 
as  he  slung  it  to  his  knapsack  ;  the  rest  of  the  luggage  was 
to  be  sent  to  London  as  soon  as  Leonard  wrote  (which  he 
promised  to  do  soon),  and  gave  an  address. 

Helen  paid  her  last  visit  to  the  church-yard  ;  and  she 
joined  her  companion  as  he  stood  on  the  road,  without  the 
sole;nn  precincts.  And  now  they  had  gone  on  some  hours; 
and  when  he  asked  if  she  were  tired,  she  still  answered 
"No."  But  Leonard  was  merciful,  and  made  their  day's 
journey  short  ;  and  it  took  them  some  days  to  reach  Lon- 
don. By  the  long  lonely  way  they  grew  so  intimate,  at  the 
end  of  the  second  day,  they  called  each  other  brother  and 
sister  ;  and  Leonard,  to  his  delight,  found  that  as  her  grief, 
with  the  bodily  movement  and  the  change  of  scene,  sub- 
sided from  its  first  intenseness  and  its  insensibility  to  other 
impressions,  she  developed  a  quickness  of  comprehension 
far  beyond  her  years.  Poor  child  !  that  had  been  forced 
upon  her  by  Necessity.  And  she  understood  him  in  his 
spiritual  consolations — half  poetical,  half  religious  ;  and  she 
listened  to  his  own  tale,  and  the  story  of  his  self-education 
and  solitary  struggles — those,  too,  she  xjnderstood.  But 
when  he  burst  out  with  his  enthusiasm,  his  glorious  hopes, 
his  confidence  in  the  fate  before  them,  then  she  would 
shake  her  head  very  quietly  and  very  sadly.  Did  she  com- 
prehend them?  Alas  !  perhaps  too  well.  She  knew  more  as 
to  real  life  than  he  did.  Leonard  was  at  first  their  joint 
treasurer ;  but  before  the  second  day  was  over,  Helen 
seemed  to  discover  that  he  was  too  lavish  ;  and  she  told  him 
so  with  a  prudent  grave  look,  putting  her  hand  on  his  arm 
as  he  was  about  to  enter  an  inn  to  dine  ;  and  the  gravity 
would  have  been  comic,  but  that  the  eyes  through  their 
moisture  were  so  meek  and  grateful.  She  felt  he  was  about 
to  incur  that  ruinous  extravagance  on  her  account.  Some- 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  387 

how  or  other,  the  purse  found  its  way  into  her  keeping,  and 
then  she  looked  proud  and  in  her  natural  element. 

Ah  !  what  happy  meals  under  her  care  were  provided  ; 
so  much  more  enjoyable  than  in  dull,  sanded  inn  parlors, 
swarming  with  flies,  and  reeking  with  stale  tobacco.  She 
would  leave  him  at  the  entrance  of  a  village,  bound  forward, 
and  cater,  and  return  with  a  little  basket  and  a  pretty  blue 
jng — which  she  had  bought  on  the  road — the  last  filled  with 
new  milk  ;  the  first  with  new  bread  and  some  special  dainty 
in  radishes  or  water-cresses.  And  she  had  such  a  talent  for 
finding  out  the  prettiest  spot  whereon  to  halt  and  dine  : 
sometimes  in  the  heart  of  a  wood — so  still,  it  was  like  a  for- 
est in  fairy  tales,  the  hare  stealing  through  the  alleys,  or 
the  squirrel  peeping  at  them  from  the  boughs  ;  sometimes 
by  a  little  brawling  stream,  with  the  fishes  seen  under  the 
clear  wave  and  shooting  round  the  crumbs  thrown  to  them. 
They  made  an  Arcadia  of  the  dull  road  up  to  their  dread 
Thermopylae — the  war  against  the  million  that  waited  them 
on  the  other  side  of  their  pass  through  Tempe. 

"  Shall  we  be  as  happy  when  we  are  great?  "  said  Leon- 
ard, in  his  grand  simplicity. 

Helen  sighed,  and  the  wise  little  head  was  shaken. 


CHAPTER   VIII. 

AT  last  they  came  within  easy  reach  of  London  ;  but 
Leonard  had  resolved  not  to  enter  the  metropolis  fatigued 
and  exhausted  as  a  wanderer  needing  refuge,  but  fresh  and 
elate,  as  a  conquerer  coming  in  triumph  to  take  possession 
of  the  capital.  Therefore  they  halted  early  in  the  evening 
of  the  day  preceding  this  imperial  entry,  about  six  miles 
from  the  metropolis,  in  the  neighborhood  of  Baling  (for  by 
that  route  lay  their  way).  They  were  not  tired  on  arriving 
at  their  inn.  The  weather  was  singularly  lovely,  with  that 
combination  of  softness  and  brilliancy  which  is  only  known 
to  the  rare  true  summer  days  of  England  ;  all  below  so 
green,  above  so  blue — days  of  which  we  have  about  six  in 
the  year,  and  recall  vaguely  when  we  read  of  Robin  Hood 
and  Maid  Marian,  of  damsel  and  knight  in  Spenser's  golden 
Summer  Song — or  of  Jacques,  dropped  under  the  oak-tree, 


388  MY  NOVEL;    OR, 

watching  the  deer  amidst  the  dells  of  Ardennes.  So,  after 
a  little  pause  at  their  inn,  they  strolled  forth,  not  for  travel 
but  pleasure,  toward  the  cool  of  sunset,  passing  by  the 
grounds  that  once  belonged  to  the  Duke  of  Kent,  and 
catching  a  glimpse  of  the  shrubs  and  lawns  of  that  beautiful 
domain  through  the  lodge-gates  ;  then  they  crossed  into 
some  fields,  and  came  to  a  little  rivulet  called  the  Brent. 
Helen  had  been  more  sad  that  day  than  on  any  during  their 
journey.  Perhaps  because,  on  approaching  London,  the 
memory  of  her  father  became  more  vivid  ;  perhaps  from 
her  precocious  knowledge  of  life,  and  her  foreboding  of 
what  was  to  befall  them,  children  that  they  both  were. 
But  Leonard  was  selfish  that  day  ;  he  could  not  be  influ- 
enced by  his  companion's  sorrow  ;  he  was  so  full  of  his  own 
sense  of  being,  and  he  had  already  caught  from  the  atmos- 
phere the  fever  that  belongs  to  anxious  capitals. 

"Sit  here,  sister,"  said  he  imperiously,  throwing  himself 
under  the  shade  of  a  pollard  tree  that  overhung  the  wind- 
ing brook,  "sit  here  and  talk." 

He  flung  off  his  hat,  tossed  back  his  rich  curls,  and 
sprinkled  his  brow  from  the  stream  that  eddied  round  the 
roots  of  the  tree  that  bulged  out,  bald  and  gnarled,  from 
the  bank,  and  delved  into  the  waves  below.  Helen  quietly 
obeyed  him,  and  nestled  close  to  his  side. 

"  And  so  this  London  is  really  very  vast  ? — VERY  ?  "  he 
repeated  inquisitively. 

"  Very,"  answered  Helen,  as,  abstractedly,  she  plucked 
the  cowslips  near  her,  and  let  them  fall  into  the  running 
waters.  "  See  how  the  flowers  are  carried  down  the  stream  ? 
They  are  lost  now.  London  is  to  us  what  the  river  is  to  the 
flowers — very  vast — very  strong  ;  "  and  she  added,  after  a 
pause — "  very  cruel !  " 

"  Cruel  !  Ah,  it  has  been  so  to  you  ;  but  now  ! — now  I 
will  take  care  of  you  !  "  He  smiled  triumphantly  ;  and  his 
smile  was  beautiful  both  in  its  pride  and  its  kindness.  It  is 
astonishing  how  Leonard  had  altered  since  he  had  left  his 
uncle's  :  he  was  both  younger  and  older  ;  for  the  sense  of 
genius,  when  it  snaps  its  shackles,  makes  us  both  older  and 
wiser  as  to  the  world  it  soars  to — younger  and  blinder  as  to 
the  world  it  springs  from. 

"  And  it  is  not  a  very  handsome  city  either,  you  say  ?  " 

"Very  ugly,  indeed,"  said  Helen,  with  some  fervor,  "at 
least  all  I  have  seen  of  it." 

"  But  there  must  be  parts  that  are  prettier  than  others  ? 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  389 

You  say  there  are  parks  :  why  should  not  we  lodge  near 
them,  and  look  upon  the  green  trees  ?  " 

"  That  would  be  nice,"  said  Helen,  almost  joyously  : 
"  but — "  and  here  the  head  was  shaken — "  there  are  no  lodg- 
ings for  us  except  in  courts  and  alleys." 

"Why?" 

"Why?"  echoed  Helen,  with  a  smile,  and  she  held  up 
the  purse. 

"  Pooh  !  always  that  horrid  purse  ;  as  if,  too,  we  were 
not  going  to  fill  it.  Did  not  I  tell  you  the  story  of  Fortu- 
nio  ?  Well,  at  all  events,  we  will  go  first  to  the  neighbor- 
hood where  you  last  lived,  and  learn  there  all  we  can  ;  and 
then  the  day  after  to-morrow,  I  will  see  this  Dr.  Morgan, 
and  find  out  the  Lord." 

The  tears  started  to  Helen's  soft  eyes:  "You  want  to 
get  rid  of  me  soon,  brother." 

"  I  !  Ah,  I  feel  so  happy  to  have  you  with  me,  it  seems 
to  me  as  if  I  had  pined  lor  you  all  my  life,  and  you  had 
come  at  last  ;  for  I  never  had  brother,  nor  sister,  nor  any 
one  to  love,  that  was  not  older  than  myself,  except— 

"  Except  the  young  lady  you  told  me  of,"  said  Helen, 
turning  away  her  face  ;  for  children  are  very  jealous. 

"  Yes,  I  loved  her,  love  her  still.  But  that  was  different," 
said  Leonard.  "  I  could  never  have  talked  to  her  as  to  you  : 
to  you  I  open  my  whole  heart ;  you  are  my  little  Muse, 
Helen  :  I  confess  to  you  my  wild  whims  and  fancies  as 
frankly  as  if  I  were  writing  poetry."  As  he  said  this,  a  step 
was  heard,  and  a  shadow  fell  over  the  stream.  A  belated 
angler  appeared  on  the  margin,  drawing  his  line  impatiently 
across  the  water,  as  if  to  worry  some  dozing  fish  into  a-  bite 
before  it  finally  settled  itself  for  the  night.  Absorbed  in 
his  occupation,  the  angler  did  not  observe  the  young  per- 
sons on  the  sward  under  the  tree,  and  he  halted  there,  close 
upon  them. 

"  Curse  that  perch  !  "  said  he  aloud. 

"  Take  care,  sir  !  "  cried  Leonard  ;  for  the  man,  in  step- 
ping back,  nearly  trod  upon  Helen. 

The  angler  turned.  ''What's  the  matter?  Hist!  you 
have  frightened  my  perch.  Keep  still,  can't  you  ?  " 

Helen  drew  herself  out  of  the  way,  and  Leonard  re- 
mained motionless  :  he  remembered  Jackeymo,  and  felt  a 
sympathy  for  the  angler. 

"  It  is  the  most  extraordinary  perch,  that !  "  muttered 
the  stranger,  soliloquizing.  "  It  has  the  devil's  own  luck. 


390  MY  NOVEL;    OR, 

It  must  have  been  born  with  a  silver  spoon  in  its  mouth, 
that  damned  perch  !  I  shall  never  catch  it — never  !  Ha  ! 
— no — only  a  weed.  I  give  it  up."  With  this,  he  indig- 
nantly jerked  his  rod  from  the  water  and  began  to  disjoint 
it.  While  leisurely  engaged  in  this  occupation,  he  turned 
to  Leonard. 

"  Humph  !  are  you  intimately  acquainted  with  this 
stream,  sir  ? " 

"  No,"  answered  Leonard  ;  "  I  never  saw  it  before." 

ANGLER  (solemnly). — Then,  young  man,  take  my  ad- 
vice, and  do  not  give  way  to  its  fascinations.  Sir,  I  am  a 
martyr  to  this  stream  ;  it  has  been  the  Delilah  of  my  exist- 
ence. 

LEONARD  (interested  :  the  last  sentence  seemed  to  him 
poetical). — The  Delilah,  sir  !  the  Delilah  ! 

ANGLER. — The  Delilah.  Young  man,  listen,  and  be 
warned  by  example.  When  I  was  about  your  age,  I  first 
came  to  this  stream  to  fish.  Sir,  on  that  fatal  day,  about 
3  P.M.,  I  hooked  up  a  fish — such  a  big  one,  it  must  have 
weighed  a  pound  and  a  half.  Sir,  it  was  that  length  [and 
the  angler  put  finger  to  wrist].  And  just  when  I  had  got 
it  nearly  ashore  by  the  very  place  where  you  are  sitting, 
on  that  shelving  bank,  young  man,  the  line  broke,  and  the 
perch  twisted  himself  amongst  those  roots  and — cacodoemon 
that  he  was — ran  off,  hook  and  all.  Well,  that  fish  haunted 
me  ;  never  before  had  I  seen  such  a  fish.  Minnows  I  had 
caught  in  the  Thames  and  elsewhere,  also  gugdeons,  and 
occasionally  a  dace.  But  a  fish  like  that — a  PERCH — 
all  his  fins  up,  like  the  sails  of  a  man-of-war — a  monster 
perch — a  whale  of  a  perch! — No,  never  till  then  had  I 
known  what  leviathans  lie  hid  within  the  deeps.  I  could 
not  sleep  till  I  had  returned  ;  and,  again,  sir, — I  caught 
that  perch.  And  this  time  I  pulled  him  fairly  out  of  the 
water.  He  escaped  ;  and  how  did  he  escape  ?  Sir,  he 
left  his  eye  behind  him  on  the  hook.  Years,  long  years, 
have  passed  since  then  ;  but  never  shall  I  forget  the  agony 
of  that  moment. 

LEONARD. — To  the  perch,  sir? 

ANGLER. — Perch  !  agony  to  him  !  He  enjoyed  it : — 
agony  to  me.  I  gazed  on  that  eye,  and  the  eye  looked  as 
sly  and  as  wicked  as  if  it  was  laughing  in  my  face.  Well, 
sir,  I  had  heard  that  there  is  no  better  bait  for  a  perch  than 
a  perch's  eye.  I  adjusted  that  eye  on  the  hook,  and  drop- 
ped in  the  line  gently.  The  water  was  unusually  clear  ;  in 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  391 

two  minutes,  I  saw  that  perch  return.  He  approached  the 
hook  ;  he  recognized  his  eye — frisked  his  tail — made  a 
plunge — and,  as  I  live,  carried  off  the  eye,  safe  and  sound  ; 
and  I  saw  him  digesting  it  by  the  side  of  that  water-lily. 
The  mocking  fiend  !  Seven  times  since  that  day,  in  the 
course  of  a  varied  and  eventful  life,  have  I  caught  that 
perch,  and  seven  times  has  that  perch  escaped. 

LEONARD  (astonished). — It  can't  be  the  same  perch  ; 
perches  are  very  tender  fish — a  hook  inside  of  it,  and  an 
eye  hooked  out  of  it — no  perch  could  withstand  such  havoc 
in  its  constitution. 

ANGLER  (with  an  appearance  of  awe). — It  does  seem 
supernatural.  But  it  is  that  perch  ;  for,  harkye,  sir,  there 
is  ONLY  ONE  perch  in  the  whole  brook  !  All  the  years  I  have 
fished  here,  I  have  never  caught  another  perch  ;  and  this 
solitary  inmate  of  the  watery  element  I  know  by  sight  bet- 
ter than  I  knew  my  own  lost  father.  For  each  time  that  I 
have  raised  it  out  of  the  water,  its  profile  has  been  turned 
to  me,  and  I  have  seen,  with  a  shudder,  that  it  has  had 
only— One  Eye  !  It  is  a  most  mysterious  and  a  most  dia- 
bolical phenomenon,  that  perch  !  It  has  been  the  ruin  of 
my  prospects  in  life.  I  was  offered  a  situation  in  Jamaica  ; 
I  could  not  go  with  that  perch  left  here  in  triumph.  I 
might  afterward  have  had  an  appointment  in  India,  but  I 
could  not  put  the  ocean  between  myself  and  that  perch  ; 
thus  have  I  frittered  away  my  existence  in  the  fatal  metro- 
polis of  my  native  land.  And  once  a  week,  from  February 
to  December,  I  come  hither. — Good  Heavens  !  if  I  should 
catch  the  perch  at  last,  the  occupation  of  my  existence  will 
be  gone. 

Leonard  gazed  curiously  at  the  angler,  as  the  last  thus 
mournfully  concluded.  The  ornate  turn  of  his  periods 
did  not  suit  with  his  costume  :  he  looked  woefully  thread- 
bare and  shabby — a  genteel  sort  of  shabbiness  too — shab- 
biness  in  black.  There  was  humor  in  the  corners  of  his 
lip  ;  and  his  hands,  though  they  did  not  seem  very  clean — 
indeed  his  occupation  was  not  friendly  to  such  niceties — 
were  those  of  a  man  who  had  not  known  manual  labor. 
His  face  was  pale  and  puffed,  but  the  tip  of  the  nose  was 
red  ;  he  did  not  seem  as  if  the  watery  element  was  as 
familiar  to  himself  as  to  his  Delilah — the  perch. 

"Such  is  Life!"  recommenced  the  angler,  in  a  moral- 
izing tone,  as  he  slid  his  rod  into  its  canvas  case.  "  If  a 
man  knew  what  it  was  to  fish  all  one's  life  in  a  stream  that 


392  MY  NOVEL  ;    OR, 

has  only  one  perch  ; — to  catch  that  one  perch  nine  times  in 
all,  and  nine  times  to  see  it  fall  back  into  the  water,  plump  ; 
— if  a  man  knew  what  it  was — why,  then  " — Here  the 
angler  looked  over  his  shoulder  full  at  Leonard — "why 
then,  young  sir,  he  would  know  what  human  life  is  to  vain 
ambition.  Good  evening." 

Away  he  went,  treading  over  the  daisies  and  king-cups. 
Helen's  eyes  followed  him  wistfully. 

"What  a  strange  person  !"  said  Leonard,  laughing. 

"  I  think  he  is  a  very  wise  one,"  murmured  Helen  ;  and 
she  came  close  up  to  Leonard,  and  took  his  hand  in  both 
hers,  as  if  she  felt  already  that  he  was  in  need  of  a  Com- 
forter— the  line  broken,  and  perch  lost  ! 


CHAPTER  IX. 

AT  noon  the  next  day,  London  stole  upon  them  through 
a  gloomy,  thick,  oppressive  atmosphere  ;  for  where  is  it 
that  we  can  say  London  bursts  on  the  sight?  It  stole  on 
them  through  one  of  its  fairest  and  most  gracious  avenues 
of  approach — by  the  stately  gardens  of  Kensington — along 
the  side  of  Hyde  Park,  and  so  on  toward  Cumberland  Gate. 

Leonard  was  not  the  least  struck.  And  yet,  with  a  very 
little  money,  and  a  very  little  taste,  it  would  be  easy  to 
render  this  entrance  to  London  as  grand  and  as  imposing 
as  that  to  Paris  from  the  Champs  Elysfas.  As  they  came 
near  the  Edgeware  Road,  Helen  took  her  new  brother  by 
the  hand  and  guided  him  ;  for  she  knew  all  that  neigh- 
borhood, and  she  was  acquainted  with  a  lodging  near  that 
occupied  by  her  father  (to  thai  lodging  itself  she  could 
not  have  gone  for  the  world),  where  they  might  be  housed 
cheaply.  • 

But  just  then  the  sky,  so  dull  and  overcast  since  morn- 
ing, seemed  one  mass  of  black  cloud.  There  suddenly 
came  on  a  violent  storm  of  rain.  The  boy  and  girl  took 
refuge  in  a  covered  mews,  in  a  street  running  out  of  the 
Edgeware  Road.  This  shelter  soon  became  crowded  ;  the 
two  young  pilgrims  crept  close  to  the  wall,  apart  from  the 
rest— Leonard's  arm  round  Helen's  waist,  sheltering  her 
from  the  rain  that  the  strong  wind  contending  with  it  beat 
in  through  the  passage.  Presently  a  young  gentleman  of 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  393 

better  mien  and  dress  than  the  other  refugees,  entered,  not 
hastily,  but  rather  with  a  slow  and  proud  step,  as  if,  though 
he  deigned  to  take  shelter,  he  scorned  to  run  to  it.  He 
glanced  somewhat  haughtily  at  the  assembled  group — 
passed  on  through  the  midst  of  it — came  near  Leonard — 
took  off  his  hat,  and  shook  the  rain  from  its  brim.  His 
head  thus  uncovered,  left  all  his  features  exposed ;  and  the 
village  youth  recognized,  at  the  first  glance,  his  old  vic- 
torious assailant  on  the  green  at  Hazeldean. 

Yet  Randal  Leslie  was  altered.  His  dark  cheek  was  as 
thin  as  in  boyhood,  and  even  yet  more  wasted  by  intense 
study  and  night  vigils  ;  but  the  expression  of  his  face  was 
at  once  more  refined  and  manly,  and  there  was  a  steady 
concentrated  light  in  his  eye,  like  that  of  one  who  has  been 
in  the  habit  of  bringing  all  his  thoughts  to  one  point.  He 
looked  older  than  he  was.  He  was  dressed  simply  in  black, 
a  color  which  became  him  ;  and  altogether  his  aspect  and 
figure  were  not  showy  indeed,  but  distinguished.  He 
looked  to  the  common  eye  a  gentleman  ;  and  to  the  more 
observant,  a  scholar. 

Helter-skelter  ! — pell-mell !  the  group  in  the  passage — 
now  pressed  each  on  each — now  scattered  on  all  sides — mak- 
ing way— rushing  down  the  mews — against  the  wyalls,  as  a 
fiery  horse  darted  under  shelter.  The  rider,  a  young  man, 
with  a  very  handsome  face,  and  dressed  with  that  peculiar 
care  which  we  commonly  call  dandyism,  cried  out,  good- 
humoredly,  "  Don't  be  afraid  ;  the  horse  shan't  hurt  any  of 
you — a  thousand  pardons — so  ho  !  so  ho  !  "  He  patted  the 
horse,  and  it  stood  as  still  as  a  statue  filling  up  the  centre 
of  the  passage.  The  groups  resettled — Randal  approached 
the  rider. 

"Frank  Hazeldean!" 

"Ah— is  it  indeed  Randal  Leslie  !" 

Frank  was  off  his  horse  in  a  moment,  and  the  bridle  was 
consigned  to  the  care  of  a  slim  'prentice-boy  holding  a 
bundle. 

"  My  dear  fellow,  how  glad  I  am  to  see  you  !  How  lucky 
it  was  that  I  should  turn  in  here  !  Not  like  me  either,  for  I 
don't  much  care  for  a  ducking.  Staying  in  town,  Randal  ?" 

"Yes;  at  your  uncle's,  Mr.  Egerton.  I  have  left  Ox- 
ford." 

"  For  good  ?" 

"  For  good." 

"  But  you  have  not  taken  your  degree,  I  think  ?  We 
17* 


394  MY  NOVEL;    OR, 

Etonians  all  considered  you  booked  for  a  double-first.  Oh  ! 
we  have  been  so  proud  of  your  fame — you  carried  off  all  the 
prizes." 

"  Not  all ;  but  some,  certainly.  Mr.  Egerton  offered  me 
my  choice — to  stay  for  my  degree,  or  to  enter  at  once  into 
the  Foreign  Office.  I  preferred  the  end  to  the  means  :  for, 
after  all,  what  good  are  academical  honors  but  as  the  en- 
trance to  life  ?  To  enter  now,  is  to  save  a  step  in  a  long 
way,  Frank." 

"Ah!  you  were  always  a'mbitious,  and  you  will  make  a 
great  figure,  I  am  sure." 

"  Perhaps  so — if  I  work  for  it.     Knowledge  is  power ! " 

Leonard  started. 

"And  you  !  "  resumed  Randal,  looking  with  some  curious 
attention  at  his  old  school-fellow — "  You  never  came  to  Ox- 
ford. I  did  hear  you  were  going  in  the  army." 

"  I  am  in  the  Guards,"  said  Frank,  trying  hard  not  to 
look  too  conceited  as  he  made  that  acknowledgment.  "The 
Governor  pished  a  little,  and  would  rather  I  had  come  to  live 
with  him  in  the  old  Hall,  and  take  to  farming.  Time  enough 
for  that— eh  ?  By  Jove,  Randal,  how  pleasant  a  thing  is  life 
in  London  !  Do  you  go  to  Almack's  to-night  ?" 

"  No  ;  Wednesday  is  a  holiday  in  the  House  !  There  is 
a  great  Parliamentary  dinner  at  Mr.  Egerton's.  He  is  in 
the  cabinet  now,  you  know  ;  but  you  don't  see  much  of  your 
uncle,  I  think." 

"  Our  sets  are  different,"  said  the  young  gentleman,  in  a 
tone  of  voice  worthy  of  Brummell.  "  All  those  Parliamen- 
tary fellows  are  devilish  dull.  The  rain's  over.  I  don't  know 
whether  the  Governor  would  like  me  to  call  at  Grosvenor 
Square  ;  but  pray  come  and  see  me.  Here's  my  card  to  re- 
mind you  ;  you  must  dine  at  our  mess.  Such  capital  fellows  ! 
What  day  will  you  fix  ?  " 

"  I  will  call  and  let  you  know.  Don't  you  find  it  rather 
expensive  in  the  Guards  ?  I  remember  that  you  thought  the 
Governor,  as  you  call  him,  used  to  chafe  a  little  when  you 
wrote  for  more  pocket-money  ;  and  the  only  time  I  ever  saw 
you  with  tears  in  your  eyes,  was  when  Mr.  Hazeldean,  in 
sending  you  five  pounds,  reminded  you  that  his  estates  were 
not  entailed — were  at  his  own  disposal,  and  they  should 
never  go  to  an  extravagant  spendthrift.  It  was  not  a  pleas- 
ant threat  that,  Frank." 

"Oh!"  cried  the  young  man,  coloring  deeply;  "it  was 
not  the  threat  that  pained  me  ;  it  was  that  my  father  could 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  395 

think  so  meanly  of  me  as  to  fancy  that — Well — well,  but 
those  were  school-boy  days  :  and  my  father  was  always  more 
generous  than  I  deserved.  We  must  see  a  great  deal  of  each 
other,  Randal.  How  good-natured  you  were  at  Eton,  mak- 
ing my  longs  and  shorts  for  me  ;  I  shall  never  forget  it.  Do 
call  soon." 

Frank  swung  himself  into  his  saddle,  and  rewarded  the 
slim  youth  with  half  a  crown — a  largess  four  times  more 
ample  than  his  father  would  have  deemed  sufficient.  A  jerk 
of  the  reins  and  a  touch  of  the  heel — off  bounded  the  fiery 
horse  and  the  gay  young  rider.  Randal  mused  ;  and  as  the 
rain  had  now  ceased,  the  passengers  under  shelter  dispersed 
and  went  their  way.  Only  Randal,  Leonard,  and  Helen,  re- 
mained behind.  Then,  as  Randal,  still  musing,  lifted  his 
eyes,  they  fell  upon  Leonard's  face.  He  started,  passed  his 
hand  quickly  over  his  brow — looked  again,  hard  and  pierc- 
ingly ;  and  the  change  in  his  pale  cheek  to  a  shade  still 
paler — a  quick  compression  and  nervous  gnawing  of  his  lip — 
showed  that  he  too  recognized  an  old  foe.  Then  his  glance 
ran  over  Leonard's  dress,  which  was  somewhat  dust-stained, 
but  far  above  the  class  amongst  which  the  peasant  was 
born.  Randal  raised  his  brows  in  surprise,  and  with  a 
smile  slightly  supercilious — the  smile  stung  Leonard  :  and 
with  a  slow  step  Randal  left  the  passage,  and  took  his  way 
toward  Grosvenor  Square.  The  Entrance  of  Ambition  was 
clear  to  him. 

Then  the  little  girl  once  more  took  Leonard  by  the  hand, 
and  led  him  through  rows  of  humble,  obscure,  dreary  streets. 
It  seemed  almost  like  an  allegory  personified,  as  the  sad, 
silent  child  led  on  the  penniless  and  low-born  adventurer  of 
genius  by  the  squalid  shops,  and  through  the  winding  lanes, 
which  grew  meaner  and  meaner  till  both  their  forms  van- 
ished from  view. 


CHAPTER  X. 

"  BUT  do  come  ;  change  your  dress,  retwrn  and  dine  with 
me  ;  you  will  have  just  time,  Harley.  You  will  meet  the 
most  eminent  men  of  our  party  ;  surely  they  are  worth  your 
study,  philosopher  that  you  affect  to  be." 

Thus  said  Audley  Egerton  to  Lord  L'Estrange,  with 
whom  he  had  been  riding  (after  the  toils  of  his  office).  The 


396  MY  NOVEL:    OR, 

two  gentlemen  were  in  Audley's  library.  Mr.  Egerton,  as 
usual,  buttoned  up,  seated  in  his  chair,  in  the  erect  posture 
of  a  man  who  scorns  "  inglorious  ease."  Harley,  as  usual, 
thrown  at  length  on  the  sofa,  his  long  hair  in  careless  curls, 
his  neckcloth  loose,  his  habiliments  flowing — simplex  mun- 
ditiis,  indeed — his  grace  all  his  own  ;  seemingly  negligent, 
never  slovenly ;  at  ease  everywhere  and  with  every  one, 
even  with  Mr.  Audley  Egerton,  who  chilled  or  awed  the 
ease  out  of  most  people. 

"Nay,  my  dear  Audley,  forgive  me.  But  your  eminent 
men  are  all  men  of  one  idea,  and  that  not  a  diverting  one 
— politics  !  politics  !  politics  !  The  storm  in  the  saucer." 

"  But  what  is  your  life,  Harley  ? — the  saucer  without  the 
storm  ?" 

"  Do  you  know,  that's  very  well  said,  Audley  ?  I  did 
not  think  you  had  so  much  liveliness  of  repartee.  Life — 
life  !  it  is  insipid,  it  is  shallow.  No  launching  Argosies  in 
the  saucer.  Audley,  I  have  the  oddest  fancy " 

"  That  cf  course,"  said  Audley,  dryly  ;  "you  never  have 
any  other.  What  is  the  new  one  ? " 

HARLEY  (with  great  gravity). — Do  you  believe  in  Mes- 
merism ? 

AUDLEY.— Certainly  not. 

HARLEY. — If  it  were  in  the  power  of  an  animal  magnet- 
izer  to  get  me  out  of  my  own  skin  into  somebody  else's  ! 
Thafs  my  fancy  !  I  am  so  tired  of  myself — so  tired  !  I 
have  run  through  all  my  ideas — know  every  one  of  them  by 
heart.  When  some  pretentious  impostor  of  an  idea  perks 
itself  up  and  says,  Look  at  me — I'm  a  new  acquaintance,  I 
just  give  it  a  nod,  and  say,  Not  at  all — you  have  only  got 
a  new  coat  on;  you  are  the  same  old  wretch  that  has  bored 
me  these  last  twenty  years  ;  get  away.  But  if  one  could  be 
in  a  new  skin  !  if  I  could  be  for  half  an  hour  your  tall  por- 
ter, or  one  of  your  eminent  matter-of-fact  men,  I  should  then 
really  travel  into  a  new  world.*  Every  man's  brain  must 
be  a  world  in  itself,  eh  ?  If  I  could  but  make  a  parochial 
settlement  even  in  yours,  Audley — run  over  all  your  thoughts 
and  sensations.  Upon  my  life,  I'll  go  and  talk  to  that  French 
mesmerixer  about  it. 

AUDLEY  (who  does  not  seem  to  like  the  notion  of  having 

*  If,  at  the  date  in  which  Lord  L'Kstrange  held  this  conversation  with  Mr.  Egerton,  Alfred 
de  Mussel  had  written  his  comedies,  we  should  suspect  that  his  lordship  had  plagiarized  from 
one  of  them  the  whimsical  idea  that  he  here  vents  upon  Audley.  In  repeating  it.  the  author 
at  least  cannot  escape  from  the  charge  of  obligation  to  a  writer  whose  humor  is  sufficiently  op- 
ulent to  justify  the  luan. 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  397 

his  thoughts  and  sensations  rummaged,  even  by  his  friend, 
and  even  in  fancy). — Pooh,  pooh,  pooh  !  Do  talk  like  a  man 
of  sense. 

HARLEY. — Man  of  sense  !  Where  shall  I  find  a  model  ? 
I  don't  know  a  man  of  sense  ! — never  met  such  a  creature. 
Don't  believe  it  ever  existed.  At  one  time  I  thought 
Socrates  must  have  been  a  man  of  sense  ; — a  delusion  ;  he 
would  stand  gazing  into  the  air,  and  talking  to  his  Genius 
from  sunrise  to  sunset.  Is  that  like  a  man  of  sense  ?  Poor 
Audley  ;  how  puzzled  he  looks !  Well,  I'll  try  and  talk 
sense  to  oblige  you.  And  first  [here  Harley  raised  himself 
on  his  elbow] — first,  is  it  true,  as  I  have  heard  vaguely,  that 
you  are  paying  court  to  the  sister  of  that  infamous  Italian 
traitor  ? 

"Madame  di  Negra  ?  No:  I  am  not  paying  court  to 
her,"  answered  Audley,  with  a  cold  smile.  "  But  she  is 
very  handsome  ;  she  is  very  clever  ;  she  is  useful  to  me — I 
need  not  say  how  or  why  ;  that  belongs  to  my  metier  as  a 
politician.  But  I  think,  if  you  will  take  my  advice,  or  get 
your  friend  to  take  it,  I  could  obtain  from  her  brother, 
through  my  influence  with  her,  some  liberal  concessions  to 
your  exile.  She  is  very  anxious  to  know  where  he  is." 

"You  have  not  told  her  ?  " 

"No  ;  I  promised  you  I  would  keep  that  secret." 

"Be  sure  you  do  ;  it  is  only  for  some  mischief,  some 
snare,  that  she  could  desire  such  information.  Conces- 
sions !  pooh  !  This  is  no  question  of  concessions^  but  of 
rights." 

"I  think  you  should  leave  your  friend  to  judge  of  that." 

"  Well,  I  will  write  to  him.  Meanwhile,  beware  of  this 
woman.  I  have  heard  much  of  her  abroad,  and  she  has  the 
character  of  her  brother  for  duplicity  and " 

"Beauty,"  interrupted  Audley,  turning  the  conversation 
with  practised  adroitness.  "  I  am  told  that  the  Count  is 
one  of  the  handsomest  men  in  Europe,  much  handsomer 
than  his  sister,  still,  though  nearly  twice  her  age.  Tut — tut 
— Harley  ;  fear  not  for  me.  I  am  proof  against  all  feminine 
attractions.  This  heart  is  dead." 

"  Nay,  nay  ;  it  is  not  for  you  to  speak  thus — leave  that 
to  me.  But  even  /  will  not  say  it.  The  heart  never  dies. 
And  you  ;  what  have  you  lost  ? — a  wife  ;  true  :  an  excellent 
noble-hearted  woman.  But  was  it  love  that  you  felt  for 
her?  Enviable  man,  have  you  ever  loved?" 

"Perhaps  not,  Harley,"  said  Audley,  with  a  sombre  as- 


398  MY  NOVEL;    OR, 

pect,  and  in  dejected  accents;  "very  few  men  ever  have 
loved, — at  least  as  you  mean  by  the  word.  But  there  are 
other  passions  than  love  that  kill  the  heart,  and  reduce  us 
to  mechanism." 

While  Egerton  spoke,  Harley  turned  aside,  and  his 
breast  heaved.  There  was  a  short  silence  ;  Audley  was  the 
first  to  break  it. 

"  Speaking  of  my  lost  wife,  I  am  sorry  that  you  do  not 
approve  of  what  I  have  done  for  her  young  kinsman,  Ran- 
dal Leslie." 

HARLEY  (recovering  himself  with  an  effort). — Is  it  true 
kindness  to  bid  him  exchange  manly  independence  for  the 
protection  of  an  official  patron  ? 

AUDLEY.— I  did  not  bid  him.  I  gave  him  his  choice.  At 
his  age,  I  should  have  chosen  as  he  has  done. 

HARLEY. — I  trust  not;  I  think  better  of  you.  But  an- 
swer me  one  question  frankly,  and  then  I  will  ask  another. 
Do  you  mean  to  make  this  young  man  your  heir  ? 

AUDLEY  (with  a  slight  embarrassment). — Heir,  pooh  !  I 
am  young  still.  I  may  live  as  long  as  he — time  enough  to 
think  of  that. 

HARLEY. — Then  now  to  my  second  question.  Have  you 
told  this  youth  plainly  that  he  may  look  to  you  for  influ- 
ence, but  not  for  wealth  ? 

AUDLEY  (firmly). — I  think  I  have  ;  but  I  shall  repeat  it 
more  emphatically. 

HARLEY. — Then  I  am  satisfied  as  to  your  conduct,  but 
not  as  to  his.  For  he  has  too  acute  an  intellect  not  to  know 
what  it  is  to  forfeit  independence  ;  and,  depend  on  it,  he 
has  made  his  calculations,  and  would  throw  you  into  the 
bargain  in  any  balance  that  he  could  strike  in  his  favor. 
You  go  by  your  experience  in  judging  men  ;  I  by  my  in- 
stincts. Nature  warns  us  as  it  does  the  inferior  animals — 
only  we  are  too  conceited,  we  bipeds,  to  heed  her.  My  in- 
stincts of  soldier  and  gentleman  recoil  from  that  old  young 
man.  He  has  the  soul  of  the  Jesuit.  I  see  it  in  his  eye — I 
hear  it  in  the  tread*  of  his  foot ;  volto  seiolto  he  has  not  ; 
i  pensieri  stretti  he  has.  Hist !  I  hear  now  his  step  in  the 
hall.  I  should  know  it  from  a  thousand.  That's  his  very 
touch  on  the  handle  of  the  door. 

Randal  Leslie  entered.  Harley — who,  despite  his  disre- 
gard for  forms,  and  his  dislike  to  Randal,  was  too  high-bred 
not  to  be  polite  to  his  junior  in  age  or  inferior  in  rank — 
rose  and  bowed.  But  his  bright  piercing  eyes  did  not 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  399 

soften  as  they  caught  and  bore  down  the  deeper  and  more 
latent  fire  in  Randal's.  Harley  did  not  resume  his  seat,  but 
moved  to  the  mantel-piece,  and  leant  against  it. 

RANDAL. — I  have  fulfilled  your  commission,  Mr.  Eger- 
ton.  I  went  first  to  Maida  Hill,  and  saw  Mr.  Burley.  I 
gave  him  the  check,  but  he  said  "  it  was  too  much,  and  he 
should  return  half  to  the  banker  ;"  he  will  write  the  article 
as  you  suggested.  I  then 

AUDLEY. — Enough,  Randal !  we  will  not  fatigue  Lord 
L'Estrange  with  these  little  details  of  a  life  that  displeases 
him — the  life  political. 

HARLEY. — But  these  details  do  not  displease  me  ;  they 
reconcile  me  to  my  own  life.  Go  on,  pray,  Mr.  Leslie. 

Randal  had  too  much  tact  to  need  the  cautioning  glance 
of  Mr.  Egerton.  He  did  not  continue,  but  said,  with  a  soft 
voice,  "  Do  you  think,  Lord  L'Estrange,  that  the  contem- 
plation of  the  mode  of  life  pursued  by  others  can  reconcile 
a  man  to  his  own,  if  he  had  before  thought  it  needed  a  re- 
conciler ? "  Harley  looked  pleased,  for  the  question  was 
ironical  ;  and  if  there  was  a  thing  in  the  world  he  abhorred, 
it  was  flattery. 

"  Recollect  your  Lucretius,  Mr.  Leslie,  the  Suave  mare, 
etc.,  'pleasant  from  the  cliff  to  see  the  mariners  tossed  on 
the  ocean.'  Faith,  I  think  that  sight  reconciles  one  to  the 
cliff — though,  before,  one  might  have  been  teased  by  the 
splash  from  the  spray,  and  deafened  by  the  scream  of  the 
sea-gulls.  But  I  leave  you,  Audley.  Strange  that  I  have 
heard  no  more  of  my  soldier.  Remember  I  have  your 
promise  when  I  come  to  claim  it.  Good-bye,  Mr.  Leslie,  I 
hope  that  Burley's  article  will  be  worth  the — check." 

Lord  L'Estrange  mounted  his  horse,  which  was  still  at  the 
door,  and  rode  through  the  Park.  But  he  was  no  longer  now 
unknown  by  sight ;  bows  and  nods  saluted  him  on  every  side. 

"  Alas,  I  am  found  out,  then,"  said  he  to  himself.  "  That 
terrible  Duchess  of  Knaresborough,  too — I  must  fly  my 
country."  He  pushed  his  horse  into  a  canter,  and  was 
soon  out  of  the  Park.  As  he  dismounted  at  his  father's 
sequestered  house,  you  would  have  hardly  supposed  him 
the  same  whimsical,  fantastic,  but  deep  and  subtle  humorist 
that  delighted  in  perplexing  the  material  Audley — for  his 
expressive  face  was  unutterably  serious  ;  but  the  moment 
he  came  into  the  presence  of  his  parents,  the  countenance 
was  again  lighted  and  cheerful — it  brightened  the  whole 
room  like  sunshine. 


4oo  MY  NOVEL;    OR, 


CHAPTER  XL 

<;  MR.  LESLIE,"  said  Egerton,  when  Harley  had  left  the 
library,  "you  did  not  act  with  your  usual  discretion  in 
touching  upon  matters  connected  with  politics  in  the  pres- 
ence of  a  third  party." 

"  I  feel  that  already,  sir  ;  my  excuse  is,  that  I  held  Lord 
L'Estrange  to  be  your  most  intimate  friend." 

"  A  public  man,  Mr.  Leslie,  would  ill  serve  his  country 
if  he  were  not  especially  reserved  toward  his  private  friends 
— when  they  do  not  belong  to  his  party." 

"  But,  pardon  me  my  ignorance,  Lord  Lansmere  is  so 
well  known  to  be  one  of  your  supporters,  that  I  fancied  his 
son  must  share  his  sentiments,  and  be  in  your  confidence." 

Egerton's  brows  slightly  contracted,  and  gave  a  stern 
expression  to  a  countenance  always  firm  and  decided.  He 
however  answered  in  a  mild  tone  : 

"  At  the  entrance  into  political  life,  Mr.  Leslie,  there  is 
nothing  in  which  a  young  man  of  your  talents  should  be 
more  on  his  guard  than  thinking  for  himself  ;  he  will  nearly 
always  think  wrong.  And  I  believe  that  is  one  reason  why 
young  men  of  talent  disappoint  their  friends,  and  remain 
so  long  out  of  office." 

A  haughty  flush  passed  over  Randal's  brow,  and  faded 
away  quickly  ;  he  bowed  in  silence. 

Egerton  resumed,  as  if  in  explanation,  and  even  in 
kindly  apology — 

"Look  at  Lord  L'Estrange  himself.  What  young  man 
could  come  into  life  with  brighter  auspices  ?  Rank,  wealth, 
high  animal  spirits  (a  great  advantage  those  same  spirits, 
Mr.  Leslie),  courage,  self-possession,  scholarship  as  bril- 
liant perhaps  as  your  own  ;  and  now  see  how  his  life  is 
wasted!  Why?  He  always  thought  fit  to  think  for  him- 
self. He  could  never  be  broken  in  to  harness,  and  never 
will  be.  The  State  coach,  Mr.  Leslie,  requires  that  all  the 
horses  should  pull  together." 

"With  submission,  sir,"  answered  Randal,  "I  should 
think  that  there  were  other  reasons  why  Lord  L'Estrange, 
whatever  be  his  talents — and  of  these  you  must  be  indeed 
an  adequate  judge — would  never  do  anything  in  public  life." 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  401 

"Ay,  and  what  ?"  said  Egerton,  quickly.       „ 

"First,"  said  Randal,  shrewdly,  "  private  life  has  done 
too  much  for  him.  What  could  public  life  give  to  one  who 
needs  nothing  ?  Born  at  the  top  of  the  social  ladder,  why 
should  he  put  himself  voluntarily  at  the  last  step,  for  the 
sake  of  climbing  up  again  ?  And  secondly,  Lord  L'Es- 
trange  seems  to  me  a  man  in  whose  organization  sentiment 
usurps  too  large  a  share  for  practical  existence." 

"  You  have  a  keen  eye,"  said  Audley,  with  some  admira- 
tion ;  "  keen  for  one  so  young.  Poor  Harley  !  " 

Mr.  Egerton's  last  words  were  said  to  himself.  He  re- 
sumed, quickly — 

"  There  is  something  on  my  mind,  my  young  friend. 
Let  us  be  frank  with  each  other.  I  placed  before  you  fairly 
the  advantages  and  disadvantages  of  the  choice  I  gave  you. 
To  take  your  degree  with  such  honors  as  no  doubt  you 
would  have  Avon,  to  obtain  your  fellowship,  to  go  to  the 
bar,  with  those  credentials  in  favor  of  your  talents  : — this 
was  one  career.  To  come  at  once  into  public  life,  to  profit 
by  my  experience,  avail  yourself  of  my  interest,  to  take 
the  chances  of  rise  or  fall  with  a  party  : — this  was  another. 
You  chose  the  last.  But,  in  so  doing,  there  was  a  con- 
sideration which  might  weigh  with  you  ;  and  on  which,  in 
stating  your  reasons  for  your  option,  you  were  silent." 

"What  is  that,  sir?" 

"You  might  have  counted  on  my  fortune,  should  the 
chances  of  party  fail  you  ; — speak — and  without  shame, 
if  so  ;  it  would  be  natural  in  a  young  man,  Avho  comes 
from  the  elder  branch  of  the  house  whose  heiress  was  my 
wife." 

"You  wound  me,  Mr.  Egerton,"  said  Randal,  turning 
away. 

Mr.  Egerton's  cold  glance  followed  Randal's  movement ; 
the  face  was  hid  from  the  glance,  and  the  statesman's  eye 
rested  on  the  figure,  which  is  often  as  self-betraying  as  the 
countenance  itself.  Randal  baffled  Mr.  Egerton's  penetra- 
tion— the  young  man's  emotion  might  be  honest  pride,  and 
pained  and  generous  feeling  ;  or  it  might  be  something  else. 
Egerton  continued,  slowly — 

'•  Once  for  all,  then,  distinctly  and  emphatically,  I  say — 
.never  count  upon  that ;  count  upon  all  else  that  I  can  do 
for  you,  and  forgive  me  when  I  advise  harshly  or  censure 
coldly  ;  ascribe  this  to  my  interest  in  your  career.  More- 
over, before  decision  becomes  irrevocable,  I  wish  you  to 


402  My  NOVEL;    OR, 

know  practically  all  that  is  disagreeable  or  even  humiliat- 
ing in  the  first  subordinate  steps  of  him  who,  without 
wealth  or  station,  would  rise  in  public  life.  I  will  not  con- 
sider your  choice  settled  till  the  end  of  a  year  at  least — 
your  name  will  be  kept  on  the  college  books  till  then  ;  if, 
on  experience,  you  should  prefer  to  return  to  Oxford,  and 
pursue  the  slower  but  surer  path  to  independence  and  dis- 
tinction, you  can.  And  now  give  me  your  hand,  Mr.  Les- 
lie, in  sign  that  you  forgive  my  bluntness  ; — it  is  time  to 
dress." 

Randal,  with  his  face  still  averted,  extended  his  hand. 
Mr.  Egerton  held  it  a  moment,  then  dropping  it,  left  the 
room.  Randal  turned  as  the  door  closed.  And  there  was 
in  his  dark  face  a  power  of  sinister  passion,  that  justified 
all  Harley's  warnings.  His  lips  moved,  but  not  audibly  ; 
then,  as  if  struck  by  a  sudden  thought,  he  followed  Egerton 
into  the  hall. 

"Sir,"  said  he,  "I  forgot  to  say,  that  on  returning  from 
Maida  Hill,  I  took  shelter  from  the  rain  under  a  covered 
passage,  and  there  I  met,  unexpectedly,  with  your  nephew, 
Frank  Hazeldean." 

"  Ah  !  "  said  Egerton,  indifferently,  "a  fine  young  man  ; 
in  the  Guards.  It  is  a  pity  that  my  brother  has  such  an- 
tiquated notions  ;  he  should  put  his  son  into  Parliament, 
and  under  my  guidance  ;  I  could  push  him.  Well,  and 
what  said  Frank  ? " 

"  He  invited  me  to  call  on  him.  I  remember  that  you 
once  rather  cautioned  me  against  too  intimate  an  acquaint- 
ance with  those  who  have  not  got  their  fortune  to  make." 

"  Because  they  are  idle,  and  idleness  is  contagious. 
Right — better  not  to  be  intimate  with  a  young  Guards- 
man." 

"Then  you  would  not  have  me  call  on  him,  sir?  We 
were  rather  friends  at  Eton  ;  and  if  I  wholly  reject  his  over- 
tures, might  he  not  think  that  you — 

"I!"  interrupted  Egerton.  "Ah,  true;  my  brother 
might  think  I  bore  him  a  grudge;  absurd.  Call  then,  and 
ask  the  young  man  here.  Yet  still,  I  do  not  advise  inti- 
macy." 

Egerton  turned  into  his  dressing-room.  "  Sir,"  said  his 
valet,  who  was  in  waiting,  "Mr.  Levy  is  here — he  says,  by 
appointment ;  and  Mr.  Grinders  is  also  just  come  from  the 
country." 

"  Tell   Mr.  Grinders  to   come   in   first,"  said   Egerton, 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  403 

seating  himself.  "  You  need  not  wait  ;  I  can  dress  without 
you.  Tell  Mr.  Levy  I  will  see  him  in  five  minutes." 

Mr.  Grinders  was  steward  to  Audley  Egerton. 

Mr.  Levy  was  a  handsome  man,  who  wore  a  camelia  in 
his  button-hole — drove,  in  his  cabriolet,  a  high-stepping 
horse  that  had  cost  ^200  ;  was  well  known  to  young  men 
of  fashion,  and  considered  by  their  fathers  a  very  dangerous 
acquaintance. 


CHAPTER   XII. 

As  the  company  assembled  in  the  drawing-rooms,  Mr. 
Egerton  introduced  Randal  Leslie  to  his  eminent  friends  in 
a  way  that  greatly  contrasted  the  distant  and  admonitory 
manner  which  he  had  exhibited  to  him  in  private.  The 
presentation  was  made  with  that  cordiality,  and  that  gracious 
respect  by  which  those  who  are  in  station  command  notice 
for  those  who  have  their  station  yet  to  win. 

"  My  dear  Lord,  let  me  introduce  to  you  a  kinsman  of 
my  late  wife's  [in  a  whisper] — the  heir  to  the  eldest  branch 
of  her  family.  Stanmore,  this  is  Mr.  Leslie,  of  whom  I 
spoke  to  you.  You,  who  were  so  distinguished  at  Oxford, 
will  not  like  him  the  worse  for  the  prizes  he  gained  there. 
Duke,  let  me  present  to  you  Mr.  Leslie.  The  duchess  is 
angry  with  me  for  deserting  her  balls  ;  I  shall  hope  to  make 
my  peace  by  providing  myself  with  a  younger  and  livelier 
substitute.  Ah,  Mr.  Howard,  here  is  a  young  gentleman 
just  fresh  from  Oxford,  who  will  tell  us  all  about  the  new 
sect  springing  up  there.  He  has  not  wasted  his  time  on 
billiards  and  horses." 

Leslie  was  received  with  all  that  charming  courtesy 
which  is  the  To  Kalon  of  an  aristocracy. 

After  dinner,  conversation  settled  on  politics.  Randal 
listened  with  attention,  and  in  silence,  till  Egerton  drew  him 
gently  out  ;  just  enough,  and  no  more — just  enough  to 
make  his  intelligence  evident,  without  subjecting  him  to  the 
charge  of  laying  down  the  law.  Egerton  knew  how  to  draw 
out  young  men — a  difficult  art.  It  was  one  reason  why  he 
was  so  peculiarly  popular  with  the  more  rising  members  of 
his  party. 

The  party  broke  up  early. 


404  MY  NOVEL;    OR, 

"We  ar$  in  time  for  Almack's,"  said  Egerton,  glancing 
at  the  clock,  "  and  I  have  a  voucher  for  you  ;  come." 

Randal  followed  his  patron  into  the  carriage.  By  the 
way,  Egerton  thus  addressed  him  : — 

"  I  shall  introduce  you  to  the  principal  leaders  of  so- 
ciety ;  know  them  and  study  them.  I  do  not  advise  you  to 
attempt  to  do  more — that  is,  to  attempt  to  become  the  fash- 
ion. It  is  a  very  expensive  ambition  ;  some  men  it  helps, 
most  men  it  ruins.  On  the  whole,  you  have  better  cards  in 
your  hands.  Dance  or  not,  as  it  pleases  you— don't  flirt.  If 
you  flirt,  people  will  inquire  into  your  fortune — an  inquiry 
that  will  do  you  little  good  ;  and  flirting  entangles  a  young 
man  into  marrying  ;  that  would  never  do.  Here  we  arc." 

In  two  minutes  more  they  were  in  the  great  ball-room, 
and  Randal's  eyes  were  dazzled  with  the  lights,  the  dia- 
monds, the  blaze  of  beauty.  Audley  presented  him  in  quick 
succession  to  some  dozen  ladies,  and  then  disappeared 
amidst  the  crowd.  Randal  was  not  at  a  loss  ;  he  was  with- 
out shyness ;  or  if  he  had  that  disabling  infirmity,  he  con- 
cealed it.  He  answered  the  languid  questions  put  to  him 
with  a  certain  spirit  that  kept  up  talk,  and  left  a  favorable 
impression  of  his  agreeable  qualities.  But  the  lady  with 
whom  he  got  on  the  best,  was  one  who  had  no  daughters 
out,  a  handsome  and  witty  woman  of  the  world — Lady 
Frederick  Coniers. 

"  It  is  your  first  ball  at  Almack's  then,  Mr.  Leslie  ?  " 

"My  first." 

"And  you  have  not  secured  a  partner?  Shall  I  find  you 
one  ?  What  do  you  think  of  that  pretty  girl  in  pink  ?•' 

"I  see  her — but  I  cannot  think  of  her." 

"You  are  rather,  perhaps,  like  a  diplomatist  in  a  new 
court,  and  your  first  object  is  to  know  who  is  who." 

"I  confess  that  on  beginning  to  study  the  history  of  my 
own  day,  I  should  like  to  distinguish  the  portraits  that  il- 
lustrate the  memoir." 

"  Give  me  your  arm,  then,  and  we  will  come  into  the 
next  room.  We  shall  see  the  different  notabilit'es  enter  one 
by  one,  and  observe  without  being  observed.  This  is  the 
least  I  can  do  for  a  friend  of  Mr.  Egerton's." 

"Mr.  Egerton,  then,"  said  Randal  (as they  threaded  their 
way  through  the  space  without  the  rope  that  protected  the 
dancers) — "Mr.  Egerton  has  had  the  good  fortune  to  win 
your  esteem,  even  for  his  friends,  however  obscure  ?  " 

"  Why,  to  say  the  truth,  I  think  no  one  whom  Mr.  Eger- 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  405 

ton  calls  his  friend  need  long  remain  obscure,  if  he  has  the 
ambition  to  be  otherwise  ;  for  Mr.  Egerton  holds  it  a  maxim 
never  to  forget  a  friend,  nor  a  service." 

"Ah,  indeed  !  "  said  Randal,  surprised. 

"And,  therefore,"  continued  Lady  Frederick,  "as  he 
passes  through  life,  friends  gather  round  him.  He  will  rise 
even  higher  yet.  Gratitude,  Mr.  Leslie,  is  a  very  good 
policy." 

"  Hem  !  "  muttered  Mr.  Leslie. 

They  had  now  gained  the  room  where  tea  and  bread-and- 
butter  were  the  homely  refreshments  to  the  habitues  of  what 
at  that  day  was  the  most  exclusive  assembly  in  London. 
They  ensconced  themselves  in  a  corner  by  a  window,  and 
Lady  Frederick  performed  her  task  of  cicerone  with  lively 
ease,  accompanying  each  notice  of  the  various  persons  who 
passed  panoramically  before  them  with  sketch  and  anecdote, 
sometimes  good-natured,  generally  satirical,  always  graphic 
and  amusing. 

By-and-by,  Frank  Hazeldean,  having  on  his  arm  a  young 
lady  of  haughty  air,  and  with  high  though  delicate  features, 
came  to  the  tea-table. 

"The  last  new  Guardsman,"  said  Lady  Frederick  ;  "very 
handsome,  and  not  yet  quite  spoiled.  But  he  has  got  into 
a  dangerous  set." 

RANDAL. — The  young  lady  with  him  is  handsome  enough 
to  be  dangerous. 

LADY  FREDERICK  (laughing). — No  danger  for  him  there,' 
— as  yet  at  least.  Lady  Mary  (the  Duke  of  Knaresborough's 
daughter)  is  only  in  her  second  year.  The  first  year,  nothing 
under  an  earl ;  the  second,  nothing  under  a  baron.  It  will 
be  full  four  years  before  she  comes  down  to  a  commoner. 
Mr.  Hazeldean's  danger  is  of  another  kind.  He  lives  much 
with  men  who  are  not  exactly  mauvais  ton,  but  certainly  not 
of  the  best  taste.  Yet  he  is  very  young ;  he  may  extricate 
himself — leaving  half  his  fortune  behind  him.  What,  he 
nods  to  you  !  You  know  him  ? 

"Very  well ;  he  is  nephew  to  Mr.  Egerton." 

"  Indeed  !  I  did  not  know  that.  Hazeldean  is  a  new 
name  in  London.  I  heard  his  father  was  a  plain  country 
gentleman,  of  good  fortune,  but  not  that  he  was  related  to 
Mr.  Egerton." 

"  Half-brother." 

"Will  Mr.  Egerton  pay  the  young  gentleman's  debts? 
He  has  no  sons  himself." 


406  MY  NOVEL;    OR, 

RANDAL. — Mr.  Egerton's  fortune  comes  from  his  wife, 
from  my  family — from  a  Leslie,  not  from  a  Hazeldean. 

Lady  Frederick  turned  sharply,  looked  at  Randal's 
countenance  with  more  attention  than  she  had  yet  vouch- 
safed to  it,  and  tried  to  talk  of  the  Leslies.  Randal  was 
very  short  there. 

An  hour  afterward,  Randal,  who  had  not  danced,  was 
still  in  the  refreshment-room,  but  Lady  Frederick  had  long 
quitted  him.  He  was  talking  with  some  old  Etonians  who 
had  recognized  him,  when  there  entered  a  lady  of  very  re- 
markable appearance,  and  a  murmur  passed  through  the 
room  as  she  appeared. 

She  might  be  three  or  fovir  and  twenty.  She  was 
dressed  in  black  velvet,  which  contrasted  with  the  alabaster 
whiteness  of  her  throat  and  the  clear  paleness  of  her  com- 
plexion, while  it  set  off  the  diamonds  with  which  she  was 
profusely  covered.  Her  hair  was  of  the  deepest  jet,  and 
worn  simply  braided.  Her  eyes,  too,  were  dark  and  bril- 
liant, her  features  regular  and  striking  ;  but  their  expression, 
when  in  repose,  was  not  prepossessing  to  such  as  love 
modesty  and  softness  in  the  looks  of  woman.  But  when 
she  spoke  and  smiled,  there  was  so  much  spirit  and  vivacity 
in  the  countenance,  so  much  fascination  in  the  smile,  that 
all  which  might  before  have  marred  the  effect  of  her  beauty 
strangely  and  suddenly  disappeared. 

"  Who  is  that  very  handsome  woman  ? "  asked  Randal. 

"An  Italian — a  Marchesa  something,"  said  one  of  the 
Etonians. 

"Di  Negra,"  suggested  another,  who  had  been  abroad  ; 
"  she  is  a  widow  ;  her  husband  was  of  the  great  Genoese 
family  of  Negra — a  younger  branch  of  it." 

Several  men  now  gathered  thickly  around  the  fair  Ital- 
ian. A  few  ladies  of  the  highest  rank  spoke  to  her,  but 
with  a  more  distant  courtesy  than  ladies  of  high  rank 
visually  show  to  foreigners  of  such  quality  as  Madame  di 
Negra.  Ladies  of  a  rank  less  elevated  seemed  rather  shy 
of  her  ; — that  might  be  from  jealousy.  As  Randal  gazed  at 
the  Marchesa  with  more  admiration  than  any  woman,  per- 
haps, had  before  excited  in  him,  he  heard  a  voice  near  him 
say — 

"  Oh,  Madame  di  Negra  is  resolved  to  settle  amongst  us, 
and  marry  an  Englishman." 

"  If  she  can  find  one  sufficiently  courageous,"  returned  a 
female  voice. 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  407 

"  Well,  she's  trying  hard  for  Egerton ;  and  he  has 
courage  enough  for  anything." 

The  female  voice  replied,  with  a  laugh,  "  Mr.  Egerton 
knows  the  world  too  well,  and  has  resisted  too  many  temp- 
tations, to  be " 

"  Hush  ! — there  he  is." 

Egerton  came  into  the  room  with  his  usual  firm  step  and 
erect  mien.  Randal  observed  that  a  quick  glance  was  ex- 
changed between  him  and  the  Marchesa  ;  but  the  minister 
passed  her  by  with  a  bow. 

Still  Randal  watched,  and,  ten  minutes  afterward. 
Egerton  and  the  Marchesa  were  seated  apart  in  the  very 
same  convenient  nook  that  Randal  and  Lady  Frederick  had 
occupied  an  hour  or  so  before. 

"Is  this  the  reason  why  Mr.  Egerton  so  insultingly 
warns  me  against  counting  on  his  fortune  ?  "  muttered  Ran- 
dal. "  Does  he  mean  to  marry  again  ? " 

Unjust  suspicion  ! — for,  at  that  moment,  these  were  the 
words  that  Audley  Egerton  was  dropping  forth  from  his  lips 
of  bronze — 

"Nay,  dear  madam,  do  not  ascribe  to  my  frank  admir- 
ation more  gallantry  than  it  merits.  Your  conversation 
charms  me,  your  beauty  delights  me  ;  your  society  is  as  a 
holiday  that  I  look  forward  to  in  the  fatigues  of  my  life. 
But  I  have  done  with  love,  and  I  shall  never  marry  again." 

"You  almost  pique  me  into  trying  to  win,  in  order  to 
reject  you,"  said  the  Italian,  with  a  Hash  from  her  bright 
eyes. 

"  I  defy  even  you,"  answered  Audley,  with  his  cold  hard 
smile.  "  But  to  return  to  the  point  :  You  have  more  influ- 
ence, at  least,  over  this  subtle  ambassador  ;  and  the  secret  we 
speak  of  I  rely  on  you  to  obtain  me.  Ah,  madam,  let 
us  rest  friends.  You  see  I  have  conquered  the  unjust  pre- 
judices against  you  ;  you  are  received  and  fetee  everywhere, 
as  becomes  your  birth  and  your  attractions.  Rely  on  me 
ever,  as  I  on  you.  But  I  shall  excite  too  much  envy  if  I 
stay  here  longer,  and  am  vain  enough  to  think  that  I  may 
injure  you  if  I  provoke  the  gossip  of  the  ill-natured.  As 
the  avowed  friend,  I  can  serve  you — as  the  supposed  lover, 
No—  Audley  rose  as  he  said  this,  and,  standing  by  the 
chair,  added  carelessly,  "Apropos,  the  sum  you  do  me  the 
honor  to  borrow  will  be  paid  to  your  bankers  to-morrow." 

"  A  thousand  thanks  ! — my  brother  will  hasten  to  repay 
you." 


408  MY  NOVEL;    OK, 

Audley  bowed.  "  Your  brother,  I  hope,  will  repay  me 
in  person,  not  before.  When  does  he  come  ? " 

"  Oh,  he  has  again  postponed  his  visit  to  London  ;  he  is 
so  much  needed  in  Vienna.  But  while  we  are  talking  of 
him,  allow  me  to  ask  if  your  friend,  Lord  L'Estrange,  is  in- 
deed still  so  bitter  against  that  poor  brother  of  mine  ? " 

"  Still  the  same." 

"It  is  shameful!"  cried  the  Italian,  with  warmth; 
"  what  has  my  brother  ever  done  to  him  that  he  should  ac- 
tually intrigue  against  the  Count  in  his  own  court  ?" 

"Intrigue!  I  think  you  wrong  Lord  L'Estrange  ;  he 
but  represented  what  he  believed  to  be  the  truth,  in  defence 
of  a  ruined  exile." 

"  And  you  will  not  tell  me  where  that  exile  is,  or  if  his 
daughter  still  lives  ?  " 

"  My  dear  Marchesa,  I  have  called  you  friend,  therefore 
I  will  not  aid  L'Estrange  to  injure  you  or  yours.  But  I  call 
L'Estrange  a  friend  also  ;  and  I  cannot  violate  the  trust 
that — "  Audley  stopped  short,  and  bit  his  lip.  "You 
understand  me,"  he  resumed,  with  a  more  genial  smile  than 
usual ;  and  he  took  his  leave. 

The  Italian's  brows  met  as  her  eye  followed  him  ;  then, 
as  she  too  rose,  that  eye  encountered  Randal's. 

"  That  young  man  has  the  eye  of  an  Italian,"  said  the 
Marchesa  to  herself,  as  she  passed  by  him  into  the  ball- 
room. 


CHAPTER  XIII. 

LEONARD  and  Helen  settled  themselves  in  two  little 
chambers  in  a  small  lane.  The  neighborhood  was  dull 
enough — the  accommodation  humble  ;  but  their  landlady  had 
a  smile.  That  was  the  reason,  perhaps,  why  Helen  chose 
the  lodgings  :  a  smile  is  not  always  found  on  the  face  of  a 
landlady  when  the  lodger  is  poor.  And  out  of  their  win- 
dows they  caught  sight  of  a  green  tree,  an  elm,  that  grew 
up  fair  and  tall  in  a  carpenter's  yard  at  the  rear.  That  tree 
was  like  another  smile  to  the  place.  They  saw  the  birds 
come  and  go  to  its  shelter  ;  and  they  even  heard,  when  a 
breeze  arose,  the  pleasant  murmur  of  its  boughs. 

Leonard  went  the  same  evening  to  Captain  Digby's  old 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  409 

lodgings  ;  but  he  could  learn  there  no  intelligence  of  friends 
or  protectors  for  Helen.  The  people  were  rude  and  surly, 
and  said  that  the  Captain  still  owed  them  ^i  175.  The 
claim,  however,  seemed  very  disputable,  and  was  stoutly 
denied  by  Helen.  The  next  morning  Leonard  set  off  in 
search  of  Dr.  Morgan.  He  thought  his  best  plan  was  to 
inquire  the  address  of  the  Doctor  at  the  nearest  chemist's  ; 
and  the  chemist  civilly  looked  into  the  Court  Guide,  and  re- 
ferred  him  to  a  house  in  Balstrode  Street,  Manchester  Square. 
To  this  street  Leonard  contrived  to  find  his  way,  much  mar- 
velling at  the  meanness  of  London  :  Screwstown  seemed  to 
him  the  handsomer  town  of  the  two. 

A  shabby  man-servant  opened  the  door,  and  Leonard 
remarked  that  the  narrow  passage  was  choked  with  boxes, 
trunks,  and  various  articles  of  furniture.  He  was  shown 
into  a  small  room  containing  a  very  large  round  table, 
whereon  were  sundry  works  on  homoeopathy,  Parry's  Cym- 
brian  Plutarch,  Davies's  Celtic  Researches,  and  a  Sunday 
newspaper.  An  engraved  portrait  of  the  illustrious  Hahne- 
mann  occupied  the  place  of  honor,  over  the  chimney-piece. 
In  a  few  minutes  the  door  to  an  inner  room  opened,  and 
Dr.  Morgan  appeared,  and  said,  politely,  "Come  in,  sir." 

The  Doctor  seated  himself  at  a  desk,  looked  hastily  at 
Leonard,  and  then  at  a  great  chronometer  lying  on  the 
table.  "  My  time's  short,  sir — going  abroad  :  and  now  that 
I  am  going,  patients  flock  to  me.  Too  late.  London  will 
repent  its  apathy.  Let  it." 

The  Doctor  paused  majestically,  and  not  remarking  on 
Leonard's  face  the  consternation  he  had  anticipated,  he  re- 
peated, peevishly, — "  I  am  going  abroad,  sir,  but  I  will  make 
a  synopsis  of  your  case,  and  leave  it  to  my  successor. 
Hum  !  Hair  chestnut ;  eyes — what  color?  Look  this  way 
— blue,  dark  blue.  Hem !  Constitution  nervous.  What 
are  the  symptoms  ?" 

"  Sir,"  began  Leonard,  "  a  little  girl 

DR.  MORGAN  (impatiently). — Little  girl  !  Never  mind 
the  history  of  your  sufferings ;  stick  to  the  symptoms — stick 
to  the  symptoms. 

LEONARD. — You  mistake  me,  Doctor  ;  I  have  nothing  the 
matter  with  me.  A  little  girl — 

DR.  MORGAN. — Girl  again  !     I  understand  !  it  is  she  who 

is  ill  !     Shall   I  go  to  her  ?     She   must  describe  her  own 

symptoms — I  can't  judge  from  your  talk.     You'll  he  telling 

me  she  has  consumption,  or  dyspepsia,  or  some  such  disease 

18 


410  MY  NOVEL;    OR, 

that  don't  exist  :  mere  allopathic  inventions — symptoms, 
sir,  symptoms. 

LEONARD  (forcing  his  way). — You  attended  her  poor 
father.  Captain  Digby,  when  he  was  taken  ill  in  the  coach 
with  you.  He  is  dead,  and  his  child  is  an  orphan. 

DR.  MORGAN  (fumbling  in  his  medical  pocket-book). — 
Orphan  !  nothing  for  orphans,  especially  if  inconsolable, 
like  aconite  and  chauiomilla* 

With  some  difficulty  Leonard  succeeded  in  bringing 
Helen  to  the  recollection  of  the  homoeopathist,  stating  how 
he  came  in  charge  of  her,  and  why  he  sought  Dr.  Morgan. 

The  Doctor  was  much  moved. 

"  But,  really,"  said  he,  after  a  pause,  "  I  don't  see  how  I 
can  help  the  poor  child.  I  know  nothing  of  her  relations. 
This  Lord  Les — whatever  his  name  is — I  know  of  no  lords 
in  London.  I  know  lords,  and  physicked  them  too,  when  I 
was  a  blundering  allopathist.  There  was  the  Earl  of  Lans- 
mere— has  had  many  a  blue  pill  from  me,  sinner  that  I  was. 
His  son  was  wiser  ;  never  would  take  physic.  Very  clever 
boy  was  Lord  L'Estrange -" 

"  Lord  L'Estrange  !— that  name  begins  with  Les — 

"  Stuff  !  He's  always  abroad — shows  his  sense.  I'm 
going  abroad  too.  No  development  for  science  in  this  hor- 
rid city— full  of  prejudices,  sir,  and  given  up  to  the  most 
barbarous  allopathical  and  phlebotomical  propensities.  I'm 
going  to  the  land  of  Hahnemann,  sir, — sold  my  good-will, 
lease,  and  furniture,  and  have  bought  in  on  the  Rhine. 
Natural  life,  there,  sir — homoeopathy  needs  nature  :  dine 
at  one  o'clock,  get  up  at  four — tea  little  known,  and  science 
appreciated.  But  I  forget.  Cott !  what  can  I  do  for  the 
orphan  ?  " 

"Well,  sir,"  said  Leonard,  rising,  "Heaven  will  give  me 
strength  to  support  her." 

The  Doctor  looked  at  the  young  man  attentively.  "  And 
yet,"  said  he,  in  a  gentler  voice,  "you,  young  man,  are,  by 
your  account,  a  perfect  stranger  to  her,  or  were  so  when 
you  undertook  to  bring  her  to  London.  You  have  a  good 
heart — always  keep  it.  Very  healthy  thing,  sir,  a  good  heart 
— that  is,  when  not  carried  to  excess.  But  you  have  friends 
of  your  own  in  town  ?  " 

LEONARD. — Not  yet,  sir  ;  I  hope  to  make  them. 

DOCTOR. — Pless  me,  you  do  ? — How? — I  can't  make  any. 

*  It  may  be  necessary  to  observe,  that  homoeopathy  professes  to  deal  with  our  moral  affec- 
tions as  well  as  with  our  physical  maladies,  and  has  a  globule  for  every  sorrow. 

v  y  b 


VARIETIES  IX  ENGLISH  LIFE.  ,        411 

Leonard  colored  and  hung  his  head.  He  longed  to  say 
"Authors  find  friends  in  their  readers — I  am  going  to  be  an 
author."  But  he  felt  that  the  reply  would  savor  of  pre- 
sumption, and  held  his  tongue. 

The  Doctor  continued  to  examine  him,  and  with  friendly 
interest. 

"  You  say  you  walked  up  to  London — was  that  from 
choice  or  economy  ? 

LEONARD.— Both,  sir. 

DOCTOR. — Sit  down  again,  and  let  us  talk.  I  can  give 
you  a  quarter  of  an  hour,  and  I'll  see  if  I  can  help  either  of 
you,  provided  you  tell  me  all  the  symptoms — I  mean  all  the 
particulars. 

Then,  with  that  peculiar  adroitness  which  belongs  to 
experience  in  the  medical  profession,  Dr.  Morgan,  who  was 
really  an  acute  and  able  man,  proceeded  to  put  his  ques- 
tions, and  soon  extracted  from  Leonard  the  boy's  history 
and  hopes.  But  when  the  Doctor,  in  admiration  at  a  sim- 
plicity which  contrasted  so  evident  an  intelligence,  finally 
asked  him  his  name  and  connections,  and  Leonard  told  them, 
the  homceopathist  actually  started.  "  Leonard  Fairfield, 
grandson  of  my  old  friend,  John  Avenel,  of  Lansmere  !  I 
must  shake  you  by  the  hand.  Brought  up  by  Mrs.  Fair- 
field  !  —  Ah,  now  I  look,  strong  family  likeness  —  very 
strong !  " 

Tjhe  tears  stood  in  the  Doctor's  eyes.  "  Poor  Nora !  " 
said  he. 

"  Nora  !     Did  you  know  my  aunt  ?  " 

"  Your  aunt !  Ah  ! — ah  ! — ah  ;  yes — yes  !  Poor  Nora  ! 
— she  died  almost  in  these  arms — so  young,  so  beautiful.  I 
remember  it  as  if  yesterday." 

The  Doctor  brushed  his  hand  across  his  eyes,  and  swal- 
lowed a  globule  ;  and,  before  the  boy  knew  what  he  was 
about,  had  in  his  benevolence  thrust  another  between  Leon- 
ard's quivering  lips. 

A  knock  was  heard  at  the  door. 

"Ha  !  that's  my  great  patient,"  cried  the  Doctor,  recov- 
ering his  self-possession--"  must  see  him.  A  chronic  case 
— excellent  patient— tic,  sir,  tic.  Puzzling  and  interesting. 
If  I  could  take  that  tic  with  me,  I  should  ask  nothing  more 
from  Heaven.  Call  again  on  Monday;  I  may  haye  some- 
thing to  tell  you  then  as  to  yourself.  The  little  girl  can't 
stay  with  you — wrong  and  nonsensical.  I  will  see  after 
her.  Leave  me  your  address — write  it  here.  I  think  \ 


4I2  MY  NOVEL  ;    OK, 

know  a  lady  who  will  take  charge  of  her.  Good-bye.  Mon- 
day next,  ten  o'clock." 

With  this  the  Doctor  thrust  out  Leonard,  and  ushered  in 
his  grand  patient,  whom  he  was  very  anxious  to  take  with 
him  to  the  banks  of  the  Rhine. 

Leonard  had  now  only  to  discover  the  nobleman  whose 
name  had  been  so  vaguely  uttered  by  poor  Captain  Digby. 
He  had  again  recourse  to  the  Court  Guide,  and  finding  the 
address  of  two  or  three  lords,  the  first  syllable  of  whose  titles 
seemed  similar  to  that  repeated  to  him,  and  all  living  pretty 
near  to  each  other,  in  the  regions  of  May-Fair,  he  ascer- 
tained his  way  to  that  quarter,  and,  exercising  his  mother- 
wit,  inquired  at  the  neighboring  shops  as  to  the  personal 
appearance  of  these  noblemen.  Out  of  consideration  for 
his  rusticity  he  got  very  civil  and  clear  answers  ;  but  none 
of  the  lords  in  question  corresponded  with  the  description 
given  by  Helen.  One  was  old,  another  was  exceedingly 
corpulent,  a  third  was  bed-ridden — none  of  them  was  known 
to  keep  a  great  dog.  It  is  needless  to  say  that  the  name  of 
L'Estrange  (no  habitant  of  London),  was  not  in  the  Court 
Guide ;  and  Dr.  Morgan's  assertion  that  that  person  was 
always  abroad,  unluckily  dismissed  from  Leonard's  mind  the 
name  the  homceopathist  had  so  casually  mentioned.  But 
Helen  was  not  disappointed  when  her  young  protector  re- 
turned, late  in  the  day,  and  told  her  of  his  ill-success.  Poor 
child !  she  was  so  pleased  in  her  heart  not  to  be  'sepa- 
rated from  her  new  brother ;  and  Leonard  was  touched  to 
see  how  she  had  contrived  in  his  absence  to  give  a  certain 
comfort  and  cheerful  grace  to  the  bare  room  devoted  to 
himself.  She  had  arranged  his  few  books  and  papers  so 
neatly,  near  the  window,  in  sight  of  the  one  green  elm. 
She  had  coaxed  the  smiling  landlady  out  of  one  or  two 
extra  articles  of  furniture,  especially  a  walnut-tree  bureau, 
and  some  odds  and  ends  of  ribbon — with  which  last  she  had 
looped  up  the  curtains.  Even  the  old  rush-bottom  chairs 
had  a  strange  air  of  elegance,  from  the  mode  in  which  they 
were  placed.  The  fairies  had  given  sweet  Helen  the  art  that 
adorns  a  home,  and  brings  out  a  smile  from  the  dingiest  cor- 
ner of  hut  and  atti'c. 

Leonard  wondered  and  praised.  He  kissed  his  blushing 
ministrant  gratefully,  and  they  sate  down  in  joy  to  their  ab- 
stemious meal  ;  when  suddenly  his  face  was  overclouded — 
there  shot  through  him  the  remembrance  of  Dr.  Morgan's 
words — "  The  little  girl  can't  stay  with  you — wrong  and  non- 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  413 

sensical.  I  think  I  know  a  lady  who  will  take  charge  of 
her." 

"Ah,"  cried  Leonard,  sorrowfully,  "how  could  I  forget?" 
And  he  told  Helen  what  grieved  him.  Helen  at  first  ex- 
claimed, "that  she  would  not  go."  Leonard,  rejoiced,  then 
began  to  talk  as  usual  of  his  great  prospects  ;  and,  hastily 
finishing  his  meal,  as  if  there  were  no  time  to  lose,  sate  down 
at  once  to  his  papers.  Then  Helen  contemplated  him  sadly, 
as  he  bent  over  his  delighted  work.  And  when,  lifting  his 
radiant  eyes  from  his  manuscripts,  he  exclaimed,  "No,  no, 
you  shall  not  go.  This  must  succeed — and  we  shall  live  to- 
gether in  some  pretty  cottage,  where  we  can  see  more  than 
one  tree  ; "  then  Helen  sighed,  and  did  not  answer  this  time, 
"  No,  I  will  not  go." 

Shortly  after,  she  stole  from  the  room,  and  into  her  own ; 
and  there,  kneeling  down,  she  prayed,  and  her  prayer  was 
somewhat  like  this  : — "  Guard  me  against  my  own  selfish 
heart ;  may  I  never  be  a  burden  to  him  who  has  shielded 
me." 

Perhaps,  as  the  Creator  looks  down  on  this  world,  whose 
wondrous  beauty  beams  on  us  more  and  more  in  proportion 
as  our  science  would  take  it  from  poetry  into  law — perhaps 
He  beholds  nothing  so  beautiful  as  the  pure  heart  of  a  sim- 
ple, loving  child. 


CHAPTER  XIV. 

LEONARD  went  out  the  next  day  with  his  precious  manu- 
scripts. He  had  read  sufficient  of  modern  literature  to  know 
the  names  of  the  principal  London  publishers  ;  and  to  these 
he  took  his  way  with  a  bold  step,  though  a  beating  heart. 

That  day  he  was  out  longer  than  the  last  ;  and  when  he 
returned,  and  came  into  the  little  room,  Helen  uttered  a 
cry,  for  she  scarcely  recognized  him  ;  there  was  on  his  face 
so  deep,  so  silent,  and  so  concentrated  a  despondency.  He 
sate  down  listlessly,  and  did  not  kiss  her  this  time,  as  she 
stole  toward  him.  He  felt  so  humbled.  He  was  a  king 
deposed.  He  take  charge  of  another  life  !  He  ! 

She  coaxed  him,  at  last,  into  communicating  his  day's 
chronicle.  The  reader  beforehand  knows  too  well  what  it 
must  be,  to  need  detailed  repetition.  Most  of  the  publishers 
had  absolutely  refused  to  look  at  his  manuscripts  ;  one  or 


414  MY  NOVEL;    OR, 

two  had  good-naturedly  glanced  over  and  returned  them  at 
once,  with  a  civil  word  or  two  of  flat  rejection.  One  pub- 
lisher alone — himself  a  man  of  letters,  and  who  in  youth  had 
gone  through  the  same  bitter  process  of  disillusion  that  now 
awaited  the  village  genius — volunteered  some  kindly  though 
Stern  explanation  and  counsel  to  the  unhappy  boy.  This 
gentleman  read  a  portion  of  Leonard's  principal  poem  with 
attention,  and  even  with  frank  admiration.  He  could  appre- 
ciate the  rare  promise  that  it  manifested.  He  sympathized 
with  the  boy's  history,  and  even  with  his  hopes  ;  and  then 
he  said,  in  bidding  him  farewell, — 

"  If  I  publish  this  poem  for  you,  spsaking  as  a  trader,  I 
shall  be  a  considerable  loser.  Did  I  publish  all  I  admire, 
out  of  sympathy  with  the  author,  I  should  be  a  ruined  man. 
But  suppose  that,  impressed  as  I  really  am  with  the  evidence 
of  no  common  poetic  gifts  in  this  manuscript,  I  publish  it, 
not  as  a  trader,  but  a  lover  of  literature,  I  shall  in  reality,  I 
fear,  render  you  a  great  disservice,  and  perhaps  unfit  your 
whole  life  for  the  exertions  on  which  you  must  rely  for  in- 
dependence." 

"  How,  sir  ? "  cried  Leonard — "  Not  that  I  would  ask  you  to 
injure  yourself  for  me,"  he  added,  with  proud  tears  in  his  eyes. 

"  How,  my  young  friend  ?  I  will  explain.  There  is 
enough  talent  in  these  verses  to  induce  very  flattering  re- 
views in  some  of  the  literary  journals.  You  will  read  these, 
find  yourself  proclaimed  a  poet,  will  cry,  '  I  am  on  the  road 
to  fame.'  You  will  come  to  me,  'And  my  poem,  how  does 
it  sell  ?'  I  shall  point  to  some  groaning  shelf,  and  say,  '  Not 
twenty  copies  ! '  The  journals  may  praise,  but  the  public 
will  not  buy  it.  'But  you  will  have  got  a  name,'  you  say. 
Yes,  a  name  as  a  poet  just  sufficiently  known  to  make  every 
man  in  practical  business  disinclined  to  give  fair  trial  to  your 
talents  in  a  single  department  of  positive  life  ;  none  like  to 
employ  poets, — a  name  that  will  not  put  a  penny  in  your 
purse  ;  worse  still,  that  will  operate  as  a  barrier  against  every 
escape  into  the  ways  whereby  men  get  to  fortune.  But, 
having  once  tasted  praise,  you  will  continue  to  sigh  for  it ; 
you  will  perhaps  never  again  get  a  publisher  to  bring  forth 
a  poem,  but  you  will  hanker  round  the  purlieus  of  the  Muses, 
scribble  for  periodicals — fall  at  last  into  a  bookseller's 
drudge.  Profits  will  be  so  precarious  and  uncertain,  that  to 
avoid  debt  may  be  impossible  ;  then,  you  who  now  seem  so 
ingenuous  and  so  proud,  will  sink  deeper  still  into  the  liter- 
ary mendicant — begging,  borrowing " 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  415 

"Never — never — never  !"  cried  Leonard,  veiling  his  face 
with  his  hands. 

"  Such  would  have  been  my  career,"  continued  the  pub- 
lisher ;  "but  I,  luckily,  had  a  rich  relative,  a  trader,  whose 
calling  I  despised  as  a  boy,  who  kindly  forgave  my  folly, 
bound  me  as  an  apprentice,  and  here  I  am  ;  and  now  I  can 
afford  to  write  books,  as  well  as  sell  them.  Young  man,  you 
must  have  respectable  relations — go  by  their  advice  and 
counsel ;  cling  fast  to  some  positive  calling.  Be  anything  in 
this  city  rather  than  poet  by  profession." 

"  And  how,  sir,  have  there  ever  been  poets  ?  Had  they 
other  callings  ?" 

"  Read  their  biography,  and  then — envy  them  !  " 

Leonard  was  silent  a  moment ;  but,  lifting  his  head,  an- 
swered loud  and  quickly, — "  I  have  read  their  biography. 
True,  their  lot  was  poverty — perhaps  hunger.  Sir,  I— envy 
them !" 

"  Poverty  and  hunger  are  small  evils,"  answered  the  book- 
seller, with  a  grave,  kind  smile  ;  "  there  are  worse, — debt, 
and  degradation,  and — despair  !  " 

"  No,  sir,  no — you  exaggerate  ;  these  last  are  not  the  lot 
of  all  poets." 

"  Right  ;  for  most  of  our  greatest  poets  had  some  private 
means  of  their  own.  And  for  others — why,"  all  who  have 
put  into  a  lottery  have  not  drawn  blanks.  But  who  could 
advise  another  man  to  set  his  whole  hope  of  fortune  on  the 
chance  of  a  prize  in  a  lottery?  And  such  a  lottery!" 
groaned  the  publisher,  glancing  toward  sheets  and  reams  of 
dead  authors,  lying  like  lead  upon  his  shelves. 

Leonard  clutched  his  manuscripts  to  his  heart,  and 
hurried  away. 

"Yes,"  he  muttered,  as  Helen  clung  to  him,  and  tried  to 
console — "  yes,  you  were  right  :  London  is  very  vast,  very 
strong,  and  very  cruel  ;  "  and  his  head  sank  lower  and  lower 
yet  upon  his  bosom. 

The  door  was  flung  widely  open,  and  in,  unannounced, 
walked  Dr.  Morgan. 

The  child  turned  to  him,  and  at  the  sight  of  his  face  she 
remembered  her  father  ;  and  the  tears  that,  for  Leonard's 
sake,  she  had  been  trying  to  suppress,  found  way. 

The  good  Doctor  soon  gained  all  the  confidence  of 
these  two  young  hearts.  And  after  listening  to  Leonard's 
story  of  his  paradise  lost  in  a  day,  he  patted  him  on  the 
shoulder  and  said,  "Well,  you  will  call  on  me  on  Monday, 


416  MY  NOVEL;    OR, 

and  we  will  see.  Meanwhile,  borrow  these  of  me  ;" — and 
he  tried  to  slip  three  sovereigns  into  the  boy's*  hand. 
Leonard  was  indignant.  The  bookseller's  warning  flashed 
on  him.  Mendicancy  !  Oh  no,  he  had  not  yet  come  to  that ! 
He  was  almost  rude  and  savage  in  his  rejection  ;  and  the 
Doctor  did  not  like  him  the  less  for  it. 

"  You  are  an  obstinate  mule,"  said  the  homoeopathist, 
reluctantly  putting  up  his  sovereigns.  "Will  you  work 
at  something  practical  and  prosy,  and  let  the  poetry  rest 
awhile  ? " 

"  Yes,"  said  Leonard,  doggedly,  "  I  will  work." 

"  Very  well,  then.  I  know  an  honest  bookseller,  and 
he  shall  give  you  some  employment ;  and  meanwhile,  at  all 
events,  you  will  be  among  books,  and  that  will  be  some 
comfort." 

Leonard's  eyes  brightened — "A  great  comfort,  sir." 
Ha  pressed  the  hand  he  had  before  put  aside  to  his  grate- 
ful heart. 

"  But,"  resumed  the  Doctor,  seriously,  "  you  really  feel 
a  strong  predisposition  to  make  verses  ?  " 

"I  did,  sir." 

"  Very  bad  symptom  indeed,  and  must  be  stopped  before 
a  relapse  !  Here,  I  have  cured  three  prophets  and  ten 
poets  with  this  novel  specific." 

While  thus  speaking,  he  had  got  out  his  book  and  a 
globule.  "  Agai -icus  muscarius  dissolved  in  a  tumbler  of 
distilled  water — teaspoonful  whenever  the  fit  comes  on. 
Sir,  it  would  have  cured  Milton  himself.  And  now  for  you, 
my  child,"  turning  to  Helen — "I  have  found  a  lady  who 
will  be  very  kind  to  you, — not  a  menial  situation  ;  she 
wants  some  one  to  read  to  her,  and  tend  on  her — she  is  old, 
and  has  no  children.  She  wants  a  companion,  and  prefers 
a  girl  of  your  age  to  one  older.  Will  this  suit  you  ?  " 

Leonard  walked  away. 

Helen  got  close  to  the  Doctor's  ear,  and  whispered, 
"  No,  I  cannot  leave  him  now — he  is  so  sad." 

"  Cott  !  "  grunted  the  Doctor,  "you  two  must  have  been 
reading  Paul  and  Virginia.  If  I  could  but  stay  in  England, 
I  would  try  what  ignatia  would  do  in  this  case  — interesting 
experiment  !  Listen  to  me — little  girl ;  and  go  out  of  the 
room,  you,  sir.  " 

Leonard,  averting  his  face,  obeyed.  Helen  made  an  in- 
voluntary step  after  him — the  doctor  detained  and  drew  her 
on  his  knee. 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  417 

"What's  your  Christian  name  ? — I  forget." 

"  Helen." 

"  Helen,  listen.  'In  a  year  or  two  you  will  be  a  young 
woman,  and  it  would  be  very  wrong  then  to  live  along  with 
that  young  man.  Meanwhile,  you  have  no  right  to  cripple 
all  his  energies.  He  must  not  have  you  leaning  on  his  right 
arm — you  would  weigh  it  down.  I  am  going  away,  and 
when  I  am  gone  there  will  be  no  one  to  help  you,  if  you  re- 
reject  the  friend  I  offer  you.  Do  as  I  tell  you,  for  a  little 
girl  so  peculiarly  susceptible  (a  thorough  pulsatilla  constitu- 
tion) cannot  be  obstinate  and  egotistical." 

"  Let  me  see  him  cared  for  and  happy,  sir,"  said  she 
firmly,  "  and  I  will  go  where  you  wish." 

"  He  shall  be  so  ;  and  to-morrow,  while  he  is  out,  I  will 
come  and  fetch  you.  Nothing  so  painful  as  leave-taking — 
shakes  the  nervous  system,  and  is  a  mere  waste  of  the  ani- 
mal economy." 

Helen  sobbed  aloud  ;  then,  writhing  from  the  Doctor, 
she  exclaimed,  "  But  he  may  know  where  I  am  ?  We  may 
see  each  other  sometimes  ?  Ah,  sir,  it  was  at  my  father's 
grave  that  we  first  met,  and  I  think  Heaven  sent  him  to  me. 
Do  not  part  us  for  ever  ! " 

"  I  should  have  a  heart  of  stone  if  I  did,"  cried  the 
Doctor,  vehemently  ;  "and  Miss  Starke  shall  let  him  come 
and  visit  you  once  a  week — I'll  give  her  something  to  make 
her.  She  is  naturally  indifferent  to  others  ;  I  will  alter  her 
whole  constitution,  and  melt  her  into  sympathy — with 
rhododendron  and  arsenic  !  " 


CHAPTER  XV. 

BEFORE  he  went,  the  doctor  wrote  a  line  to  "  Mr. 
Prickett,  Bookseller,  Holborn,"  and  told  Leonard  to  take 
it,  the  next  morning,  as  addressed.  "  I  will  call  on  Prickett 
myself  to-night,  and  prepare  him  for  your  visit  ;  but  1  hope 
and  trust  you  will  only  have  to  stay  there  a  few  days." 

He  then  turned  the  conversation,  to  communicate  his 
plans  for  Helen.  Miss  Starke  lived  at  Highgate — a  worthy 
woman,  stiff  and  prim,  as  old  maids  sometimes  are  ;  but 
just  the  place  for  a  little  girl  like  Helen,  and  Leonard  should 
certainly  be  allowed  to  call  and  see  her. 
18* 


4i8  MY  NOVEL;    OR, 

Leonard  listened  and  made  no  opposition  ; — now  that 
his  day-dream  was  dispelled,  he  had  no  right  to  pretend 
to  be  Helen's  protector.  He  could  have  prayed  her  to 
share  his  wealth  and  his  fame  ;  his  penury  and  his  drudgery 
— no. 

It  was  a  very  sorrowful  evening — that  between  the  ad- 
venturer and  the  child.  They  sate  up  late,  till  their  candle 
had  burned  down  to  the  socket ;  neither  did  they  talk  much  ; 
but  his  hand  clasped  hers  all  the  time,  and  her  head  pil- 
lowed itself  on  his  shoulder.  I  fear,  when  they  parted  it 
was  not  for  sleep. 

And  when  Leonard  went  forth  the  next  morning,  Helen 
stood  at  the  street-door  watching  him  depart — slowly, 
slowly.  No  doubt,  in  that  humble  lane  there  were  many 
sad  hearts  ;  but  no  heart  so  heavy  as  that  of  the  still,  quiet 
child,  when  the  form  she'  had  watched  was  to  be  seen  no 
more,  and,  still  standing  on  the  desolate  threshold,  she 
gazed  into  space — and  all  was  vacant. 


CHAPTER    XVI. 

MR.  PRICKETT  was  a  believer  in  homoeopathy,  and  de- 
clared, to  the  indignation  of  all  the  apothecaries  round 
Holborn,  that  he  had  been  cured  of  a  chronic  rheumatism 
by  Dr.  Morgan.  The  good  Doctor  had,  as  he  promised, 
seen  Mr.  Prickett  when  he  left  Leonard,  and  asked  him  as  a 
favor  to  find  some  light  occupation  for  the  boy,  that  would 
serve  as  an  excuse  for  a  modest  weekly  salary.  "  It  will 
not  be  for  long,"  said  the  Doctor  ;  "  his  relations  are  re- 
spectable and  well  off.  I  will  write  to  his  grandparents,  and 
in  a  few  days  I  hope  to  relieve  you  of  the  charge.  Of 
course,  if  you  don't  want  him,  I  will  repay  what  he  costs 
meanwhile." 

Mr.  Prickett,  thus  prepared  for  Leonard,  received  him 
very  graciously,  and,  after  a  few  questions,  said  Leonard 
was  just  the  person  he  wanted  to  assist  him  in  cataloguing 
his  books,  and  offered  him  most  handsomely  £1  a  week  for 
the  task. 

Plunged  at  once  into  a  world  of  books  vaster  than  he  had 
ever  before  won  admission  to,  that  old  divine  dream  of 
knowledge,  out  of  which  poetry  had  sprung,  returned  to  the 


VARIETIES     IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  419 

village  student  at  the  very  sight  of  the  venerable  volumes. 
The  collection  of  Mr.  Prickett  was,  however,  in  reality,  by 
no  means  large  ;  but  it  comprised  not  only  the  ordinary 
standard  works,  but  several  curious  and  rare  ones.  And 
Leonard  paused  in  making  the  catalogue,  and  took  many  a 
hasty  snatch  of  the  contents  of  each  tome,  as  it  passed 
through  his  hands.  The  bookseller,  who  was  an  enthusiast 
for  old  books,  was  pleased  to  see  a  kindred  feeling  (which 
his  shop-boy  had  never  exhibited)  in  hi  j  new  assistant  ;  and 
he  talked  about  rare  editions  and  scarce  copies,  and  initiated 
Leonard  into  many  of  the  mysteries  of  the  bibliographist. 

Nothing  could  be  more  dark  and  dingy  than  the  shop. 
There  was  a  booth  outside,  containing  cheap  books  and 
old  volumes,  round  which  there  was  always  an  attractive 
group  ;  within,  a  gas-lamp  burned  night  and  day. 

But  time  passed  quickly  to  Leonard.  He  missed  not  the 
green  fields,  he  forgot  his  disappointments,  he  ceased  to  re- 
member even  Helen.  O  strange  passion  of  knowledge  ! 
nothing  like  thee  for  strength  and  devotion. 

Mr.  Prickett  was  a  bachelor,  and  asked  Leonard  to  dine 
with  him  on  a  cold  shoulder  of  mutton.  During  dinner, 
the  shop-boy  kept  the  shop,  and  Mr.  Prickett  was  really 
pleasant,  as  well  as  loquacious.  He  took  a  liking  to  Leon- 
ard— and  Leonard  told  him  his  adventures  with  the  publish- 
ers, at  which  Mr.  Prickett  rubbed  his  hands  and  laughed,  as 
at  a  capital  joke.  Oh,  give  up  poetry,  and  stick  to  a  shop," 
cried  he  ;  "and,  to  cure  you  forever  of  the  mad  whim  to  be 
an  author,  I'll  just  lend  you  the  Life  and  Works  of  Chatter- 
ton.  You  may  take  it  home  with  you  and  read  before  you 
go  to  bed.  You'll  come  back  quite  a  new  man  to-morrow." 

Not  till  night,  when  the  shop  was  closed,  did  Leonard 
return  to  his  lodging.  And  when  he  entered  the  room,  he 
was  struck  to  the  soul  by  the  silence,  by  the  void  ;  Helen 
was  gone  ! 

There  was  a  rose-tree  in  its  pot  on  the  table  at  which  he 
wrote,  and  by  it  a  scrap  of  paper,  on  which  was  written — 

"  Dear,  dear  brother  Leonard,  God  bless  you.  I  will  let 
you  know  when  we  can  meet  again.  Take  care  of  this  rose, 
brother,  and  don't  forget  poor 

"  HELEN." 

Over  the  word  "forget"  there  was  a  big  round  blistered 
spot  that  nearly  effaced  the  word. 


42o  MY  NOVEL;    OR, 

Leonard  leant  his  face  on  his  hands,  and  for  the  first 
time  in  his  life  he  felt  what  solitude  really  is.  He  could 
not  stay  long  in  the  room.  He  walked  out  again,  and 
wandered  objectless  to  and  fro  the  streets.  He  passed  that 
stiller  and  humbler  neighborhood,  he  mixed  with  the  throng 
that  swarmed  in  the  more  populous  thoroughfares  ;  hundreds 
and  thousands  passed  him  by,  and  still — still  such  solitude. 

He  came  back,  lighted  his  candle,  and  resolutely  drew 
forth  the  "  Chatterton  "  which  the  bookseller  had  lent  him. 
It  was  an  old  edition,  in  one  thick  volume.  It  had  evidently 
belonged  to  some  contemporary  of  the  poet's — apparently 
an  inhabitant  of  Bristol — some  one  who  had  gathered  up 
many  anecdotes  respecting  Chatterton's  habits,  and  who  ap- 
peared even  to  have  seen  him,  nay  been  in  his  company  ; 
for  the  book  was  interleaved,  and  the  leaves  covered  with 
notes  and  remarks,  in  a  stiff  clear  hand — all  evincing 
personal  knowledge  of  the  mournful  immortal  dead.  At 
first,  Leonard  read  with  an  effort,  then  the  strange  and  fierce 
spell  of  that  dread  life  seized  upon  him — seized  with  pain, 
and  gloom,  and  terror — this  boy  dying  by  his  own  hand, 
about  the  age  Leonard  had  attained  himself.  This  won- 
drous boy,  of  a  genius  beyond  all  comparison — the  greatest 
that  ever  yet  was  developed — and  extinguished  at  the  age 
of  eighteen  ! — self  taught — self-struggling — self-immolated. 
Nothing  in  literature  like  that  life  and  that  death  ! 

With  intense  interest  Leonard  perused  the  tale  of  the 
brilliant  imposture,  which  had  been  so  harshly  and  so  ab- 
surdly construed  into  the  crime  of  a  forgery,  and  which  was 
(if  not  wholly  innocent)  so  akin  to  the  literary  devices  al- 
ways in  other  cases  viewed  with  indulgence,  and  exhibiting 
in  this,  intellectual  qxialities  in  themselves  so  amazing — 
such  patience,  such  forethought,  such  labor,  such  courage, 
such  ingenuity — the  qualities  that,  well  directed,  make  men 
great,  not  only  in  books,  but  action.  And,  turning  from 
the  history  of  the  imposture  to  the  poems  themselves,  the 
young  reader  bent  before  their  beauty,  literally  awed  and 
breathless.  How  this  strange  Bristol  boy  tamed  and  mas- 
tered his  rude  and  motley  materials  into  a  music  that  com- 
prehended every  tune  and  key,  from  the  simplest  to  the 
sublimest !  He  turned  back  to  the  biography — he  read  on 
— he  saw  the  proud,  daring,  mournful  spirit,  alone  in  the 
Great  City  like  himself.  He  followed  its  dismal  career,  he 
saw  it  falling  with  bruised  and  soiled  wings  into  the  mire. 
He  turned  again  to  the  later  works,  wrung  forth  as  tasks 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  421 

for  bread, — the  satires  without  moral  grandeur,  the  politics 
without  honest  faith.  He  shuddered  and  sickened  as  he 
read.  True,  even  here  his  poet  mind  appreciated  (what 
perhaps  only  poets  can)  the  divine  fire  that  burned  fitfully 
through  that  meaner  and  more  sordid  fuel — he  still  traced 
in  those  crude,  hasty,  bitter  offerings  to  dire  Necessity,  the 
hand  of  the  young  giant  who  had  built  up  the  stately  verse 
of  Rowley.  But,  alas!  how  different  from  that  "mighty 
line."  How  all  serenity  and  joy  had  fled  from  these  later 
exercises  of  art  degraded  into  journey-work  !  Then  rapidly 
came  on  the  catastrophe — the  closed  doors — the  poison — 
the  suicide — the  manuscripts  torn  by  the  hands  of  despair- 
ing wrath,  and  strewed  round  the  corpse  upon  the  funeral 
floors.  It  was  terrible  !  The  spectre  of  the  Titan  boy  (as 
described  in  the  notes  written  on  the  margin),  with  his 
haughty  brow,  his  cynic  smile,  his  lustrous  eyes,  haunted  all 
the  night  the  baffled  and  solitary  child  of  song. 


CHAPTER  XVII. 

IT  will  ofttn  happen  that  what  ought  to  turn  the  human 
mind  from  some  peculiar  tendency  produces  the  opposite 
effect.  One  would  think  that  the  perusal  in  the  newspapers 
of  some  crime  and  capital  punishment  would  warn  away 
all  who  had  ever  meditated  the  crime,  or  dreaded  the  chance 
of  detection  ;  yet  it  is  well  known  to  us  that  many  a  crimi- 
nal is  made  by  pondering  over  the  fate  of  some  predecessor 
in  guilt.  There  is  a  fascination  in  the  Dark  and  Forbid- 
den, which,  strange  to  say,  is  only  lost  in  fiction.  No  man 
is  more  inclined  to  murder  his  nephews,  or  stifle  his  wife, 
after  reading  Richard  the  Third  or  Othello.  It  is  the  reality 
that  is  necessary  to  constitute  the  danger  of  contagion. 
Now,  it  was  this  reality  in  the  fate,  and  life,  and  crowning 
suicide  of  Chatterton,  that  forced  itself  upon  Leonard's 
thoughts,  and  sate  there  like  a  visible  evil  thing,  gathering 
evil  like  cloud  around  it.  There  was  much  in  the  dead 
poet's  character,  his  trials  and  his  doom,  that  stood  out  to 
Leonard  like  a  bold  and  colossal  shadow  of  himself  and 
his  fate.  Alas !  the  bookseller,  in  one  respect,  had  said 
truly ;  Leonard  came  back  to  him  the  next  day  a  new  man  ; 
and  it  seemed  even  to  himself  as  if  he  had  lost  a  good  angel 


422  M\  NOVEL;    OR, 

in  losing  Helen.  "  Oh,  that  she  had  been  by  my  side," 
thought  he  ;  "  oh,  that  I  could  have  felt  the  touch  of  her 
confiding  hand — that,  looking  up  from  the  scathed  and 
dreary  ruin  of  this  life,  that  had  sublimely  lifted  itself  from 
the  plain,  and  sought  to  tower  aloft  from  a  deluge,  her 
mild  look  had  spoken  to  me  of  innocent,  humble,  unaspir- 
ing childhood  !  Ah  !  if  indeed  I  were  still  necessary  to  her 
— still  the  sole  guardian  and  protector — then  could  I  say 
to  myself,  '  Thou  must  not  despair  and  die  !  thou  hast  her 
to  live  and  to  strive  for.'  But  no,  no!  Only  this  vast  and 
terrible  London— the  solitude  of  the  dreary  garret,  and  those 
lustrous  eyes  glaring  alike  through  the  throng  and  through 
the  solitude." 


CHAPTER    XVIII. 

ON  the  following  Monday,  Dr.  Morgan's  shabby  man- 
servant opened  the  door  to  a  young  man  in  whom  he  did  not 
at  first  remember  a  former  visitor.  A  few  days  before,  em- 
browned with  healthful  travel — serene  light  in  his  eye, 
simple  trust  in  his  careless  lip — Leonard  Fairfield  had 
stood  at  that  threshold.  Now  again  hes  too'd  there,  pale 
and  haggard,  with  a  cheek  already  hollowed  into  those  deep 
anxious  lines  that  speak  of  working  thoughts  and  sleep- 
less nights  ;  and  a  settled  sullen  gioom  resting  heavily  on 
his  whole  aspect. 

"  I  call  by  appointment,"  said  the  boy,  testily,  as  the 
servant  stood  irresolute.  The  man  gave  way.  "  Master  is 
just  gone  out  to  a  patient  ;  please  to  wait,  sir;"  and  he 
showed  him  into  the  little  parlor.  In  a  few  moments,  two 
other  patients  were  admitted.  These  were  women,  and 
they  began  talking  very  loud.  They  disturbed  Leonard's 
unsocial  thoughts.  He  saw  that  the  door  into  the  Doctor's 
receiving-room  was  half-open,  and  ignorant  of  the  etiquette 
which  holds  such  penetralia  as  sacred,  he  walked  in  to  escape 
from  the  gossips.  He  threw  himself  into  the  Doctor's  own 
well-worn  chair,  and  muttered  to  himself,  "Why  did  he  tell 
me  to  come  ?  What  new  can  he  think  of  for  me  ?  And 
if  a  favor,  should  I  take  it  ?  He  has  given  me  the  means 
of  bread  by  work  ;  that  is  all  I  have  a  right  to  ask  from  him, 
from  any  man — all  I  should  accept." 

While  thus  soliloquizing,  his  eye  fell  on  a  letter  lying 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  423 

\ 

open  on  the  table.  He  started.  He  recognized  the  hand- 
writing— the  same  as  that  of  the  letter  which  had  enclosed 
^50  to  his  mother — the  letter  of  his  grandparents.  He  saw 
his  own  name  ;  he  saw  something  more — words  that  made  his 
heart  stand  still,  and  his  blood  seem  like  ice  in  his  veins.  As 
he  thus  stood  aghast,  a  hand  was  laid  on  the  letter,  and  a 
voice,  in  an  angry  growl,  muttered,  "  How  dare  you  come 
into  my  room,  and  be  reading  my  letters  ?  Er — r — r  !  " 

Leonard  placed  his  own  hand  on  the  Doctor's  firmly, 
and  said,  in  a  fierce  tone,  "  This  letter  relates  to  me — be- 
longs to  me — crushes  me.  I  have  seen  enough  to  know  that. 
I  demand  to  read  all — learn  all." 

The  Doctor  looked  round,  and  seeing  the  door  into  the 
waiting-room  still  open,  kicked  it  to  with  his  foot,and  then 
said,  under  his  breath,  "  What  have  you  read?  Tell  me  the 
truth." 

"Two  lines  only;   and  I  am  called — I  am  called " 

Leonard's  frame  shook  from  head  to  foot,  and  the  veins  on 
his  forehead  swelled  like  cords.  He  could  not  complete  the 
sentence.  It  seemed  as  if  an  ocean  was  rolling  up  through 
his  brain,  and  roaring  in  his  ears.  The  Doctor  saw  at  a 
glance  that  there  was  physical  danger  in  this  state,  and 
hastily  and  soothingly  answered, — "  Sit  down,  sit  down — 
calm  yourself — you  shall  know  all — read  all — drink  this 
water  ; "  and  he  poured  into  a  tumbler  of  the  pure  liquid  a 
drop  or  two  from  a  tiny  phial.  Leonard  obeyed  mechanic- 
ally, for  he  was  no  longer  able  to  stand.  He  closed  his  eyes, 
and  for  a  minute  or  two  life  seemed  to  pass  from  him  ;  then 
he  recovered,  and  saw  the  good  Doctor's  gaze  fixed  on  him 
with  great  compassion.  He  silently  stretched  forth  his 
hand  toward  the  letter.  "  Wait  a  few  moments,"  said  the 
physician,  judiciously,  "  and  hear  me,  meanwhile.  It  is 
very  unfortunate  you  should  have  seen  a  letter  never  meant 
for  your  eye,  and  containing  allusions  to  a  secret  you  were 
never  to  have  known.  But,  if  I  tell  you  more,  will  you 
promise  me,  on  your  word  of  honor,  that  you  will  hold  the 
confidence  sacred  from  Mrs.  Fairfield,  the  Avenels — from 
all  ?  I  myself  am  pledged  to  conceal  a  secret,  which  I  can 
only  share  with  you  on  the  same  condition." 

"There  is  nothing,"  announced  Leonard,  indistinctly, 
and  with  a  bitter  smile  on  his  lip — "  nothing,  it  seems,  that 
I  should  be  proud  to  boast  of.  Yes,  I  promise — the  letter, 
the  letter !  " 

The    Doctor   placed    it    in    Leonard's    right    hand,   and 


424  MY  NOVEL;    OR, 

quietly  slipped  to  the  wrist  of  the  left  his  forefinger  and 
thumb,  as  physicians  are  said  to  do  when  a  victim  is  stretched 
on  the  rack.  "  Pulse  decreasing,"  he  muttered  ;  "  wonder- 
ful thing,  Aconite  !  "  Meanwhile  Leonard  read  as  follows, 
faults  in  spelling  and  all : — 

"  DR.  MORGAN, 

"  Sir, — I  received  your  favur  duly,  and  am  glad  to  hear 
that  the  pore  boy  is  safe  and  Well.  But  he  has  been  behav- 
ing ill,  and  ungrateful  to  my  good  son  Richard,  who  is  a 
credit  to  the  whole  Famuly,  and  has  made  himself  a  Gentle- 
man, and  Was  very  kind  and  good  to  the  boy,  not  knowing 
who  and  What  he  is — God  forbid !  I  don't  want  never  to 
see  him  again — the  boy.  Pore  John  was  ill  and  Restless 
for  days  afterward.  John  is  a  pore  cretur  now,  and  has  had 
paralyticks.  And  he  Talked  of  nothing  but  Nora — the  boy's 
eyes  were  so  like  his  Mother's.  I  cannot,  cannot  see  the 
Child  of  Shame.  He  can't  cum  here — for  our  Lord's  sake, 
sir,  don't  ask  it — he  can't,  so  Respectable  as  we've  always 
been  ! — and  such  disgrace  !  Base  born — base  born.  Keep 
him  where  he  is,  bind  him  prentis,  I'll  pay  anything  for 
That.  You  says,  sir,  he's  clever,  and  quick  at  learning  ;  so 
did  Parson  Dale,  and  wanted  him  to  go  to  Collidge  and 
make  a  Figur — then  all  would  cum  out.  It  would  be  my 
death,  sir  ;  I  could  not  sleep  in  my  grave,  sir.  Nora,  that 
we  were  all  so  proud  of.  Sinful  creturs  that  we  are  !  Nora's 
good  name  that  we've  saved  now,  gone,  gone.  And  Rich- 
ard, who  is  so  grand,  and  who  was  so  fond  of  pore,  pore 
Nora  !  He  would  not  hold  up  his  Head  again.  Don't  let 
him  make  a  Figur  in  the  world — let  him  be  a  tradesman, 
as  we  were  afore  him — any  trade  he  takes  to — and  not  cross 
us  no  more  while  he  lives.  Then  I  shall  pray  for  him,  and 
wish  him  happy.  And  have  not  we  had  enuff  of  bringing 
up  children  to  be  above  their  birth  ?  Nora,  that  I  used  to 
say  was  like  the  first  lady  o'  the  land — oh,  but  we  were 
rightly  punished  !  So  now,  sir,  I  leave  all  to  you,  and  will 
Pay  all  you  want  for  the  boy.  And  be  sure  that  the  secret's 
kept.  For  we  have  never  heard  from  the  father,  and,  at 
leest,  no  one  knows  that  Nora  has  a  living  son  but  I  and  my 
daughter  Jane,  and  Parson  Dale  and  you — and  you  Two 
are  good  Gentlemen — and  Jane  will  keep  her  word,  and  I 
am  old,  and  shall  be  in  my  grave  Soon,  but  I  hope  it  wont 
be  while  poor  John  needs  me.  What  could  he  do  without 


VARIETIES  IN   ENGLISH  LIFE.  425 

me  ?  And  if  that  got  wind,  it  would  kill  me  straght,  sir. 
Pore  John  is  a  helpless  cretur,  God  bless  him.  So  no  more 
from  your  servant  in  all  dooty, 

"  M.  AVEN.EL." 

Leonard  laid  down  this  letter  very  calmly,  and,  except 
by  a  slight  heaving  at  his  breast,  and  a  deathlike  whiteness 
of  his  lips,  the  emotions  he  felt  were  undetected.  And  it  is 
a  proof  how  much  exquisite  goodness  there  was  in  his  heart, 
that  the  first  words  he  spoke  were  "Thank  Heaven!" 

The  Doctor  did  not  expect  that  thanksgiving,  and  he  was 
so  startled  that  he  exclaimed,  "  For  what  ?  " 

"  I  have  nothing  to  pity  or  excuse  in  the  woman  I  knew 
and  honored  as  a  mother.  I  am  not  her  son — her " 

He  stopped  short. 

"No;  but  don't  be  hard  on  your  true  mother — poor 
Nora!" 

Leonard  staggered  and  then  burst  into  a  sudden  par- 
oxysm of  tears. 

"  Oh,  my  own  mother  ! — my  dead  mother !  Thou  for 
whom  I  felt  so  mysterious  a  love — thou  from  whom  I  took 
this  poet  soul — pardon  me,  pardon  me !  Hard  on  thee  ! 
Would  that  thou  wert  living  yet,  that  I  might  comfort  thee ! 
What  thou  must  have  suffered  !  " 

These  words  were  sobbed  forth  in  broken  gasps  from 
the  depth  of  his  heart.  Then  he  caught  up  the  letter 
again,  and  his  thoughts  were  changed  as  his  eyes  fell  upon 
the  writer's  shame  and  fear,  as  it  were,  of  his  very  existence. 
All  his  native  haughtiness  returned  to  him.  His  crest  rose, 
his  tears  dried.  "Tell  her,"  he  said,  with  a  stern,  unfalter- 
ing voice — "tell  Mrs.  Avenel  that  she  is  obeyed — that  I  will 
never  seek  her  roof,  never  cross  her  path,  never  disgrace 
her  wealthy  son.  But  tell  her,  also,  that  I  will  choose  my 
own  way  in  life — that  I  will  not  take  from  her  a  bribe  for 
concealment.  Tell  her  that  I  am  nameless,  and  will  yet 
make  a  name." 

A  name !  Was  this  but  an  idle  boast,  or  was  it  one  of 
those  flashes  of  conviction  which  are  never  belied,  lighting 
up  our  future  for  one  lurid  instant,  and  then  fading  into 
darkness? 

"  I  do  not  doubt  it,  my  prave  poy,"  said  Dr.  Morgan, 
growing  exceedingly  Welsh  in  his  excitement;  "and  per- 
haps you  may  find  a  father  who — 

"  Father — who  is  he — what  is  he?    He  lives,  then  !     But 


426  MY  NOVEL;    OR, 

he  has  deserted  me — he  must  have  betrayed  her !  I  need 
him  not.  The  law  gives  me  no  father." 

The  last  words  were  said  with  a  return  of  bitter  anguish  ; 
then,  in  a  calmer  tone,  he  resumed,  "  But  I  should  know 
who  he  is — as  another  one  whose  path  I  may  not  cross." 

Dr.  Morgan  looked  embarrassed,  and  paused  in  deliber- 
ation. "  Nay,"  said  he  at  length,  "as  you  know  so  much, 
it  is  surely  best  that  you  should  know  all." 

The  Doctor  then  proceeded  to  detail  with  some  circum- 
locution what  we  will  here  repeat  from  his  account  more 
succinctly. 

Nora  Avenel,  while  yet  very  young,  left  her  native  vil- 
lage, or  rather  the  house  of  Lady  Lansmere,  by  whom  she 
had  been  educated  and  brought  up,  in  order  to  accept  the 
place  of  companion  to  a  lady  in  London.  One  evening, 
she  suddenly  presented  herself  at  her  father's  house,  and  at 
the  sight  of  her  mother's  face  she  fell  down  insensible.  She 
\vas  carried  to  bed.  Dr.  Morgan  (then  the  chief  medical 
practitioner  of  the  town)  was  sent  for  ;  that  night  Leonard 
came  into  the  world,  and  his  mother  died.  She  never  re- 
covered her  senses,  never  spoke  intelligibly  from  the  time 
she  entered  the  house.  "And  never,  therefore,  named  your 
father,"  said  Dr.  Morgan.  "  We  knew  not  who  he  was." 

"  And  how,"  cried  Leonard,  fiercely — "  how  have  they 
dared  to  slander  this  dead  mother?  How  knew  they  that 
I — was — was — was  not  the  child  of  wedlock  ?  " 

"There  was  no  wedding-ring  on  Nora's  finger — never 
any  rumor  of  her  marriage  ;  her  strange  and  sudden  appear- 
ance at  her  father's  house — her  emotions  on  entrance,  so 
unlike  those  natural  to  a  wife  returning  to  a  parent's  home  ; 
these  are  all  the  evidence  against  her.  But  Mrs.  Avenel 
deemed  them  strong,  and  so  did  I.  You  have  a  right  to 
think  we  judged  too  harshly — perhaps  we  did." 

"  And  no  inquiries  were  ever  made  ? "  said  Leonard, 
mournfully,  and  after  long  silence — "  no  inquiries  to  learn 
who  was  the  father  of  the  motherless  child  ?" 

"  Inquiries  ! — Mrs.  Avenel  would  have  died  first.  Your 
grandmother's  nature  is  very  rigid.  Had  she  come  from 
princes,  from  Cadwallader  himself,"  said  the  Welshman, 
"she  could  not  more  have  shrunk  from  the  thought  of  dis- 
honor. Even  over  her  dead  child,  the  child  she  had  loved 
the  best,  she  thought  but  how  to  save  that  child's  name  and 
memory  from  suspicion.  There  was  luckily  no  servant  in 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  427 

the  house,  only  Mark  Fairfield  and  his  wife  (Nora's  sister)  • 
they  had  arrived  the  same  day  on  a  visit. 

"  Mrs.  Fairfield  was  nursing  her  own  infant,  two  or  three 
months  old  ;  she  took  charge  of  you  ;  Nora  was  buried,  and 
the  secret  kept.  None  out  of  the  family  knew  of  it  but  my- 
self and  the  curate  of  the  town — Mr.  Dale.  The  day  after 
your  birth,  Mrs.  Fairfield,  to  prevent  discovery,  moved  to  a 
village  at  some  distance.  There  her  child  died ;  and  when 
she  returned  to  Hazeldean,  where  her  husband  was  settled, 
you  passed  as  the  son  she  had  lost.  Mark,  I  know,  was  as 
a  father  to  you,  for  he  had  loved  Nora  ;  they  had  been 
children  together." 

"  And  she  came  to  London — London  is  strong  and  cruel," 
muttered  Leonard.  "She  was  friendless  and  deceived.  I 
see  all — I  desire  to  know  no  more.  This  father,  he  must 
indeed  have  been  like  those  whom  I  have  read  of  in  books. 
To  love,  to  wrong  her — that  I  can  conceive  ;  but  then  to 
leave,  to  abandon  ;  no  visit  to  her  grave — no  remorse — no 
search  for  his  own  child.  Well,  well ;  Mrs.  Avenel  was  right. 
Let  us  think  of  him  no  more." 

The  man-servant  knocked  at  the  door,  and  then  put  in 
his  head.  "Sir,  the  ladies  are  getting  very  impatient,  and 
say  they'll  go." 

"Sir,"  said  Leonard,  with  a  strange  calm  return  to  the 
things  about  him,  "I  ask  your  pardon  for  taking  up  your 
time  so  long.  I  go  now.  I  will  never  mention  to  my  moth 
— I  mean  to  Mrs.  Fairfield — what  I  have  learned,  nor  to  any 
one.  I  will  work  my  way  somehow.  If  Mr.  Prickett  will 
keep  me,  I  will  stay  with  him  at  present  ;  but  I  repeat,  I 
cannot  take  Mrs.  Avenel's  money  and  be  bound  apprentice. 
Sir,  you  have  been  good  and  patient  with  me — Heaven  re- 
ward you." 

The  Doctor  was  too  moved  to  answer.  He  wrung  Leon- 
ard's hand,  and  in  another  minute  the  door  closed  upon  the 
nameless  boy.  He  stood  alone  in  the  streets  of  London  ; 
and  the  sun  flashed  on  him,  red  and  menacing,  like  the  eye 
of  a  foe  ! 


4z8  MY  NOVEL;    OR, 


CHAPTER  XIX. 

LEONARD  did  not  appear  at  the  shop  of  Mr.  Prickett  that 
day.  Needless  it  is  to  say  where  he  wandered — what  he 
suffered — what  thought — what  felt.  All  within  was  storm. 
Late  at  night  he  returned  to  his  solitary  lodging.  On  his 
table,  neglected  since  the  morning,  was  Helen's  rose-tree. 
It  looked  parched  and  fading.  His  heart  smote  him  ;  he 
watered  the  poor  plant — perhaps  with  his  tears. 

Meanwhile  Dr.  Morgan,  after  some  debate  with  himself, 
whether  or  not  to  apprise  Mrs.  Avenel  of  Leonard's  discov- 
ery and  message,  resolved  to  spare  her  an  uneasiness  and 
alarm  that  might  be  dangerous  to  her  health,  and  unneces- 
sary in  itself.  He  replied  shortly,  that  she  need  not  fear 
Leonard's  coming  to  her  house — that  he  was  disinclined  to 
bind  himself  an  apprentice,  but  that  he  was  provided  for  at 
present  ;  and  in  a  few  weeks,  when  Dr.  Morgan  heard  more 
of  him  through  the  tradesman  by  whom  he  was  employed, 
the  doctor  would  write  to  her  from  Germany.  He  then 
went  to  Mr.  Prickett's — told  the  willing  bookseller  to  keep 
the  young  man  for  the  present — to  be  kind  to  him,  watch 
over. his  habits  and  conduct,  and  to  report  to  the  Doctor  in 
his  new  home,  on  the  Rhine,  what  avocation  he  thought 
Leonard  would  be  best  suited  for,  and  most  inclined  to 
adopt.  The  charitable  Welshman  divided  with  the  book- 
seller the  salary  given  to  Leonard,  and  left  a  quarter  of  his 
moiety  in  advance.  It  is  true  that  he  knew  he  should  be 
repaid  on  applying  to  Mrs.  Avenel ;  but  being  a  man  of  in- 
dependent spirit  himself,  he  so  sympathized  with  Leonard's 
present  feelings,  that  he  felt  as  if  he  should  degrade  the  boy 
did  he  maintain  him,  even  secretly,  out  of  Mrs.  Avenel's 
money — money  intended  not  to  raise,  but  keep  him  down 
in  life.  At  the  worst,  it  was  a  sum  the  Doctor  could  afford, 
and  he  had  brought  the  boy  into  the  world. 

Having  thus,  as  he  thought,  safely  provided  for  his  two 
young  charges,  Helen  and  Leonard,  the  Doctor  then  gave 
himself  up  to  his  final  preparations  for  departure.  He  left 
a  short  note  for  Leonard  with  Mr.  Prickett,  containing  some 
brief  advice,  some  kind  cheering  ;  a  postscript  to  the  effect 
that  he  had  not  communicated  to  Mrs.  Avenel  the  informa- 


VARIETIES   IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  429 

tion  Leonard  had  acquired,  and  that  it  were  best  to  leave 
her  in  that  ignorance  ;  and  six  small  powders  to  be  dissolved 
in  water,  and  a  teaspoonful  every  fourth  hour — "  Sovereign 
against  rage  and  sombre  thoughts,"  wrote  the  Doctor. 

By  the  evening  of  the  next  day,  Dr.  Morgan,  accompa- 
nied by  his  pet  patient,  with  the  chronic  tic,  whom  he  had 
talked  into  exile,  was  on  the  steamboat  on  his  way  to 
Ostend. 

Leonard  resumed  his  life  at  Mr.  Prickett's  ;  but  the 
change  in  him  did  not  escape  the  bookseller.  All  his  in- 
genuous simplicity  had  deserted  him.  He  was  very  distant 
and  very  taciturn  ;  he  seemed  to  have  grown  much  older. 
I  shall  not  attempt  to  analyze  metaphysically  this  change. 
By  the  help  of  such  words  as  Leonard  may  himself  occa- 
sionally let  fall,  the  reader  will  dive  into  the  boy's  heart, 
and  see  how  there  the  change  has  worked,  and  is  working 
still.  The  happy  dreamy  peasant-genius,  gazing  on  Glory 
with  inebriate,  undazzled  eyes,  is  no  more.  It  is  a  man, 
suddenly  cut  off  from  the  old  household  holy  ties — con- 
scious of  great  powers,  and  confronted  on  all  sides  by 
barriers  of  iron — alone  with  hard  Reality,  and  scornful 
London  ;  and  if  he  catches  a  glimpse  of  the  lost  Helicon, 
he  sees,  where  he  saw  the  Muse,  a  pale  melancholy  spirit 
veiling  its  face  in  shame — the  ghost  of  the  mournful  mother, 
whose  child  has  no  name,  not  even  the  humblest,  among  the 
family  of  men. 

On  the  second  evening  after  Dr.  Morgan's  departure, 
as  Leonard  was  just  about  to  leave  the  shop,  a  customer 
stepped  in  with  a  book  in  his  hand,  which  he  had  snatched 
from  the  shop-boy,  who  was  removing  the  volumes  for  the 
night  from  the  booth  without. 

"  Mr.  Prickett,  Mr.  Prickett ! "  said  the  customer,  "  I  am 
ashamed  of  you.  You  presume  to  put  upon  this  work,  in 
two  volumes,  the  sum  of  eight  shillings." 

Mr.  Prickett  stepped  forth  from  the  Cimmerian  gloom 
of  some  recess,  and  cried,  "  What !  Mr.  Burley,  is  that 
you  ?  But  for  your  voice,  I  should  not  have  known  you." 

"  Man  is  like  a  book,  Mr.  Prickett ;  the  commonalty 
only  look  to  his  binding.  I  am  better  bound,  it  is  very  true." 

Leonard  glanced  toward  the  speaker,  who  now  stood 
under  the  gas-lamp,  and  thought  he  recognized  his  face. 
He  looked  again.  Yes ;  it  was  the  perch-fisher  whom  he 
had  met  on  the  banks  of  the  Brent,  and  who  had  warned 
him  of  the  lost  fish  and  the  broken  line. 


430  MY  NOVEL;    OR, 

MR.  BURLEY  (continuing). — But  the  "Art  of  Think- 
ing !  " — you  charge  eight  shillings  for  the  "  Art  of  Think- 
ing." 

MR.  PRICKETT. — Cheap  enough,  Mr.  Burley.  A  very 
clean  copy. 

MR.  BURLEY. — Usurer!  I  sold  it  to  you  for  three 
shillings.  It  is  more  than  150  per  cent,  you  propose  to 
gain  from  my  "  Art  of  Thinking." 

MR.  PRICKETT  (stuttering,  and  taken  aback). —  You. 
sold  it  to  me !  Ah,  now  I  remember.  But  it  was  more 
than  three  shillings  I  gave.  You  forget — two  glasses  of 
brandy-and-water. 

MR.  BURLEY. — Hospitality,  sir,  is  not  to  be  priced. 
If  you  sell  your  hospitality,  you  are  not  worthy  to  pos- 
sess my  "  Art  of  Thinking."  I  resume  it.  There  are  three 
shillings,  and  a  shilling  more  for  interest.  No  ;  on  second 
thoughts,  instead  of  that  shilling,  I  will  return  your  hospi- 
tality ;  and  the  first  lime  you  come  my  way  you  shall  have 
two  glasses  of  brandy-and-water. 

Mr.  Prickett  did  not  look  pleased,  but  he  made  no 
objection  ;  and  Mr.  Burley  put  the  book  into  his  pocket, 
and  turned  to  examine  the  shelves.  He  bought  an  old 
jest-book,  a  stray  volume  of  the  "Comedies  of  Des- 
totiches  " — paid  for  them — put  them  also  into  his  pocket, 
and  was  sauntering  out — when  he  perceived  Leonard,  who 
was  now  standing  at  the  doorway. 

"  Hem  !  who  is  that  ? M  he  asked,  whispering  Mr.  Pickett. 

"A  young  assistant  of  mine,  and  very  clever." 

Mr.  Burley  scanned  Leonard  from  top  to  toe. 

"We  have  met  before,  sir.  But  you  look  as  if  you  had 
returned  to  the  Brent,  and  been  fishing  for  my  perch." 

"  Possibly,  sir,"  answered  Leonard.  "  But  my  line  is 
tough  and  is  not  yet  broken,  though  the  fish  drags  it 
amongst  the  weeds,  and  buries  itself  in  the  mud." 

Fie  lifted  his  hat,  bowed  slightly,  and  walked  on. 

"  He  is  clever,"  said  Mr.  Burley  to  the  bookseller  ;  "  he 
understands  allegory." 

MR.  PRICKETT. — Poor  youth  !  He  came  to  town  with 
the  idea  of  turning  author  ;  you  know  what  that  is,  Mr. 
Burley. 

MR.  BURLEY  (with  an  air  of  superb  dignity). — Biblio- 
pole, yes  !  An  author  is  a  being  between  gods  and  men, 
who  ought  to  be  lodged  in  a  palace,  and  entertained  at  the 
public  charge  upon  ortolans  and  Tokay.  He  should  be 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE,  431 

kept  lapped  in  down,  and  curtained  with  silken  awnings 
from  the  cares  of  life — have  nothing  to  do  but  to  write 
books  upon  tables  of  cedar,  and  fish  for  perch  from  a 
gilded  galley.  And  that's  what  will  come  to  pass  when  the 
ages  lose  their  barbarism,  and  know  their  benefactors. 
Meanwhile,  sir,  I  invite  you  to  my  rooms,  and  will  regale 
you  upon  brandy-and-water  as  long  as  I  can  pay  for  it ; 
and  when  I  cannot — you  shall  regale  me." 

Mr.  Prickett  muttered,  "  A  very  bad  bargain,  indeed,"  as 
Mr.  Burley,  with  his  chin  in  the  air,  stepped  into  the  street. 


CHAPTER  XX. 

AT  first,  Leonard  had  always  returned  home  through 
the  crowded  thoroughfares — the  contact  of  numbers  had 
animated  his  spirits.  But  the  last  two  days,  since  his  dis- 
covery of  his  birth,  he  had  taken  his  way  down  the  com- 
paratively unpeopled  path  of  the  New  Road. 

He  had  just  gained  that  part  of  this  outskirt  in  which 
the  statuaries  and  tomb-makers  exhibit  their  gloomy  wares 
—furniture  alike  for  gardens  and  for  graves — and,  pausing, 
contemplated  a  column,  on  which  was  placed  an  urn 
half  covered  with  a  funeral  mantle,  when  his  shoulder 
was  lightly  tapped,  and,  turning  quickly,  he  saw  Mr.  Burley 
standing  behind  him. 

"  Excuse  me,  sir,  but  you  understand  perch-fishing  ;  and 
since  we  find  ourselves  on  the  same  road,  I  should  like  to  be 
better  acquainted  with  you.  I  hear  you  once  wished  to  be 
an  author.  I  am  one." 

Leonard  had  never  before,  to  his  knowledge,  seen  an 
author,  and  a  mournful  smile  passed  his  lips  as  he  surveyed 
the  perch-fisher. 

Mr.  Burley  was  indeed  very  differently  attired  since  the 
first  interview  by  the  brooklet.  He  looked  much  less  like 
an  author — but  more  perhaps  like  a  perch-fisher.  He  had 
anew  white  hat,  stuck  on  one  side  of  his  head — a  new  green 
overcoat — new  gray  trousers,  and  new  boots.  In  his  hand 
was  a  whalebone  stick,  with  a  silver  handle.  Nothing 
could  be  more  vagrant,  devil-me-carish,  and,  to  use  a  slang 
Avord,  tigrish,  than  his  whole  air.  Yet,  vulgar  as  was  his 
costume,  he  did  not  himself  seem  vulgar,  but  rather 


432  MY  NOVEL;    OR, 

eccentric — lawless — something  out  of  the  pale  of  conven- 
tion. His  face  looked  more  pale  and  more  puffed  than  be- 
fore, the  tip  of  his  nose  redder ;  but  the  spark  in  his  eye 
was  of  livelier  light,  and  there  was  self-enjoyment  in  the 
corners  of  his  sensual  humorous  lip. 

"You  are  an  author,  sir,"  repeated  Leonard.  "Well. 
And  what  is  your  report  of  the  calling  ?  Yonder  column 
props  an  urn.  The  column  is  tall,  and  the  urn  is  graceful. 
But  it  looks  out  of  place  by  the  roadside  ;  what  say  you  ?" 

MR.  BURLEY. — It  would  look  better  in  the  churchyard. 

LEONARD. — So  I  was  thinking.     And  you  are  an  author  ! 

MR.  BURLEY. — Ah,  I  said  you  had  a  quick  sense  of  alle- 
gory. And  so  you  think  an  author  looks  better  in  a  church- 
yard, when  you  see  him  but  as  a  muffled  urn  under  the 
moonshine,  than  standing  beneath  the  gas-lamp  in  a  white 
hat,  and  with  a  red  tip  to  his  nose.  Abstractedly,  you  are 
right.  But  with  your  leave,  the  author  would  rather  be 
where  he  is.  Let  us  walk  on. 

The  two  men  felt  an  interest  in  each  other,  and  they 
walked  some  yards  in  silence. 

"  To  return  to  the  urn,"  said  Mr.  Burley — "  you  think  of 
fame  and  churchyards.  Natural  enough,  before  illusion 
dies  ;  but  I  think  of  the  moment,  of  existence — and  I  laugh 
at  fame.  Fame,  sir — not  worth  a  glass  of  cold  without ! 
And  as  for  a  glass  of  warm,  with  sugar — and  five  shillings  in 
one's  pocket  to  spend  as  one  pleases — what  is  there  in 
Westminster  Abbey  to  compare  with  it  ?  " 

"  Talk  on,  sir — I  should  like  to  hear  you  talk.  Let  me 
listen  and  hold  my  tongue."  Leonard  pulled  his  hat  over 
his  brows,  and  gave  up  his  moody,  questioning,  turbulent 
mind  to  his  new  acquaintance. 

And  John  Burley  talked  on.  A  dangerous  and  fascina- 
ting talk  it  was — the  talk  of  a  great  intellect  fallen.  A  ser- 
pent trailing  its  length  on  the  ground,  and  showing  bright, 
shifting,  glorious  hues  as  it  grovelled.  A  serpent,  yet  with- 
out the  serpent's  guile.  If  John  Burley  deceived  and 
tempted,  he  meant  it  not — he  crawled  and  glittered  alike 
honestly.  No  dove  could  be  more  simple. 

Laughing  at  Fame,  he  yet  dwelt  with  an  eloquent  en- 
thusiasm on  the  joy  of  composition.  "What  do  I  care 
what  men  without  are  to  say  and  think  of  the  words  that 
gush  forth  on  my  page  ?  "  cried  he.  "  If  you  think  of  the 
public,  of  urns,  and  laurels,  while  you  write,  you  are  no 
genius  ;  you  are  not  fit  to  be  an  author.  I  write  because  it 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  433 

rejoices  me — because  it  is  my  nature.  Written,  I  care  no 
more  what  becomes  of  it  than  the  lark  for  the  effect  that 
the  song  has  on  the  peasant  it  wakes  to  the  plough.  The 
poet,  like  the  lark,  sings  'from  his  watchtower  in  the  skies.' 
Is  this  true  ? " 

"  Yes,  very  true  ! " 

"  What  can  rob  us  of  this  joy  ?  The  bookseller  will  not 
buy  ;  the  public  will  not  read.  Let  them  sleep  at  the  foot 
of  the  ladder  of  the  angels — we  climb  it  all  the  same.  And 
then  one  settles  down  into  such  good-tempered  Lucianic 
contempt  for  men.  One  wants  so  little  from  them,  when 
one  knows  what  one's-self  is  worth,  and  what  they  are. 
They  are  just  worth  the  coin  one  can  extract  from  them,  in 
order  to  live.  Our  life — that  is  worth  so  much  to  us.  And 
then  their  joys,  so  vulgar  to  them,  we  can  .make  them 
golden  and  kingly.  Do  you  suppose  Burns  drinking  at 
the  alehouse,  with  his  boors  around  him,  was  drinking,  like 
them,  only  beer  and  whiskey  ?  No,  he  was  drinking  nectar 
—he  was  imbibing  his  own  ambrosial  thoughts — shaking 
with  the  laughter  of  the  gods.  The  coarse  human  liquid 
was  just  needed  to  unlock  his  spirit  from  the  clay — take  it 
from  jerkin  and  corduroys,  and  wrap  it  in  the  '  singing 
robes  '  that  floated  wide  in  the  skies  ;  the  beer  or  the  whis- 
key needed  but  for  that,  and  then  it  changed  at  once  into 
the  drink  of  the  Hebe.  But  come,  you  have  riot  known 
this  life — you  have  not  seen  it.  Come,  give  me  this  night. 
•  I  have  moneys  about  me — I  will  fling  them  abroad  as  liber- 
ally as  Alexander  himself,  when  he  left  to  his  share  but 
hope.  Come  !  " 

"Whither?" 

"To  my  throne.  On  that  throne  last  sat  Edmund  Kean 
— mighty  mime.  I  am  his  successor.  We  will  see  whether 
in  truth  these  wild  sons  of  genius,  who  are  cited  but  'to 
point  a  moral  and  adorn  a  tale/  were  objects  of  compassion. 
Sober-suited  cits  to  lament  over  a  Savage  and  a  Morland — 
a  Porson  and  a  Burns  ! — 

"Or  a  Chatterton,"  said  Leonard,  gloomily. 

"  Chatterton  was  an  impostor  in  all  things  ;  he  feigned 
excesses  that  he  never  knew.  He  a  bacchanalian — a  royster  ! 
HE  !— no.  We  will  talk  of  him.  Come  !  " 

Leonard  went. 

'9 


434  My  NOVEL;    OK, 


CHAPTER   XXL 

THE  ROOM  !  And  the  smoke-reek,  and  the  gas-glare  of 
it ! — The  whitewash  of  the  walls,  and  the  prints  thereon  of 
the  actors  in  their  mime  robes,  and  stage  postures  ;  actors 
as  far  back  as  their  own  lost  Augustan  era,  when  the 
stage  was  a  real  living  influence  on  the  manners  and  the 
age  !  There  was  Betterton  in  wig  and  gown — as  Cato,  mor- 
alizing on  the  soul's  eternity,  and  halting  between  Plato  and 
the  dagger.  There  was  Woodward  as  "The  Fine  Gentle- 
man," with  the  inimitable  rake-hell  air  in  which  the  heroes 
of  Wycherly  and  Congreve  and  Farquhar  live  again.  There 
was  jovial  Quin  as  Falstaff,  with  round  buckler  and  "  fair 
round  belly."  There  was  Colley  Gibber  in  brocade — taking 
snuff  as  with  "  his  Lord,"  the  thumb  and  forefinger  raised 
in  air — and  looking  at  you  for  applause.  There  was  Mack- 
lin  as  Shylock,  with  knife  in  hand  ;  and  Kemble  in  the  sol- 
emn weeds  of  the  Dane  ;  and  Kean  in  the  place  of  honor 
over  the  chimney-piece. 

When  we  are  suddenly  taken  from  practical  life,  with 
its  real  work-clay  men,  and  presented  to  the  portraits  of 
those  sole  heroes  of  a  world  Phantastic  and  Phantasmal,  in 
the  garments  wherein  they  did  "  strut  and  fret  their  hour 
upon  the  stage,"  verily  there  is  something  in  the  sight  that 
moves  an  inner  sense  within  ourselves — for  all  of  us  have  an 
inner  sense  of  some  existence,  apart  from  the  one  that 
wears  away  our  days  ;  an  existence,  that  afar  from  St. 
James's,  and  St.  Giles's,  the  Law  Courts  and  Exchange, 
goes  its  way  in  terror  or  mirth,  in  smiles  or  in  tears,  through 
a  vague  magic  land  of  the  poets.  There,  see  those  actors — 
they  are  the  men  who  lived  it — to  whom  our  world  was  the 
false  one,  to  whom  the  Imaginary  was  the  Actual !  And 
did  Shakspeare  himself,  in  his  life,  ever  hearken  to  such 
applause  as  thundered  round  the  personators  of  his  airy 
images  ?  Vague  children  of  the  most  transient  of  the  arts, 
fleet  shadows  on  running  waters,  though  thrown  down  from 
the  steadfast  stars,  were  ye  not  happier  than  we  who  live  in 
the  Real  ?  How  strange  you  must  feel  in  the  great  circuit 
that  ye  now  take  through  eternity  !  No  prompt-books,  no 
lamps,  no  acting  Congreve  and  Shakspeare  there  !  For 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  435 

what  parts  in  the  skies  have  your  studies  on  the  earth  fitted 
you  ?  Your  ultimate  destinies  are  very  puzzling.  Hail  to 
your  effigies,  and  pass  we  on  ! 

There,  too,  on  the  whitewashed  walls,  were  admitted  the 
portraits  of  ruder  rivals  in  the  arena  of  fame — yet  they,  too, 
had  known  an  applause  warmer  than  his  age  gave  to  Shak- 
speare  ;  the  Champions  of  the  Ring — Crib  and  Molyneux, 
and  Dutch  Sam.  Interspersed  with  these  was  an  old  print  of 
Newmarket  in  the  early  part  of  the  last  century,  and  sun- 
dry engravings  from  Hogarth.  But  poets,  oh  !  they  were 
there  too ;  poets  who  might  be  supposed  to  have  been  suffi- 
ciently good  fellows  to  be  at  home  with  such  companions. 
Shakspeare,  of  course,  with  his  placid  forehead ;  Ben  Jon- 
son,  with  his  heavy  scowl ;  Burns  and  Byron  cheek  by  jowl. 
But  the  strangest  of  all  these  heterogeneous  specimens  of 
graphic  art  was  a  full-length  print  of  William  Pitt ! — Wil- 
liam Pitt,  the  austere  and  imperious.  What  the  deuce  did 
he  do  there  amongst  prize-fighters,  and  actors,  and  poets  ? 
It  seemed  an  insult  to  his  grand  memory.  Nevertheless 
there  he  was,  very  erect,  and  with  a  look  of  ineffable 
disgust  in  his  upturned  nostrils.  The  portraits  on  the  sor- 
did walls  were  very  like  the  crambo  in  the  minds  of  ordi- 
nary men — very  like  the  motley  pictures  of  the  FAMOUS 
hung  up  in  your  parlor,  O  my  Public  !  Actors  and  prize- 
fighters, poets  and  statesmen,  all  without  congruity  arid  fit- 
ness, all  whom  you  have  been  to  see  or  to  hear  for  a  mo- 
ment, and  whose  names  have  stared  out  in  your  newspapers, 
O  my  Public  ! 

And  the  company  ?  Indescribable  !  Comedians,  from 
small  theatres,  out  of  employ  ;  pale,  haggard-looking  boys, 
probably  the  sons  of  worthy  traders,  trying  their  best  to 
break  their  father's  hearts  ;  here  and  there  the  marked  fea- 
tures of  a  Jew.  Now  and  then  you  might  see  the  curious 
puzzled  face  of  some  greenhorn  about  town,  or  perhaps  a 
Cantab  ;  and  men  of  grave  age,  and  gray-haired,  were  there, 
and  amongst  them  a  wondrous  proportion  of  carbuncled 
faces  and  bottle  noses.  And  when  John  Burley  entered, 
there  was  a  shout  that  made  William  Pitt  shake  in  his  frame. 
Such  stamping  and  hallooing,  and  such  hurrahs  for  "Burly 
John."  And  the  gentleman  who  had  filled  the  great  high 
leathern  chair  in  his  absence  gave  it  up  to  John  Burley  ; 
and  Leonard,  with  his  grave,  observant  eye,  and  lip  half 
sad  and  half  scornful,  placed  himself  by  the  side  of  his  in- 
troducer. There  was  a  nameless  expectant  stir  through 


436  MY  NOVEL;    OR, 

the  assembly,  as  there  is  in  the  pit  of  the  opera  when  some 
great  singer  advances  to  the  lamps,  and  begins,  "  Di  tanti 
palpiti."  Time  flies.  Look  at  the  Dutch  clock  over  the 
door.  Half-an-hour.  John  Burley  begins  to  warm.  A  yet 
quicker  light  begins  to  break  from  his  eye  ;  his  voice  has  a 
mellow  luscious  roll  in  it. 

"  He  will  be  grand  to-night,"  whispered  a  thin  man,  who 
looked  like  a  tailor,  seated  on  the  other  side  of  Leonard. 

Time  flies — an  hour  !  Look  again  at  the  Dutch  clock. 
John  Burley  is  grand,  he  is  in  his  zenith,  at  his  culminating 
point.  What  magnificent  drollery  ! — what'  luxuriant  hu- 
mor !  How  the  Rabelais  shakes  in  his  easy-chair  !  Under 
the  rush  and  the  roar  of  this  fun  (what  word  else  shall  de- 
scribe it  ?)  the  man's  intellect  is  as  clear  as  gold  sand  under 
a  river.  Such  wit  and  such  truth,  and,  at  times,  such  a  flood 
of  quick  eloquence.  All  now  are  listeners — silent,  save  in 
applause.  And  Leonard  listened  too.  Not,  as  he  would 
some  nights  ago,  in  innocent  unquestioning  delight.  No  ; 
his  mind  has  passed  through  great  sorrow,  great  passion, 
and  it  comes  out  unsettled,  inquiring,  eager,  brooding  over 
joy  itself  as  over  a  problem.  And  the  drink  circulates,  and 
faces  change  ;  and  there  are  gabbling  and  babbling  ;  and 
Burley's  head  sinks  in  his  bosom,  and  he  is  silent.  And  up 
starts  a  wild,  dissolute,  bacchanalian  glee  for  seven  voices. 
And  the  smoke-reek  grows  denser  and  thicker,  and  the  gas- 
light looks  dizzy  through  the  haze.  And  John  Burley's 
eyes  reel. 

Look  again  at  the  Dutch  clock.  Two  hours  have  gone. 
John  Burley  has  broken  out  again  from  his  silence,  his 
voice  thick  and  husky,  and  his  laugh  cracked  ;  and  he 
talks,  O  ye  Gods !  such  rubbish  and  ribaldry  ;  and  the 
listeners  roar  aloud,  and  think  it  finer  than  before.  And 
Leonard,  who  had  hitherto  been  measuring  himself  in  his 
mind  against  the  giant,  and  saying  inly,  "  He  soars  out 
of  my  reach,"  finds  the  giant  sink  smaller  and  smaller,  and 
saith  to  himself,  "  He  is  but  of  man's  common  standard, 
after  all ! " 

Look  again  at  the  Dutch  clock.  Three  hours  have 
passed.  Is  John  Burley  now  of  man's  common  standard  ? 
Man  himself  seems  to  have  vanished  from  the  scene ;  his 
soul  stolen  from  him,  his  form  gone  away  with  the  fumes 
of  the  smoke,  and  the  nauseous  steam  from  that  fiery  bowl. 
And  Leonard  looked  round,  and  saw  but  the  swine  of  Circe 
• — some  on  the  floor,  some  staggering  against  the  walls, 


VARIETIES  Iff  ENGLISH  LIFE.  437 

some  hugging  each  other  on  the  tables,  some  fighting,  some 
bawling,  some  weeping.  The  divine  spark  had  fled  from 
the  human  face  ;  the  Beast  is  everywhere  growing  more 
and  more  out  of  the  thing  that  had  been  Man.  And  John 
Burley,  still  unconquered,  but  clean  lost  to  his  senses,  fan- 
cies himself  a  preacher,  and  drawls  forth  the  most  lugu- 
brious sermon  upon  the  brevity  of  life  that  mortal  ever 
heard,  accompanied  with  unctuous  sobs  ;  and  now  and  then, 
in  the  midst  of  balderdash,  gleams  out  a  gorgeous  sen- 
tence, that  Jeremy  Taylor  might  have  envied  ;  drivelling 
away  again  into  cadence  below  the  rhetoric  of  a  Muggle- 
tonian.  And  the  waiters  choked  up  the  doorway,  listening 
and  laughing,  and  prepared  to  call  cabs  and  coaches  ;  and 
suddenly  some  one  turned  off  the  gas-light,  and  all  was 
dark  as  pitch — howls  and  laughter,  as  of  the  damned,  ring- 
ing through  the  Pandemonium.  Out  from  the  black 

o  o 

atmosphere  stepped  the  boy-poet ;  and  the  still  stars  rushed 
on  his  sight,  as  they  looked  over  the  grimy  roof-tops. 


CHAPTER  XXII. 

WELL,  Leonard,  this  is  the  first  time  thou  hast  shown 
that  thou  hast  in  thee  the  iron  out  of  which  true  manhood 
is  forged  and  shaped.  Thou  hast  the  power  to  resist.  Forth, 
unebriate,  unpolluted,  he  came  from  the  orgy,  as  yon  star 
above  him  came  from  the  cloud. 

He  had  a  latch-key  to  his  lodgings.  He  let  himself  in, 
and  walked  noiselessly  up  the  creaking,  wooden  stair.  It 
was  dawn.  He  passed  on  to  his  window  and  threw  it  open. 
The  green  elm-tree  from  the  carpenter's  yard  looked  as 
fresh  and  fair  as  if  rooted  in  solitudes,  leagues  away  from 
the  smoke  of  Babylon. 

"Nature,  Nature!"  murmured  Leonard,  "I  hear  thy 
voice  now.  This  stills — this  strengthens.  But  the  struggle 
is  very  dread.  Here,  despair  of  life — there,  faith  in  life. 
Nature  thinks  of  neither,  and  lives  serenely  on." 

By-and  by  a  bird  slid  softly  from  the  heart  of  a  tree, 
and  dropped  on  the  ground  below  out  of  sight.  But 
Leonard  heard  its  carol.  It  awoke  its  companions — wings 
began  to  glance  in  the  air,  and  the  clouds  grew  red  toward 
the  east. 


438  MY  NOVEL;    OR, 

Leonard  sighed  and  left  the  window.  On  the  table, 
near  Helen's  rose-tree,  which  he  bent  over  wistfully,  lay  a 
letter.  He  had  not  observed  it  before.  It  was  in  Helen's 
hand.  He  took  it  to  the  light,  and  read  it  by  the  pure, 
healthful  gleams  of  morn  : — 

"  Oh,  my  dear  brother  Leonard,  will  this  find  you  well, 
and  (more  happy  I  dare  not  say,  but)  less  sad  than  when 
we  parted  ?  I  write  kneeling,  so  that  it  seems  to  me  as  if  I 
wrote  and  prayed  at  the  same  time.  You  may  come,  and 
see  me  to-morrow  evening,  Leonard.  Do  come,  do— we 
shall  walk  together  in  this  pretty  garden  ;  and  there  is  an 
arbor  all  covered  with  jessamine  and  honeysuckle,  from 
which  we  can  look  down  on  London.  I  have  looked  from 
it  so  many  times — so  many — trying  if  I  can  guess  the  roofs 
in  our  poor  little  street,  and  fancying  that  I  do  see  the  dear 
elm-tree. 

"Miss  Starke  is  very  kind  to  me;  and  I  think  after  I 
have  seen  you,  that  I  shall  be  happy  here — that  is,  if  you 
are  happy. 

"  Your  own  grateful  sister, 

"  HELEN." 
"Ivy  Lodge." 

"  P.  S. — Any  one  will  direct  you  to  our  house  ;  it  lies  near 
the  top  of  the  hill,  a  little  way  down  the  lane  that  is  over- 
hung on  one  side  with  chestnut  trees  and  lilacs.  I  shall  be 
watching  for  you  at  the  gate." 

Leonard's  brow  softened,  he  looked  again  like  his  for- 
mer self.  Up  from  the  dark  sea  at  his  heart  smiled  the 
meek  face  of  a  child,  and  the  waves  lay  still  as  at  the  charm 
of  a  spirit. 


CHAPTER   XXIII. 

"AND  what  is  Mr.  Burley,  and  what  has  he  written?" 
asked  Leonard  of  Mr.  Prickett,  when  he  returned  to  the 
shop. 

Let  us  reply  to  that  question  in  our  own  words,  for  we 
know  more  about  Mr.  Burley  than  Mr.  Prickett  does. 

John  Burley  was  the  only  son  of  a  poor  clergyman,  in  a 
village  near  Ealing,  who  had  scraped,  and  saved,  and 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE. 


439 


pinched,  to  send  his  son  to  an  excellent  provincial  school  in 
a  northern  county,  and  thence  to  college.  At  the  latter, 
during  his  first  year,  young  Burley  was  remarked  by  the 
under-graduates  for  his  thick  shoes  and  coarse  linen,  and 
remarkable  to  the  authorities  for  his  assiduity  and  learning. 
The  highest  hopes  were  entertained  of  him  by  the  tutors 
and  examiners.  At  the  beginning  of  the  second  year,  his 
high  animal  spirits,  before  kept  down  by  study,  broke  out. 
Reading  had  become  ea'sy  to  him.  He  knocked  off  his 
tasks  with  a  facile  stroke,  as  it  were.  He  gave  up  his  leisure 
hours  to  symposia  by  no  means  Socratical.  He  fell  into  an 
idle,  hard-drinking  set.  He  got  into  all  kinds  of  scrapes. 
The  authorities  were  at  first  kind  and  forbearing  in  their 
admonitions,  for  they  respected  his  abilities,  and  still  hoped 
he  might  become  an  honor  to  the  university.  But  at  last 
he  went  drunk  into  a  formal  examination,  and  sent  in 
papers,  after  the  manner  of  Aristophanes,  containing 
capital  jokes  upon  the  Dons  and  Bigwigs  themselves.  The 
offence  was  the  greater,  and  seemed  the  more  premeditated, 
for  being  clothed  in  Greek.  John  Burley  was  expelled. 
He  went  home  to  his  father's  a  miserable  man,  for,  with  all 
his  follies,  he  had  a  good  heart.  Removed  from  ill  exam- 
ple, his  life  for  a  year  was  blameless.  He  got  admitted  as 
usher  into  the  school  in  \vhich  he  had  received  instruction 
as  a  pupil.  The  school  was  in  a  large  town.  John  Burley 
became  member  of  a  club  formed  among  the  tradesmen, 
and  spent  three  evenings  a-week  there.  His  astonishing 
convivial  and  conversational  powers  began  to  declare  them- 
selves. He  grew  the  oracle  of  the  club  ;  and,  from  being 
the  most  sober,  peaceful  assembly  in  which  grave  fathers 
of  a  family  ever  smoked  a  pipe  or  sipped  a  glass,  it  grew, 
under  Mr.  Burlcy's  auspices,  the  parent  of  revels  as  frolick- 
ing and  frantic  as  those  out  of  which  the  old  Greek  Goat 
Song  ever  tipsily  rose.  This  would  not  do.  There  was  a 
great  riot  in  the  streets  one  night,  and  the  next  morning 
the  usher  was  dismissed.  Fortunately  for  John  Burley's 
conscience,  his  father  had  died  before  this  happened — died 
believing  in  the  reform  of  his  son.  During  his  ushership 
Mr.  Burley  had  scraped  acquaintance  with  the  editor  of  the 
county  newspaper,  and  given  him  some  capital  political 
articles  ;  for  Burley  was,  like  Parr  and  Porson,  a  notable 
politician.  The  editor  furnished  him  with  letters  to  the 
journalists  in  London,  and  John  came  to  the  metropolis 
and  got  employed  on  a  very  respectable  newspaper.  At 


440  MY  NOVEL;    OR, 

college  he  had  known  Audley  Egerton,  though  but  slightly ; 
that  gentleman  was  then  just  rising  into  repute  in  Parlia- 
ment. Burley  sympathized  with  some  question  on  which 
Audley  had  distinguished  himself,  and  wrote  a  very  good 
article  thereon — an  article  so  good  that  Egerton  inquired 
into  the  authorship,  found  out  Burley,  and  resolved  in  his 
own  mind  to  provide  for  him  whenever  he  himself  came 
into  office.  But  Burley  was  a  man  whom  it  was  impossible 
to  provide  for.  He  soon  lost  his  connection  with  the  news- 
paper. First,  he  was  so  irregular  that  he  could  never  be  de- 
pended upon.  Secondly,  he  had  strange,  honest,  eccentric 
twists  of  thinking,  that  could  coalesce  with  the  thoughts  of 
no  party  in  the  long  run.  An  article  of  his,  inadvertently 
admitted,  had  horrified  all  the  proprietors,  staff,  and  readers 
of  the  paper.  It  was  diametrically  opposite  to  the  princi- 
ples the  paper  advocated,  and  compared  its  pet  politician 
to  Catiline.  Then  John  Burley  shut  himself  up  and  wrote 
books.  He  wrote  two  or  three  books,  very  clever,  but  not 
at  all  to  the  popular  taste — abstract  and  learned,  full  of 
whims  that  were  caviare  to  the  multitude,  and  larded  with 
Greek.  Nevertheless  they  obtained  for  him  a  little  money, 
and  among  literary  men  some  reputation.  Now  Audley 
Egerton  came  into  power,  and  got  him,  though  with  great 
difficulty — for  there  were  many  prejudices  against  this 
scampish,  harum-scarum  son  of  the  Muses — a  place  in  a 
public  office.  He  kept  it  about  a  month,  and  then  volun- 
tarily resigned  it.  "  My  crust  of  bread  and  liberty  !  "  quoth 
John  Burley,  and  he  vanished  into  a  garret.  From  that 
time  to  the  present  he  lived — Heaven  knows  how  !  Litera- 
ture is  a  business,  like  everything  else ;  John  Burley  grew 
more  and  more  incapable  of  business.  "  He  could  not  do 
task-work,"  he  said  ;  he  wrote  when  the  whim  seized  him, 
or  when  the  last  penny  was  in  his  pouch,  or  when  he  was 
actually  in  the  spunging-house  or  the  Fleet — migrations 
which  occurred  to  him,  on  an  average,  twice  a-year.  He 
could  generally  sell  what  he  had  actually  written,  but  no 
one  would  engage  him  beforehand.  Editors  of  magazines 
and  other  periodicals  were  very  glad  to  have  his  articles,  on 
the  condition  that  they  were  anonymous  ;  and  his  style  was 
not  necessarily  detected,  for  he  could  vary  it  with  the  facility 
of  a  practised  pen.  Audley  Egerton  continued  his  best 
supporter,  for  there  were  certain  questions  on  which  no 
one  wrote  with  such  force  as  John  Burley — questions  con- 
nected with  the  metaphysics  of  politics,  such  as  law  reform 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  441 

and  economical  science.  And  Audley  Egerton  was  the 
only  man  John  Burley  put  himself  out  of  the  way  to  serve, 
and  for  whom  he  would  give  up  a  drinking  bout  and  do 
task-work  ;  for  John  Burley  was  grateful  by  nature,  and  he 
felt  that  Egerton  had  really  tried  to  befriend  him.  Indeed, 
it  was  true,  as  he  had  stated  to  Leonard  by  the  Brent,  that, 
even  after  he  had  resigned  his  desk  in  the  London  office,  he 
had  the  offer  of  an  appointment  in  Jamaica,  and  a  place  in 
India,  from  the  Minister.  But  probably  there  were  other 
charms  then  than  those  exercised  by  the  one-eyed  perch 
that  kept  him  to  the  neighborhood  of  London.  With  all 
his  grave  faults  of  character  and  conduct,  John  Burley  was 
not  without  the  fine  qualities  of  a  large  nature.  He  was 
most  resolutely  his  own  enemy,  it  is  true,  but  he  could 
hardly  be  said  to  be  any  one  else's.  Even  when  he  criti- 
cised some  more  fortunate  writer,  he  was  good-humored  in 
his  very  satire  ;  he  had  no  bile,  no  envy.  And  as  for  free- 
dom from  malignant  personalities,  he  might  have  been  a 
model  to  all  critics.  I  must  except  politics,  however,  for 
in  these  he  could  be  rabid  and  savage.  He  had  a  passion 
for  independence,  which,  though  pushed  to  excess,  was  not 
without  grandeur.  No  lick-platter,  no  parasite,  no  toad- 
eater,  no  literary  beggar,  no  hunter  after  patronage  and 
subscriptions  ;  even  in  his  dealings  with  Audley  Egerton, 
he  insisted  on  naming  the  price  for  his  labors.  He  took  a 
price,  because,  as  the  papers  required  by  Audley  demanded 
much  reading  and  detail,  which  was  not  at  all  to  his  taste, 
he  considered  himself  entitled  fairly  to  something  more 
than  the  editor  of  the  journal  wherein  the  papers  appeared 
was  in  the  habit  of  giving.  But  he  assessed  this  extra  price 
himself,  and  as  he  would  have  done  to  a  bookseller.  And 
when  in  debt  and  in  prison,  though  he  knew  a  line  to  Eger- 
ton would  have  extricated  him,  he  never  wrote  that  line. 
He  would  depend  alone  on  his  pen— dipped  it  hastily  in  the 
ink,  and  scrawled  himself  free.  The  most  debased  point 
about  him  was  certainly  the  incorrigible  vice  of  drinking, 
and  with  it  the  usual  concomitant  of  that  vice  -  the  love  of 
low  company.  To  be  King  of  the  Bohemians — to  dazzle 
by  his  wild  humor,  and  sometimes  to  exalt  by  his  fanciful 
eloquence,  the  rude,  gross  natures  that  gathered  round  him 
— this  was  a  royalty  that  repaid  him  for  all  sacrifice  of  solid 
dignity  ;  a  foolscap  crown  tnat  he  would  not  have  changed 
for  an  emperor's  diadem.  Indeed,  to  appreciate  rightly  the 
talents  of  John  Burley,  it  was  necessary  to  hear  him  talk 
19* 


442  MY  NOVEL;    OK, 

on  such  occasions.  As  a  writer,  after  all,  he  was  now  only 
capable  of  unequal  desultory  efforts.  But  as  a  talker,  in 
his  own  wild  way,  he  was  original  and  matchless.  And  the 
gift  of  talk  is  one  of  the  most  dangerous  gifts  a  man  can 
possess  for  his  own  sake — the  applause  is  so  immediate, 
and  gained  with  so  little  labor.  Lower,  and  lower,  and 
lower,  had  sunk- John  Burley,  not  only  in  the  opinion  of  nil 
who  knew  his  name,  but  in  the  habitual  exercise  of  his 
talents.  And  this  seemed  wilfully — from  choice.  He 
would  write  for  some  unstamped  journal  of  the  populace, 
out  of  the  pale  of  the  law,  for  pence,  when  he  could  have 
got  pounds  from  journals  of  high  repute.  He  was  very 
fond  of  scribbling  off  penny  ballads,  and  then  standing  in 
the  street  to  hear  them  sung.  He  actually  once  made  him- 
self the  poet  of  an  advertising  tailor,  and  enjoyed  it  exces- 
sively. But  that  did  not  last  long,  for  John  Burley  was  a 
Pittite — not  a  Tory,  he  used  to  say,  but  a  Pittite.  And  if 
you  had  heard  him  talk  of  Pitt,  you  would  never  have 
known  what  to  make  of  that  great  statesman.  He  treated 
him  as  the  German  commentators  do  Shakspeare,  and 
invested  him  with  all  imaginary  meanings  and  objects,  that 
would  have  turned  the  grand  practical  man  into  a  sibyl. 
Well,  he  was  a  Pittite ;  the  tailor  a  fanatic  for  Thelwall  and 
Cobbett.  Mr.  Burley  wrote  a  poem,  wherein  Britannia 
appeared  to  the  tailor,  complimented  him  highly  on  the  art 
he  exhibited  in  adorning  the  persons  of  her  sons ;  and, 
bestowing  upon  him  a  gigantic  mantle,  said  that  he,  and  he 
alone,  might  be  enabled  to  fit  it  to  the  shoulders  of  living 
men.  The  rest  of  the  poem  was  occupied  in  Mr.  Snip's 
unavailing  attempts  to  adjust  this  mantle  to  the  eminent 
politicians  of  the  day,  when,  just  as  he  had  sunk  down  in 
despair,  Britannia  re-appeared  to  him,  and  consoled  him 
with  the  information  that  he  had  done  all  mortal  man 
could  do,  and  that  she  had  only  desired  to  convince 
pigmies  that  no  human  art  could  adjust  to  their  propor- 
tions the  mantle  of  William  Pitt.  Sic  itur  ad  astro, — she 
went  back  to  the  stars,  mantle  and  all !  Mr.  Snip  was 
exceedingly  indignant  at  this  allegorical  effusion,  and  with 
wrathful  shears  cut  the  tie  between  himself  and  his  poet. 

Thus,  then,  the  reader  has,  we  trust,  a  pretty  good  idea 
of  John  Burley — a  specimen  of  his  genus,  not  very  common 
in  any  age,  and  now  happily  almost  extinct,  since  authors  of 
all  degrees  share  in  the  general  improvement  in  order,  econ- 
omy, and  sober  decorum,  which  has  obtained  in  the  national 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  443 

manners.  Mr.  Prickett,  though  entering  into  less  historical 
detail  than  we  have  done,  conveyed  to  Leonard  a  tolerably 
accurate  notion  of  the  man,  representing  him  as  a  person  of 
great  powers  and  learning,  who  had  thoroughly  thrown  him- 
self away. 

Leonard  did  not,  however,  see  how  much  Mr.  Burley 
himself  was  to  be  blamed  for  his  waste  of  life  ;  he  could  not 
conceive  a  man  of  genius  voluntarily  seating  himself  at  the 
lowest  step  in  the  social  ladder.  He  rather  supposed  he  had 
been  thrust  down  there  by  Necessity. 

And  when  Mr.  Prickett,  concluding,  said,  "Well,  I  should 
think  Burley  would  cure  you  of  the  desire  to  be  an  author 
even  more  than  Chatterton,"  the  young  man  answered, 
gloomily,  "  Perhaps,"  and  turned  to  the  book-shelves. 

With  Mr.  Prickett's  consent,  Leonard  was  released  earlier 
than  usual  from  his  task,  and  a  little  before  sunset  he  took  his 
way  to  Highgate.  He  was  fortunately  directed  to  take  the 
new  road  by  the  Regent's  Park,  and  so  on  through  a  very 
green  and  smiling  country.  The  walk,  the  freshness  of  the 
air,  the  songs  of  the  birds,  and,  above  all,  when  he  had  got 
half-way,  the  solitude  of  the  road,  served  to  rouse  him  from 
his  stern  and  sombre  meditations.  And  when. he  came  into 
the  lane  overhung  with  chestnut  trees,  and  suddenly  caught 
sight  of  Helen's  watchful  and  then  brightening  face,  as  she 
stood  by  the  wicket  and  under  the  shadow  of  cool  murmur- 
ous boughs,  the'blood  rushed  gaily  through  his  veins,  and 
his  heart  beat  loud  and  gratefully. 


CHAPTER  XXIV. 

SHE  drew  him  into  the  garden  with  such  true  childlike  joy. 

Now  behold  them  seated  in  the  arbor — a  perfect  bovver 
of  sweets  and  blossoms  ;  the  wilderness  of  roof-tops  and 
spires  stretching  below,  broad  and  far  ;  London  seen  dim 
and  silent,  as  in  a  dream. 

She  took  his  hat  from  his  brows  gently,  and  looked  him 
in  the  face  with  tearful,  penetrating  eyes. 

She  did  not  say,  "You  are  changed."  She  said,  "Why, 
why  did  I  leave  you  ?"  and  then  turned  awav. 

"  Never  mind  me,  Helen.  I  am  man,  and  rudely  born — 
speak  of  yourself.  This  lady  is  kind  to  you  then  ? " 


444  MY  NOVEL;    OR, 

"  Does  she  not  let  me  see  you  ?  Oh  !  very  kind — and 
look  here." 

Helen  pointed  to  fruits  and  cakes  set  out  on  the  table. 
"A  feast,  brother." 

And  she  began  to  press  her  hospitality  with  pretty  win- 
ning ways,  more  playful  than  was  usual  to  her,  and  talking 
very  fast,  and  with  forced,  but  silvery,  laughter. 

By  degrees  she  stole  him  from  his  gloom  and  reserve ; 
and  though  he  could  not  reveal  to  her  the  cause  of  his 
bitterest  sorrow,  he  owned  that  he  had  suffered  much.  He 
would  not  have  owned  that  to  another  living  being.  And 
then,  quickly  turning  from  this  brief  confession,  with  assur- 
ances that  the  worst  was  over,  he  sought  to  amuse  her  by 
speaking  of  his  new  acquaintance  with  the  perch-fisher. 
But  when  he  spoke  of  this  man  with  a  kind  of  reluctant  ad- 
miration, mixed  with  compassionate  yet  gloomy  interest,  and 
drew  a  grotesque,  though  subdued,  sketch  of  the  wild  scene 
in  which  he  had-  been  spectator,  Helen  grew  alarmed  and 
grave. 

"  Oh,  brother,  do  not  go  there  again — do  not  see  more 
of  this  bad  man." 

"  Bad  ! — no  !  Hopeless  and  unhappy,  he  has  stooped  to 
stimulants  and  oblivion  ; — but  you  cannot  understand  these 
things,  my  pretty  preacher." 

"Yes,  I  do,  Leonard.  What  is  the  difference  between 
being  good  and  bad  ?  The  good  do  not  yield  to  temptations, 
and  the  bad  do." 

The  definition  was  so  simple  and  so  wise,  that  Leonard 
was  more  struck  \vith  it  than  he  might  have  been  by  the 
most  elaborate  sermon  by  Parson  Dale. 

"  I  have  often  murmured  to  myself,  since  I  lost  you, 
'  Helen  was  my  good  angel;' — say  on.  For  my  heart  is 
dark  to  myself,  and  while  you  speak  light  seems  to  dawn  on 
it." 

This  praise  so  confused  Helen,  that  it  was  long  before 
she  could  obey  the  command  annexed  to  it.  But,  by  little 
and  little,  words  came  to  both  more  frankly.  And  then  he 
told  her  the  sad  tale  of  Chatterton,  and  waited,  anxious  to 
hear  her  comments. 

"Well,"  he  said,  seeing  that  she  remained  silent,  "how 
can  /hope,  when  this  mighty  genius  labored  and  despaired  ? 
What  did  he  want,  save  birth  and  fortune,  and  friends,  and 
human  justice  ?  " 

"  Did  he  pray  to  God?"  asked  Helen,  drying  her  tears. 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  445 

Again  Leonard  was  startled.  In  reading  the  life  of 
Chatterton,  he  had  not  much  noted  the  scepticism,  assumed 
or  real,  of  the  ill-fated  aspirer  to  earthly  immortality.  At 
Helen's  question,  that  scepticism  struck  him  forcibly. 

<;  Why  do  you  ask  that,  Helen  ?  " 

"  Because,  when  we  pray  often,  we  grow  so  very,  very 
patient,"  answered  the  child'.  "  Perhaps,  had  he  been  pa- 
tient a  few  months  more,  all  would  have  been  won  by  him, 
as  it  will  be  by  you,  brother  ;  for  you  pray,  and  you  will  be 
patient." 

Leonard  bowed  his  head  in  deep  thought,  and  this  time 
the  thought  was  not  gloomy.  Then  out  from  that  awful  life 
there  glowed  another  passage,  which  before  he  had  not 
heeded  duly,  but  regarded  rather  as  one  of  the  darkest  mys- 
teries in  the  fate  of  Chatterton. 

At  the  very  time  the  despairing  poet  had  locked  himself 
up  in  his  garret,  to  dismiss  his  soul  from  its  earthly  ordeal, 
his  genius  had  just  found  its  way  into  the  light  of  renown. 
Good,  and  learned,  and  powerful  men  were  preparing  to 
serve  and  save  him.  Another  year — nay,  perchance  another 
month — and  he  might  have  stood  acknowledged  and  sublime 
in  the  foremost  rank  of  his  age. 

"  Oh,  Helen  ! "  cried  Leonard,  raising  his  brows  from 
which  the  cloud  had  passed,  "why,  indeed,  did  you  leaveme  ?" 

Helen  started  in  her  turn  as  he  repeated  this  regret,  and 
in  her  turn  grew  thoughtful.  At  length  she  asked  him  if  he 
had  written  for  the  box  which  had  belonged  to  her  father, 
and  been  left  at  the  inn. 

And  Leonard,  though  a  little  chafed  at  what  he  thought 
a  childish  interruption  to  themes  of  greater  interest,  owned, 
with  self-reproach,  that  he  had  forgotten  to  do  so.  Should 
he  not  write  now  to  order  the  box  to  be  sent  to  her  at  Miss 
Starke's  ? 

"  No  ;  let  it  be  sent  to  you.  Take  care  of  it.  I  should 
like  to  know  that  something  of  mine  is  with  you  ;  and  per- 
haps I  may  not  stay  here  long." 

"  Not  stay  here  ?  That  you  must,  my  dear  Helen — at 
least  as  long  as  Miss  Starke  will  keep  you,  and  is  kind. 
By-and-by"  (added  Leonard,  with  something  of  his  former 
sanguine  tone)  "  I  may  yet  make  my  way,  and  we  shall  have 
our  cottage  to  ourselves.  But — Oh  Helen  ! — I  forgot — you 
wounded  me  ;  you  left  your  money  with  me.  I  only  found 
it  in  my  drawers  the  other  clay.  Fie  ! — I  have  brought  it 
back." 


446  MY  NOVEL;    OR, 

"  It  was  not  mine — it  is  yours.  We  were  to  share  to- 
gether— you  paid  all ;  and  how  can  I  want  it  here,  too  ? " 

But  Leonard  was  obstinate  ;  and  as  Helen  mournfully 
received  back  all  that  of  fortune  her  father  had  bequeathed 
to  her,  a  tall  female  figure  stood  at  the  entrance  of  the  arbor, 
and  said,  in  a  voice  that  scattered  all  sentiment  to  the  winds 
— "  Young  man,  it  is  time  to  go." 


CHAPTER  XXV.  - 

"ALREADY?"  said  Helen,  with  faltering  accents  as  she 
crept  to  Miss  Starke's  side,  while  Leonard  rose  and  bowed. 
"  1  am  very  grateful  to  you,  madam,"  said  he,  with  the  grace 
that  comes  from  all  refinement  of  idea,  "for allowing  me  to 
see  Miss  Helen.  Do  not  let  me  abuse  your  kindness." 

Miss  Starke  seemed  struck  with  his  look  and  manner, 
and  made  a  stiff  half-curtsey. 

A  form  more  rigid  than  Miss  Starke's  it  was  hard  to  con- 
ceive. She  was  like  the  Grim  White  Woman  in  the  nursery 
ballads.  Yet,  apparently,  there  was  a  good-nature  in  allow- 
ing the  stranger  to  enter  her  trim  garden,  and  providing  for 
him  and  her  little  charge  those  fruits  and  cakes,  which  be- 
lied her  aspect.  "  May  I  go  with  him  to  the  gate  ? " 
whispered  Hel-en,  as  Leonard  had  already  passed  up  the 
path. 

"You  may,  child  ;  but  do  not  loiter.  And  then  come 
back,  and  lock  up  the  cakes  and  cherries,  or  Patty  will  get 
at  them." 

Helen  ran  after  Leonard. 

"  Write  to  me,  brother — write  to  me  ;  and  do  not,  do  not 
be  friends  with  this  man,  who  took  you  to  that  wicked, 
wicked  place." 

"Oh,  Helen,  I  go  from  you  strong  enough  to  brave 
worse  dangers  than  that,"  said  Leonard,  almost  gaily. 

They  kissed  each  other  at  the  little  wicket  gate,  and 
parted. 

Leonard  walked  home  under  the  summer  moonlight, 
and  on  entering  his  chamber  looked  first  at  his  rose-tree, 
The  leaves  of  yesterday's  flowers  lay  strewn  around  it  ;  but 
the  tree  had  put  forth  new  buds. 

"Nature    ever   restores,"    said    the    young   man.      He 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  447 

paused  a  moment  and  added,  "  Is  it   that  Nature  is  very 
patient  ?  " 

His  sleep  that  night  was  not  broken  by  the  fearful 
dreams  he  had  lately  known.  He  rose  refreshed,  and  went 
his  way  to  his  day's  work — not  stealing  along  the  less- 
crowded  paths,  but,  with  a  firm  step,  through  the  throng 
of  men.  Be  bold,  adventurer — thou  hast  more  to  suffer  ! 
Wilt  thou  sink  ?  I  look  into  thy  heart,  and  I  cannot  an- 
swer. 

NOTE  ON  HOMOEOPATHY. 

A  gentleman  who  practises  Homoeopathy,  and  who  rtjoices  in  the  name 
of  Luther,  has  done  me  the  honor  to  issue  a  pamphlet  in  grave  vindication  of 
the  art  of  Hahnemann  from  what  he  conceives  to  be  the  assault  thereon  per- 
petrated in  "  My  Novel."  Luther  the  First,  though  as  combative  as  Luther 
the  Second,  did  not  waste  his  polemical  vigor  upon  giants  of  his  own  making. 
It  is  true  that,  though  in  "My  Novel"  Dr.  Morgan  is  represented  as  an 
able  and  warm-hearted  man,  there  is  a  joke  at  his  humors — what  then  ?  Do 
I  turn  the  art  itself  into  ridicule  ?  As  well  might  some  dignitary  of  the 
Church  accuse  me  of  satirizing  his  sacred  profession,  whenever  the  reader  is 
invited  to  smile  at  the  expense  of  Parson  Dale, — or  a  country  gentleman 
take  up  his  pen  to  clear  the  territorial  class  from  participation  in  the  preju- 
dices assigned  to.  the  Squire  of  Hazeldean.  Nay,  as  well  might  some  literary 
allopathist  address  to  me  a  homily  on  profaning  the  dignity  of  the  College  of 
Physicians,  by  the  irreverent  portraiture  of  Dr.  Dosewell.  "  My  Novel  "  is 
intended  as  a  survey  of  varieties  in  English  life,  chiefly  through  the  medium 
of  the  prevailing  humors  in  various  modifications  of  character.  Like  other 
enthusiasts,  Dr.  Morgan  pushes  his  favorite  idea  into  humorous  extravagance 
— and  must  bear  the  penalty  of  a  good-natured  banter.  If  I  were  opposed 
altogether  to  Homoeopathy,  I  should  take  a  very  different  mode  of  dealing 
with  it ;  and  Dr.  Morgan,  instead  of  being  represented  as  an  experienced 
practitioner  in  allopathy,  converted  to  the  homceopathical  theory  by  honest 
convictions,  and  redeeming  his  foibles  by  shrewd  observation  and  disinter- 
ested benevolence,  would  be  drawn  as  an  ignorant  charlatan  and  a  greedy 
impostor. 

But  the  fact  is  that,  if  I  do  not  think  Homoeopathy  capable  of  all  the 
wonders  ascribed  to  it  by  some  of  its  professors,  or  the  only  scientific  mode 
of  dealing  with  human  infirmities,  I  sincerely  believe  that  it  is  often  resorted 
to  with  very  great  benefit — nay,  I  myself  have  frequently  employed,  and  even 
advised  it,  I  opine,  with  advantage.  And  if  it  had  done  nothing  else  than 
introduce  many  notable  reforms  in  allopathical  practice,  it  would  be  entitled 
to  the  profound  gratitude  of  all.  with  stomachs  no  longer  over-irrigated  by 
the  apothecary,  and  veins  no  longer  under-drained  by  the  phlebotomist. 

But  Dr.  Luther  assumes  that  I  have  no  authority  for  the  crotchets  ascribed 
to  Dr.  Morgan — that  it  is  monstrous  in  me  to  assert  that  Homoeopathy  pro- 
fes>es  to  have  globules  for  the  mind  as  well  as  the  body,  that  I  have  evidently 
only  read  some  shallow  catch- penny  treatises  on  the  subject,  etc.,  etc.  Un- 
luckv  Dr.  Luther  !  Does  he  profess  to  be  a  Homoeopathist,  and  yet  forget 
his  JAHR  !  Will  he  tell  me  that  JAHR  is  not  the  great  original  manual  of  the 
science — the  Blackstone  of  Homoeopathy  ?  And  what  says  this  master  text- 


448  My  NOVEL;    OR, 

book?  I  quote  therefrom,  not  for  the  purpose  only  of  justifying  Dr.  Morgan 
and  myself  from  the  charges  so  inconsiderately  brought  against  us  by  Dr. 
I.uther,  but  also  for  the  purpose  of  proving  to  the  general  leader,  that  Dr. 
Morgan  has  full  authority  for  prescribing  CAUSTIC  for  tears,  and  AGARICUS 
MUSCARIUS  for  the  propensity  to  indulge  in  verse-making.  Nay,  I  will  add 
that  there  is  not  a  single  prescription  lor  mental  disturbance  suggested  by 
Dr.  Morgan  for  which,  strange  as  it  may  seem  to  the  uninitiated,  he  is  not 
warranted  literally  by  that  work  by  JAHR,  which  is  the  ground-work  of  all 
homceopathicftl  literature.  Imprimis,  O  too  oblivious  Luther,  does  not  JAHR 
assign  a  large  section  of  his  manual  to  Moral  Affections  ?  Open  vol.  iii.  of 
the  Paris  Edition,  in  4  vols.,  1850 — go  on  to  page  236.  Dues  not  JAHR  pre- 
scribe ARSENIC  for  la  Mclancohe  noire.  HELLEBORE  for  la  hlelancolie 
donee,  and,  with  the  nice  distinction  only  known  to  homoeopathical  philoso- 
phy, GOLD  for  la  Ale'lancolie  religieuse  ?  If  it  be  the  patient's  inclination  to 
rest  silent,  must  he  not  take  IGNATIA — if  he  have  a  desire  to  drown  himself, 
should  not  the  globule  be  PULSATILLA? 

For  /'//  /minor  (p.  246)  is  there  no  suggestion  of  ACONITE  ?  If  that  humor 
is  of  the  contemptuous  character,  like  Dr.  Luther's,  is  there  no  injunction  to 
try  IPECACUANHA  ?  If  it  be  "  disposition  ct  faire  des  rcproches,  a  critiquer  " 
(to  quarrel  and  criticise),  does  not  JAHR  give  you — O  frowning  Luther — a 
wide  choice  from  BELLADONNA  to  VERATRIUM?  Nsy,  if  it  be  in  a  close 
apartment  rather  than  the  open  air  that  the  attack  seizes  you,  should  you  not 
ingurgitate  a  pin's  head  of  platinum  ?  JAHR,  JAHR  !  O  Dr.  Luther,  would 
you  have  fallen  into  such  a  scrape,  if  you  had  consulted  your  JAHR  ? 

Turn  to  the  same  volume,  p.  30,  on  Moral  Emotions,  is  there  not  a  glob- 
ule for  an  Amour  malheureux — fora  lover  disappointed  are  there  not  HYOS: 
IGN  :  PHOS-AC  ?  Nay,  to  sum  up  and  clench  the  whole  by  the  very  proposi- 
tion which  I  undertook  to  prove,  does  not  JAHR.  vol.  iii.,  p,  255,  recommend 
AGARICUS  for  the  disposition  a  faire  des  vers  (to  make  verses),  and  more 
than  once  or  twice  throughout  the  same  volume,  is  not  CAUSTIC  the  remedy, 
by  preference,  for  a  tendency  to  shed  tears,  provided,  of  course,  other  symp- 
toms invite  its  application  ? 

And,  O  Dr.  Luther,  do  you  mean  to  tell  us  that  the  enthusiast  of  an  art, 
to  which  this  book,  by  JAHR,  is  an  acknowledged  text-book,  may  not,  what- 
ever the  skill  of  the  man  or  the  excellence  of  the  art,  or  the  vnlue  of  the 
text-book,  incur  every  one  of  tiie  extravagances  imputed  to  Dr.  Morgan,  or 
not  freely  lay  himself  open  to  the  gall-less  pleasantries  of  a  writer  in  search  of 
the  Humorous? 

Dr.  Morgan  is  represented  as  one  of  the  earliest  disciples  of  Hahnemann 
in  this  country,  and  therefore  likely,  in  the  zeal  of  a  tyro;  and  the  passion  of 
a  convert,  aprnm  consumere  totum — which  Horatian  elegancy  our  vernacu- 
lar has  debased  into  the  familiar  vulgarism,  ''  Go  the  whole  hog."  But  even 
in  the  present  day,  I  assure  Dr.  Luther,  and  my  readers  generally,  that  I 
have  met,  abroad,  Homoeopathic  physicians  of  considerable  eminence,  who 
have  seriously  contended  for  the  application  of  globules  to  the  varieties  of 
mental  affliction  and  human  vicissitude ;  who  have  solemnly  declared  that, 
while  the  rest  of  the  family  have  been  plunged  into  despair  at  the  death  of  its 
head,  one  of  the  bereaved  children  resorting  to  Homoeopathy  has  been  pre- 
served from  the  depressing  consequence  of  grief,  and  been  as  cheerful  as  usual  ; 
that  a  lover  who  meditated  suicide  at  the  perfidy  of  his  beloved,  has  in  ten 
days  been  homoeopathically  reduced  into  felicitous  indifference  ;  and  that 
there  are  secrets  in  the  science  professed  by  Dr.  Luther,  that  cannot  be  too 
earnestly  urged  on  his  own  attention,  by  which  an  irritable  man  may  be  taught 
to  control  his  temper,  and  a  dull  man  to  comprehend  a  joke. 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  449 


BOOK  SEVENTH. 


INITIAL   CHAPTER. 

MR.    CAXTON    UPON    COURAGE   AND    PATIENCE. 

"  WHAT  is  courage  ? "  said  my  Uncle  Roland,  rousing 
himself  from  a  reverie  into  which  he  had  fallen,  after  the 
sixth  book  in  this  history  had  been  read  to  our  family 
circle. 

"  What  is  courage  ? "  he  repeated  more  earnestly.  "  Is 
it  insensibility  to  fear  ?  That  may  be  the  mere  accident  of 
constitution ;  and,  if  so,  there  is  no  more  merit  in  being 
courageous  than  in  being  this  table." 

"  I  am  very  glad  to  hear  you  speak  thus,"  observed  Mr. 
Caxton,  "for  I  should  not  like  to  consider  myself  a  coward  ; 
yet  I  am  very  sensible  to  fear  in  all  dangers,  bodily  and 
moral." 

"  La,  Austin,  how  can  you  say  so  ?  "  cried  my  mother,  fir- 
ing up  ;  "  was  it  not  only  last  week  that  you  faced  the  great 
bull  that  was  rushing  after  Blanche  and  the  children?" 

Blanche  at  that  recollection  stole  to  my  father's  chair, 
and,  hanging  over  his  shoulder,  kissed  his  forehead. 

MR.  CAXTON  (sublimely  unmoved  by  those  flatteries), — I 
don't  deny  that  I  faced  the  bull,  but  I  assert  that  I  was  hor- 
ribly frightened. 

ROLAND. — The  sense  of  honor  which  conquers  fear  is  the 
true  courage  of  chivalry  :  you  could  not  run  away  when 
others  were  looking  on — no  gentleman  could. 

MR.  CAXTON. — Fiddlededee  !  It  was  not  on  my  gentility 
that  I  stood,  Captain.  I  should  have  run  fast  enough,  if  it 
had  done  any  good.  I  stood  upon  my  understanding.  As 
the  bull  could  run  faster  than  I  could,  the  only  chance  of 
escape  was  to  make  the  brute  as  frightened  as  myself. 


450  MY  NOVEL;    OR, 

BLANCHE. — Ah,  you  did  not  think  of  that ;  your  only 
thought  was  to  save  me  and  the  children. 

MR.  CAXTON. — Possibly,  my  dear — very  possibly  I  might 
have  been  afraid  for  you  too  ; — but  I  was  very  much  afraid 
for  myself.  However,  luckily,  I  had  the  umbrella,  and  I 
sprang  it  up  and  spread  it  forth  in  the  animal's  stupid  eyes, 
hurling  at  him  simultaneously  the  biggest  lines  I  could  think 
of  in  the  First  Chorus  of  the  "  Seven  against  Thebes."  I 
began  with  ELEDEMNAS  PEDIOPLOKTUPOS  ;  and  when  I  came 
to  the  grand  howl  of  'Io>,  iw,  iw,  iw,  the  beast  stood  appalled  as 
at  the  roar  of  a  lion.  I  shall  never  forget  his  amazed  snort 
at  the  Greek.  Then  he  kicked  up  his  hind  legs,  and  went 
bolt  through  the  gap  in  the  hedge.  Thus  armed  with 
^Eschylus  and  the  umbrella,  I  remained  master  of  the  field  : 
but  (continued  Mr.  Caxton,  ingenuously)  I  should  not  like 
to  go  through  that  half-minute  again. 

"  No  man  would,"  said  the  Captain,  kindly.  "  I  should 
be  very  sorry  to  face,  a  bull  myself,  even  with  a  bigger  um- 
brella than  yours,  and  even  though  I  had  ^Eschylus,  and 
Homer  to  boot,  at  my  fingers'  ends." 

MR.  CAXTON. — You  would  not  have  minded  if  it  had  been 
a  Frenchman  with  a  sword  in  his  hand  ? 

CAPTAIN. — Of  course  not.  Rather  liked  it  than  other- 
wise, he  added,  grimly. 

MR.  CAXTON.— Yet  many  a  Spanish  matador,  who  doesn't 
care  a  button  for  a  bull,  would  take  to  his  heels  at  the  first 
lunge  en  quart  from  a  Frenchman.  Therefore,  in  fact,  if 
courage  be  a  matter  of  constitution,  it  is  also  a  matter  of 
custom.  We  face  calmly  the  dangers  we  are  habituated  to, 
and  recoil  from  those  of  which  we  have  no  familiar  experi- 
ence. I  doubt  if  Marshal  Turenne  himself  would  have  been 
quite  at  his  ease  on  the  tight-rope  ;  and  a  rope-dancer,  who 
seems  disposed  to  scale  the  heavens  with  Titanic  temerity, 
might  possibly  object  to  charge  on  a  cannon. 

CAPTAIN  ROLAND. — Still  either  this  is  not  the  courage  I 
mean,  or  it  is  another  kind  of  it.  I  mean  by  courage  that 
which  is  the  especial  force  and  dignity  of  the  human  char- 
acter, without  which  there  is  no  reliance  on  principle,  no 
constancy  in  virtue— a  something,  continued  my  uncle  gal- 
lantly, and  with  a  half-bow  toward  my  mother,  which  your 
sex  shares  with  our  own.  When  the  lover,  for  instance, 
clasps  the  hand  of  his  betrothed,  and  says,  "Wilt  thou  be 
true  to  me,  in  spite  of  absence  and  time,  in  spite  of  hazard 
and  fortune,  though  my  foes  malign  me,  though  thy  friends 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  451 

may  dissuade  thee,  and  our  lot  in  life  may  be  rough  and 
rude?"  and  when  the  betrothed  answers,  UI  will  be  true," 
does  not  the  lover  trust  to  her  courage  as  well  as  her  love  ? 

"Admirably  put,  Roland,"  said  my  father.  "  But  apropos 
of  what  do  you  puzzle  us  with  these  queries  on  courage  ?" 

CAPTAIN  ROLAND  (with  a  slight  blush). — I  was  led  to  the 
inquiry  (though,  perhaps,  it  may  be  frivolous  to  take  so 
much  thought  of  what,  no  doubt,  costs  Pisistratus  so  little) 
by  the  last  chapters  in  my  nephew's  story.  I  see  this  poor 
boy  Leonard  alone  with  his  fallen  hopes  (though  very  irra- 
tional they  were),  and  his  sense  of  shame.  And  I  read  his 
heart,  I  dare  say,  better  than  Pisistratus  does,  for  I  could 
feel  like  that  boy  if  I  had  been  in  the  same  position  ;  and 
conjecturing  what  he  and  thousands  like  him  must  go 
through,  I  asked  myself,  "  What  can  save  him  and  them  ? " 
I  answered,  as  a  soldier  would  answer,  "Courage  !"  Very 
well.  But  pray,  Austin,  what  is  courage  ? 

MR.  CAXTON  (prudently  backing  out  of  a  reply). — Papce  ! 
Brother,  since  you  have  just  complimented  the  ladies  on  that 
quality,  you  had  better  address  your  question  to  them. 

Blanche  here  leant  both  hands  on  my  father's  chair,  and 
said,  looking  down  at  first  bashfully,  but  afterward  warm- 
ing with  the  subject,  "  Do  you  not  think,  sir,  that  little  Helen 
has  already  suggested,  if  not  what  is  courage,  what  at  least 
is  the  real  essence  of  all  courage  that  endures  and  conquers, 
that  ennobles  and  hallows,  and  redeems  ?  Is  it  not  PATIENCE, 
father  ? — and  that  is  why  we  women  have  a  courage  of  our 
own.  Patience  does  not  affect  to  be  superior  to  fear,  but  at 
least  it  never  admits  despair." 

PISISTRATUS. — Kissme,  my  Blanche,  for  you  havecome  near 
to  the  truth  which  perplexed  the  soldier  and  puzzled  the  sage. 

MR.  CAXTON  (tartly). — If  you  mean  me  by  the  sage,  I  was 
not  puzzled  at  all.  Heaven  knows  you  do  right  to  inculcate 
patience  — it  is  a  virtue  very  much  required  in  your  readers. 
Nevertheless  (added  my  father,  softening  with  the  enjoy- 
ment of  his  joke)— nevertheless  Blanche  and  Helen  are 
quite  right.  Patience  is  the  courage  of  the  conqueror  ;  it 
is  the  virtue,  par  excellence,  of  Man  against  Destiny — of  the 
One  against  the  World,  and  of  the  Soul  against  Matter. 
Therefore  this  is  the  courage  of  the  Gospel  ;  and  its  impor- 
tance, in  a  social  view — its  importance  to  races  and  institu- 
tions—cannot be  too  earnestly  inculcated.  What  is  it  that 
distinguishes  the  Anglo-Saxon  from  all  other  branches  of 
the  human  family,  peoples  deserts  with  his  children,  and 


452  MY  NOVEL;    OR, 

consigns  to  them  the  heritage  of  rising  worlds  ?  What  but 
his  faculty  to  brave,  to  suffer,  to  endure — the  patience  that 
resists  firmly,  and  innovates  slowly.  Compare  him  with  the 
Frenchman.  The  Frenchman  has  plenty  of  valor — that 
there  is  no  denying  ;  but  as  for  fortitude,  he  has  not  enough 
to  cover  the  point  of  a  pin.  He  is  ready  to  rush  out  of  the 
world  if  he  is  bitten  by  a  flea. 

CAPTAIN  ROLAND. — There  was  a  case  in  the  papers  the 
other  day,  Austin,  of  a  Frenchman  who  actually  did  destroy 
himself  because  he  was  so  teased  by  the  little  creatures  you 
speak  of.  He  left  a  paper  on  his  table,  saying  that  "life  was 
not  worth  having  at  the  price  of  such  torments."  * 

MR.  CAXTON  (solemnly). — Sir,  their  whole^  political  his- 
tory, since  the  great  meeting  of  the  Tiers  Etat,  has  been 
the  history  of  men  who  would  rather  go  to  the  devil  than 
be  bitten  by  a  flea.  It  is  the  record  of  human  impatience, 
that  seeks  to  force  time,  and  expects  to  grow  forests  from 
the  spawn  of  a  mushroom.  Wherefore,  running  through 
all  extremes  of  constitutional  experiment,  when  they  are 
nearest  to  democracy  they  are  next  door  to  a  despot  ;  and 
all  they  have  really  done  is  to  destroy  whatever  consti- 
tutes the  foundation  of  every  tolerable  government.  A 
constitutional  monarchy  cannot  exist  without  aristocracy, 
nor  a  healthful  republic  endure  with  corruption  of  manners. 
The  cry  of  Equality  is  incompatible  with  Civilization, 
which,  of  necessity,  contrasts  poverty  with  wealth  —  and,  in 
short,  whether  it  be  an  emperor  or  a  mob  f  that  is  to  rule, 
Force  is  the  sole  hope  of  order,  and  the  government  is  but 
an  army. 

"Impress,  O  Pisistratus  !  impress  the  value  of  patience 
as  regards  man  and  men.  You  touch  there  on  the  kernel 
of  the  social  system — the  secret  that  fortifies  the  individual 
and  disciplines  the  million.  I  care  not,  for  my  part,  if  you 
are  tedious,  so  long  as  you  are  earnest.  Be  minute  and  de- 
tailed. Let  the  real  Human  Life,  in  its  war  with  Circum- 
stance, stand  out.  Never  mind  if  one  can  read  you  but 
slowly — better  chance  of  being  less  quickly  forgotten. 
Patience,  patience  !  By  the  soul  of  Epictetus,  your  readers 
shall  set  you  an  example  !  " 

*  Fact.  In  a  work  by  M.  GIBERT,  a  celebrated  French  physician,  on  diseases  of  the  skin, 
he  states  that  that  minute  troublesome  kind  of  rash,  known  by  the  name  of  pmrigo,  though 
not  dangerous  in  itself,  has  often  driven  the  individual  afflicted  by  it  to — suicide.  I  believe 
that  our  more  varying  climate,  and  our  more  heating  drinks  and  aliments,  render  this  skin 
complaint  more  common  in  England  than  in  France,  yet  I  doubt  if  nny  Knglish  physician 
could  state  that  it  had  ever  driven  one  of  his  l-'nglisfi  patients  to  suicide. 

t  Published  more  than  a  year  before  the  date  of  the  French  empire  under  Louis  Napoleon. 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  453 


CHAPTER   II. 

LEONARD  had  written  twice  to  Mrs.  Fairfield,  twice  to 
Riccabocca,  and  once  to  Mr.  Dale  ;  and  the  poor  proud  boy 
could  not  bear  to  betray  his  humiliation.  He  wrote  as 
with  cheerful  spirits — as  if  perfectly  satisfied  with  his  pros- 
pects. He  said  that  he  was  well  employed,  in  the  midst  of 
books,  and  that  he  had  found  kind  friends.  Then  he  turned 
from  himself  to  write  about  those  whom  he  addressed,  and 
the  affairs  and  interests  of  the  quiet  world  wherein  they 
lived.  He  did  not  give  his  own  address,  nor  that  of  Mr. 
Prickett.  He  dated  his  letters  from  a  small  coffee-house 
near  the  bookseller's,  to  which  he  occasionally  went  for  his 
simple  meals.  He  had  a  motive  in  this.  He  did  not  desire 
to  be  found  out.  Mr.  Dale  replied  for  himself  and  for  Mrs. 
Fairfield,  to  the  epistles  addressed  to  these  two.  Riccabocca 
wrote  also.  Nothing  could  be  more  kind  than  the  replies  of 
both.  They  came  to  Leonard  in  a  very  dark  period  in  his 
life,  and  they  strengthened  him  in  the  noiseless  battle  with 
despair. 

If  there  be  a  good  in  the  world  that  we  do  without  know- 
ing it,  without  conjecturing  the  effect  it  may  have  upon  a 
human  soul,  it  is  when  we  show  kindness  to  the  young  in 
the  first  barren  foot-path  up  the  mountain  of  life. 

Leonard's  face  resumed  its  serenity  in  his  intercourse 
with  his  employer  ;  but  he  did  not  recover  his  boyish  ingenu- 
ous frankness.  The  under-currents  flowed  again  pure  from 
the  turbid  soil  and  the  splintered  fragments  uptorn  from  the 
deep  ;  but  they  were  still  too  strong  and  too  rapid  to  allow 
transparency  to  the  surface.  And  now  he  stood  in  the  sub- 
lime world  of  books,  still  and  earnest  as  a  seer  who  invokes 
the  dead.  And  thus,  face  to  face  with  knowledge,  hourly 
he  discovered  how  little  he  knew.  Mr.  Prickett  lent  him 
such  works  as  he  selected  and  asked  to  take  home  with  him. 
He  spent  whole  nights  in  reading  ;  and  no  longer  desulto- 
rily. He  read  no  more  poetry,  no  more  Lives  of  Poets.  He 
read  what  poets  must  read  if  they  desire  to  be  great — Sapcre 
principium  et  fons — strict  reasonings  on  the  human  mind  : 
the  relations  between  motive  and  conduct,  thought  and  ac- 
tion, the  grave  and  solemn  truths  of  the  past  world  ;  anti- 


454  MY  NOVEL;    OR, 

quities,  history,  philosophy.  He  was  taken  out  of  himself. 
He  was  carried  along  the  ocean  of  the  universe.  In  that 
ocean,  O  seeker,  study  the  law  of  the  tides ;  and  seeing 
Chance  nowhere — Thought  presiding  over  all, — Fate,  that 
dread  phantom,  shall  vanish  from  creation,  and  Providence 
alone  be  visible  in  heaven  and  on  earth  ! 


CHAPTER   III. 

THERE  was  to  be  a  considerable  book-sale  at  a  country 
house  one  day's  journey  from  London.  Mr.  Prickett  meant 
to  have  attended  it  on  his  own  behalf,  and  that  of  several 
gentlemen  who  had  given  him  commissions  for  purchase  ; 
but,  on  the  morning  fixed  for  his  departure,  he  was  seized 
with  a  severe  return  of  his  old  foe,  the  rheumatism.  He 
requested  Leonard  to  attend  instead  of  himself.  Leonard 
went,  and  was  absent  for  the  three  days  during  which  the 
sale  lasted.  He  returned  late  in  the  evening,  and  went  at 
once  to  Mr.  Prickett's  house.  The  shop  was  closed  ;  he 
knocked  at  the  private  entrance  ;  a  strange  person  opened 
the  door  to  him,  and,  in  reply  to  his  question  if  Mr.  Prickett 
was  at  home,  said  with  a  long  and  funereal  face —  "  Young 
man,  Mr.  Prickett,  senior,  is  gone  to  his  long  home,  but 
Mr.  Richard  Prickett  will  see  you." 

At  this  moment  a  very  grave-looking  man,  with  lank 
hair,  looked  forth  from  the  side-door  communicating  be- 
tween the  shop  and  the  passage,  and  then  stepped  forward 
— "  Come  in,  sir  ;  you  are  my  late  uncle's  assistant,  Mr. 
Fairfield,  I  suppose  ?  " 

"  Your  late  uncle  !  Heavens,  sir,  do  I  understand  aright 
— can  Mr.  Prickett  be  dead  since  I  left  London  ?  " 

"  Died,  sir,  suddenly  last  night.  It  was  an  affection  of 
the  heart.  The  doctor  thinks  the  rheumatism  attacked  that 
organ.  He  had  small  time  to  provide  for  his  departure,  and 
his  account-books  seem  in  sad  disorder  ;  I  am  his  nephew 
and  executor." 

Leonard  had  now  followed  the  nephew  into  the  shop. 
There  still  burned  the  gas-lamp.  The  place  seemed  more 
dingy  and  cavernous  than  before.  Death  always  makes  its 
presence  felt  in  the  house  it  visits. 

Leonard  was  greatly  affected — and  yet   more,  perhaps, 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  455 

by  the  utter  want  of  feeling  which  the  nephew  exhibited. 
In  fact,  the  deceased  had  not  been  on  friendly  terms  with 
this  person,  his  nearest  relative  and  heir-at-law,  who  was 
also  a  bookseller. 

"You  were  engaged  but  by  the  week,  I  find,  young 
man,  on  reference  to  my  late  uncle's  papers.  He  gave  you 
-£\  a  week — a  monstrous  sum  !  I  shall  not  require  your 
services  any  further.  I  shall  move  these  books  to  my  own 
house.  You  will  be  good  enough  to  send  me  a  list  of  those 
you  bought  at  the  sale,  and  your  account  of  travelling  ex- 
penses, etc.  What  may  be  due  to  you  shall  be  sent  to  your 
address.  Good  evening." 

Leonard  went  home,  shocked  and  saddened  at  the  sud- 
den death  of  his  kind  employer.  He  did  not  think  much 
of  himself  that  night  !  but,  when  he  rose  the  next  day,  he 
suddenly  felt  that  the  world  of  London  lay  before  him, 
without  a  friend,  without  a  calling,  without  an  occupation 
for  bread. 

This  time  it  was  no  fancied  sorrow,  no  poetic  dream 
disappointed.  Before  him,  gaunt  and  palpable,  stood  Fam- 
ine. 

Escape  ! — yes  Back  to  the  village  ;  his  mother's  cot- 
tage ;  the  exile's  garden  ;  the  radishes  and  the  fount.  Why 
could  he  not  escape  ?  Ask  why  civilization  cannot  escape 
its  ills,  and  fly  back  to  the  wild  and  the  wigwam. 

Leonard  could  not  have  returned  to  the  cottage,  even  if 
the  Famine  that  faced  had  already  seized  him  with  her 
skeleton  hand.  London  releases  not  so  readily  her  fated 
step-sons. 


CHAPTER   IV. 

ONE  day  three  persons  were  standing  before  an  old  book- 
stall in  a  passage  leading  from  Oxford  Street  into  Totten- 
ham Court  Road.  Two  were  gentlemen  ;  the  third,  of  the 
class  and  appearance  of  those  who  more  habitually  halt  at 
old  book-stalls. 

"Look,"  said  one  of  the  gentlemen  to  the  other,  "I 
have  discovered  here  what  I  have  searched  for  in  vain  the 
last  ten  years — the  Horace  of  1580,  the  Horace  of  the  Forty 
Commentators — a  perfect  treasury  of  learning,  and  marked 
only  fourteen  shillings  !  " 


456  MY  NOVEL;    OR, 

"  Hush,  Norreys,"  said  the  other,  "  and  observe  what  is 
yet  more  worth  your  study  ;"  and  he  pointed  to  the  third 
bystander,  whose  face,  sharp  and  attenuated,  was  bent  with 
an  absorbed,  and,  as  it^were,  with  a  hungering  attention 
over  an  old  worm-eaten  volume. 

"What  is  the  book,  my  lord?"  whispered  Mr.  Norreys. 

His  companion  smiled,  and  replied  by  another  question, 
"  What  is  the  man  who  reads  the  book  ?  " 

Mr.  Norreys  moved  a  few  paces,  and  looked  over  the 
student's  shoulder.  "  Preston's  translation  of  BOETHIUS. 
The  Consolations  of  Philosophy"  he  said,  coming  back  to  his 
friend. 

"  He  looks  as  if  he  wanted  all  the  consolations  Philo- 
sophy can  give  him,  poor  boy." 

At  this  moment  a  fourth  passenger  paused  at  the  book- 
stall, and,  recognizing  the  pale  student,  placed  his  hand 
on  his  shoulder,  and  said,  "Aha,  young  sir,  we  meet  again. 
So  poor  Prickett  is  dead.  But  you  are  still  haunted  by 
associations.  Books — books — magnets  to  which  all  iron 
minds  move  insensibly.  What  is  this  ?  BOETHIUS  !  Ah,  a 
book  written  in  prison,  but  a  little  time  before  the  advent 
of  the  only  philosopher  who  solves  to  the  simplest  under- 
standing every  mystery  of  life " 

"  And  that  philosopher  ?  " 

"  Is  Death  !  "  said  Mr.  Burley.  "  How  can  you  be  dull 
enough  to  ask  ?  Poor  Boethius,  rich,  nobly  born,  a  consul, 
his  sons  consuls — the  world  one  smile  to  the  Last  Philo- 
sopher of  Rome.  Then  suddenly,  against  this  type  of  the 
old  world's  departing  WISDOM,  stands  frowning  the  new 
world's  grim  genius,  FORCE — Theodoric  the  Ostrogoth  con- 
demning Boethius  the  Schoolman  ;  and  Boethius,  in  his 
Pavian  dungeon,  holding  a  dialogue  with  the  shade  of 
Athenian  Philosophy.  It  is  the  finest  picture  upon  which 
lingers  the  glimmering  of  the  Western  golden  day,  before 
night  rushes  over  time." 

"And,"  said  Mr.  Norreys,  abruptly,  "Boethius  comes 
back  to  us  with  the  faint  gleam  of  returning  light,  translated 
by  Alfred  the  Great.  And,  again,  as  the  sun  of  knowledge 
bursts  forth  in  all  its  splendor,  by  Queen  Elizabeth.  Boe- 
thius influences  us  as  we  stand  in  this  passage  ;  and  that 
is  the  best  of  all  the  Consolations  of  Philosophy — eh,  Mr. 
Burley  ?  " 

Mr.  Burley  turned  and  bowed. 

The  two  men  looked  at  each  other ;  you  could  not  see  a 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  457 

greater  contrast.  Mr.  Burley,  in  his  gay  green  dress  already 
shabby  and  soiled,  with  a  rent  in  the  skirts,  and  his  face 
speaking  of  habitual  night-cups.  Mr.  Norreys,  neat  and 
somewhat  precise  in  dress,  with  firm  lean  figure,  and  quiet, 
collected,  vigorous  energy  in  his  eye  and  aspect. 

"If,"  replied  Mr.  Burley,  "a  poor  devil  like  me  may 
argue  with  a  gentleman  who  may  command  his  own  price 
with  the  booksellers,  I  should  say  it  is  no  consolation  at  all, 
Mr.  Norreys.  And  I  should  like  to  see  any  man  of  sense 
accept  the  condition  of  Boethius  in  his  prison,  with  some 
strangler  or  headsman  waiting  behind  the  door,  upon  the 
promised  proviso  that  he  should  be  translated,  centuries 
afterward,  by  Kings  and  Queens,  and  help  indirectly  to  in- 
fluence the  minds  of  Northern  barbarians,  babbling  about 
him  in  an  alley,  jostled  by  passers-by  who  never  heard  the 
name  of  Boethius,  and  who  don't  care  a  fig  for  philosophy. 
Your  servant,  sir — young  man,  come  and  talk." 

Burley  hooked  his  arm  within  Leonard's,  and  led  the 
boy  passively  away. 

"That  is  a  clever  man,"  said  Harley  L'Estrange.  "  But 
I  am  sorry  to  see  yon  young  student,  with  his  bright  earnest 
eyes,  and  his  lip  that  has  the  quiver  of  passion  and  enthusi- 
asm, leaning  on  the  arm  of  a  guide  who  seems  disenchanted 
of  all  that  gives  purpose  to  learning,  and  links  philosophy 
with  use  to  the  world.  Who  and  what  is  this  clever  man 
whom  you  call  Burley  ? " 

"  A  man  who  might  have  been  famous,  if  he  had  conde- 
scended to  be  respectable  !  The  boy  listening  to  us  both  so 
attentively  interested  me  too — I  should  like  to  have  the 
making  of  him.  But  I  must  buy  this  Horace." 

The  shopman,  lurking  within  his  hole  like  a  spider  for 
flies,  was  now  called  out.  And  when  Mr.  Norreys  had 
bought  the  Horace,  and  given  an  address  where  to  send  it, 
Harley  asked  the  shopman  if  he  knew  the  young  man  who 
had  been  reading  Boethius. 

"Only  by  sight.  He  has  come  here  every  day  the  last 
week,  and  spends  hours  at  the  stall.  When  once  he  fastens 
on  a  book,  he  reads  it  through." 

"  And  never  buys  ?"  said  Mr.  Norreys. 

"Sir,"  said  the  shopman,  with  a  good-natured  smile, 
"  they  who  buy  seldom  read.  The  poor  boy  pays  me  two- 
pence a  day  to  read  as  long  as  he  pleases.  I  would  not  take 
it,  but  he  is  proud." 

"I  have  known  men  nmass  great  learning  in  that  way," 


453  MY  NOVEL;    OR, 

said  Mr.  Norreys.  "  Yes,  I  should  like  to  have  that  boy  in 
my  hands.  And  now,  my  lord,  I  am  at  your  service,  and 
we  will  go  to  the  studio  of  your  artist." 

The  two  gentlemen  walked  on  toward  one  of  the  streets 
out  of  Fitzroy  Square. 

In  a  few  minutes  more  Harley  L'Estrange  was  in  his 
element,  seated  carelessly  on  a  deal  table,  smoking  his  cigar, 
and  discussing  art  with  the  gusto  of  a  man  who  honestly 
loved,  and  the  taste  of  a  man  who  thoroughly  understood 
it.  The  young  artist,  in  his  dressing-robe,  adding  slow 
touch  upon  touch,  paused  often  to  listen  the  better.  And 
Henry  Norreys,  enjoying  a  brief  respite  from  a  life  of  great 
labor,  was  gladly  reminded  of  idle  hours  under  rosy  skies  ; 
for  these  three  men  had  formed  their  friendship  in  Italy, 
where  the  bands  of  friendship  are  woven  by  the  hands  of  the 
Graces. 


CHAPTER    V. 

LEONARD  and  Mr.  Burley  walked  on  into  the  suburbs 
round  the  north  road  from  London,  and  Mr.  Burley  offered 
to  find  literary  employment  for  Leonard — an  offer  eagerly 
accepted. 

Then  they  wen^  into  a  public-house  by  the  way-side. 
Burley  demanded  a  private  room,  called  for  pen,  ink,  and 
paper  ;  and  placiftg  these  implements  before  Leonard, 
said,  "  Write  what  you-  please  in  prose,  five  sheets  of  letter- 
paper,  twenty-two  lines  to  a  page — neither  more  nor  less." 

"  I  cannot  write  so." 

"Tut,  'tis  for  bread." 

The  boy's  face  crimsoned. 

"  I  must  forget  that,"  said  he. 

"  There  is  an  arbor  in  the  garden,  under  a  weeping  ash," 
returned  Burley.  "  Go  there,  and  fancy  yourself  in  Ar- 
cadia." 

Leonard  was  to»  pleased  to  obey.  He  found  out  the 
little  arbor  at  one  end  of  a  deserted  bowling-green.  All 
was  still — the  hedge-row  shut  out  the  sight  of  the  inn.  The 
sun  lay  warm  on  the  grass,  and  glinted  pleasantly  through 
the  leaves  of  the  ash.  And  Leonard  there  wrote  the  first 
essay  from  his  hand  as  Author  by  profession.  What  was  it 
that  he  wrote  ?  His  dreamy  impressions  of  London  ?  an 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  459 

anathema  on  its  streets,  and  its  hearts  of  stone  ?  murmurs 
against  poverty  ?  dark  elegies  on  fate  ? 

Oh  no  !  little  knowest  thou  true  genius,  if  thou  askest 
such  questions,  or  thinkest  that  there,  under  the  weeping 
ash,  the  taskwork  for  bread  was  remembered  ;  or  that  the 
sunbeam  glinted  but  over  the  practical  world,  which,  vul- 
gar and  sordid,  lay  around.  Leonard  wrote  a  fairy  tale — 
one  of  the  loveliest  you  can  conceive,  with  a  delicate  touch 
of  playful  humor — in  a  style  all  flowered  over  with  happy 
fancies.  He  smiled  as  he  wrote  the  last  word — he  was 
happy.  In  rather  more  than  an  hour  Mr.  Burley  came  to 
him,  and  found  him  with  that  smile  on  his  lips. 

Mr.  Burley  had  a  glass  of  brandy-and- water  in  his  hand  ; 
it  was  his  third.  He  too  smiled — he  too  looked  happy.  He 
read  the  paper  aloud,  and  well.  He  was  very  complimen- 
tary. "You  will  do!  "said  he,  clapping  Leonard  on  the 
back.  "  Perhaps  some  day  you  will  catch  my  one-eyed 
perch."  Then  he  folded  up  the  MS.,  scribbled  off  a  note, 
put  the  whole  in  one  envelope — and  they  returned  to 
London. 

Mr.  Burley  disappeared  within  a  dingy  office  near  Fleet 
Street,  on  which  was  inscribed — "  Office  of  the  Beehive" 
and  soon  came  forth  with  a  golden  sovereign  in  his  hand — 
Leonard's  first-fruits.  Leonard  thought  Peru  lay  before 
him.  He  accompanied  Mr.  Burley  to  that  gentleman's 
lodging  in  Maida  Hill.  The  walk  had  been  very  long ; 
Leonard  was  not  fatigued.  He  listened  with  a  livelier  atten- 
tion than  before  to  Burley's  talk.  And  when  they  reached 
the  apartments  of  the  latter,  and  Mr.  Burley  sent  to  the 
cookshop,  and  their  joint  supper  was  taken  out  of  the  golden 
sovereign,  Leonard  felt  proud,  and  for  the  first  time  for 
weeks  he  laughed  the  heart's  laugh.  The  two  writers  grew 
more  and  more  intimate  and  cordial.  And  .there  was  avast 
deal  in  Burley  by  which  any  young  man  might  be  made 
the  wiser.  There  was  no  apparent  evidence  of  poverty  in 
the  apartments — clean,  new,  well-furnished  ;  but  all  things 
in  the  most  horrible  litter — all  speaking  of  the  huge  literary 
sloven. 

For  several  days  Leonard  almost  lived  in  those  rooms. 
He  wrote  continuously — save  when  Burley's  conversation 
fascinated  him  into  idleness.  Nay,  it  was  not  idleness — 
his  knowledge  grew  larger  as  he  listened  ;  but  the  cynicism 
of  the  talker  began  slowly  to  work  its  way.  That  cynicism 
in  which  there  was  no  faith,  no  hope,  no  vivifying  breath 


460  MY  NOVEL;    OR, 

from  Glory — from  Religion.  The  cynicism  of  the  Epicu- 
rean, more  degraded  in  his  sty  than  ever  was  Diogenes  in 
his  tub  ;  and  yet  presented  with  such  ease  and  such  elo- 
quence,— with  such  art  and  such  mirth, — so  adorned  with 
illustration  and  anecdote, — so  unconscious  of  debasement  ! 
Strange  and  dread  philosophy — that  made  it  a  maxim  to 
squander  the  gifts  of  mind  on  the  mere  care  for  matter,  and 
fit  the  soul  to  live  but  as  from  day  to  day,  with  its  scornful 
cry,  "  A  fig  for  immortality  and  laurels  !  "  An  author  for 
bread  !  Oh,  miserable  calling  !  was  there  something  grand 
and  holy,  after  all,  even  in  Chatterton's  despair  ? 


CHAPTER  VI. 

THE  villanous  Beehive !  Bread  was  worked  out  of  it, 
certainly  ;  but  fame,  but  hope  for  the  future — certainly  not. 
Milton's  Paradise  Lost  would  have  perished  without  a  sound, 
had  it  appeared  in  the  Beehive. 

Fine  things  were  there  in  a  fragmentary  crude  state, 
composed  by  Burley  himself.  At  the  end  of  a  week  they 
were  dead  and  forgotten— never  read  by  one  man  of  educa- 
tion and  taste  ;  taken  simultaneously  and  indifferently  with 
shallow  politics  and  wretched  essays,  yet  selling,  perhaps, 
twenty  or  thirty  thousand  copies — an  immense  sale — and 
nothing  got  out  of  them  but  bread  and  brandy  ! 

"What  more  would  you  have?"  cried  John  Burley. 
"  Did  not  stern  old  Sam  Johnson  say  he  could  never  write 
but  from  want  ? " 

"  He  might  say  it,"  answered  Leonard  ;  "  but  he  never 
meant  posterity  to  believe  him.  And  he  wrould  have  died 
of  want,  I  suspect,  rather  than  have  written  Rassdas  for 
the  Beehive!  Want  is  a  grand  thing,"  continued  the  boy, 
thoughtfully, — "a  parent  of  grand  things.  Necessity  is 
strong,  and  should  give  us  its  own  strength  ;  but  Want 
should  shatter  asunder  with  its  very  writhings  the  walls  of 
our  prison-house,  and  not  sit  contented  with  the  allowance 
the  jail  gives  us  in  exchange  for  our  work." 

"  There  is  no  prison-house  to  a  man  who  calls  upon 
Bacchus — stay — I  will  translate  to  you  Schiller's  Dithyramb. 
'  Then  see  I  Bacchus — then  up  come  Cupid  and  Phoebus, 
and  all  the  Celestials  are  filling  my  dwelling.'  " 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  461 

Breaking  into  impromptu  careless  rhymes,  Burley  threw 
off  a  rude  but  spirited  translation  of  that  divine  lyric. 

"  O  materialist  !  "  cried  the  boy,  with  his  bright  eyes 
suffused.  "  Schiller  calls  on  the  gods  to  take  him  to  their 
heaven  with  them  ;  and  you  would  debase  the  gods  to  a 
gin-palace." 

"  Ho,  ho  !  "  cried  Burley,  with  his  giant  laugh.  "  Drink, 
and  you  will  understand  the  Dithyramb." 


CHAPTER  VII. 

SUDDENLY  one  morning,  as  Leonard  sat  with  Burley,  a 
fashionable  cabriolet,  with  a  very  handsome  horse,  stopped 
at  the  door — a  loud  knock — a  quick  step  on  the  stairs, 
and  Randal  Leslie  entered.  Leonard  recognized  him,  and 
started.  Randal  glanced  at  him  in  surprise,  and  then,  with 
a  tact  that  showed  he  had  already  learned  to  profit  by 
London  life,  after  shaking  hands  with  Burley,  approached, 
and  said,  with  some  successful  attempt  at  ease,  "  Unless  I 
am  not  mistaken,  sir,  we  have  met  before.  If  you  remem- 
ber me,  I  hope  all  boyish  quarrels  are  forgotten  ? " 

Leonard  bowed,  and  his  heart  was  still  good  enough  to 
be  softened. 

"  Where  could  you  two  ever  have  met  ?  "  asked  Burley. 

"  In  a  village  green,  and  in  single  combat,"  answered 
Randal,  smiling;  and  he  told  the  story  of  the  Battle  of  the 
Stocks,  with  a  well-bred  jest  on  himself.  Burley  laughed  at 
the  story.  "  But,"  said  he,  when  this  laugh  was  over,  "my 
young  friend  had  better  have  remained  guardian  of  the 
village  stocks,  than  come  to  London  in  search  of  such 
fortune  as  lies  at  the  bottom  of  an  ink-horn." 

';  Ah,"  said  Randal,  with  the  secret  contempt  which  men 
elaborately  cultivated  are  apt  to  feel  for  those  who  seek  to 
educate  themselves — "  ah,  you  make  literature  your  calling, 
sir  ?  At  what  school  did  you  conceive  a  taste  for  letters — 
not  very  common  at  our  great  public  schools.'" 

"  I  am  at  school  now  for  the  first  time, "  answered 
Leonard,  dryly. 

"  Experience  is  the  best  school-mistress,"  said  Burley  ; 
"and  that  was  the  maxim  of  Goethe,  who  had  book-learning 
enough  in  all  conscience." 


462  MY  NOVEL;    OR, 

Randal  slightly  shrugged  his  shoulders,  and,  without 
wasting  another  thought  on  Leonard,  peasant-born  and 
self-taught,  took  his  seat,  and  beg^in  to  talk  to  Burley  upon 
a  political  question,  which  made  the  then  war-cry  between 
the  two  great  Parliamentary  parties.  It  was  a  subject  in 
which  Burley  showed  much  general  knowledge  ;  and  Ran- 
dal, seeming  to  differ  from  him,  drew  forth  alike  his  informa- 
tion and  his  argumentative  powers.  The  conversation  lasted 
more  than  an  hour. 

"I  can't  quite  agree  \vith  you,"  said  Randal,  taking  his 
leave;  "but  you  must  allow  me  to  call  again — will  the 
same  hour  to-morrow  suit  you  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  said  Burley. 

Away  went  the  young  man  in  his  cabriolet.  Leonard 
watched  him  from  the  window. 

For  five  days,  consecutively,  did  Randal  call  and  discuss 
the  question  in  all  its  bearings  ;  and  Burley,  after  the 
second  day,  got  interested  in  the  matter,  looked  up  his 
authorities — refreshed  his  memory — and  even  spent  an  hour 
or  two  in  the  Library  of  the  British  Museum. 

By  the  fifth  day,  Burley  had  really  exhausted  all  that 
could  well  be  said  on  his  side  of  the  question. 

Leonard,  during  these  colloquies,  had  sat  apart  seem- 
ingly absorbed  in  reading,  and  secretly  stung  by  Randal's 
disregard  of  his  presence.  For  indeed  that  young  man,  in 
his  superb  self-esteem,  and  in  the  absorption  of  his  am- 
bitious projects,  scarce  felt  even  curiosity  as  to  Leonard's 
rise  above  his  earlier  station,  and  looked  on  him  as  a  mere 
journeyman  of  Burley's.  But  the  self-taught  are  keen  and 
quick  observers.  And  Leonard  had  remarked  that  Randal 
seemed  more  as  one  playing  a  part  for  some  private  purpose, 
than  arguing  in  earnest ;  and  that,  when  he  rose  and  said, 
"  Mr.  Burley,  you  have  convinced  me,"  it  was  not  with  the 
modesty  of  a  sincere  reasoner,  but  the  triumph  of  one  who 
has  gained  his  end.  But  so  struck,  meanwhile,  was  our  un- 
heeded and  silent  listener,  with  Burley's  power  of  general- 
ization, and  the  wide  surface  over  which  his  information 
extended,  that  when  Randal  left  the  room  the  boy  looked 
at  the  slovenly  purposeless  man,  and  said  aloud — "  True  ; 
knowledge  is  not  power." 

"  Certainly  not,"  said  Burley,  dryly — "the  weakest  thing 
in  the  world." 

"  Knowledge  is  power,"  muttered  Randal  Leslie,  as, 
with  a  smile  on  his  lip,  he  drove  from  the  door. 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  463 

Not  many  days  after  this  last  interview  there  appeared  a 
short  pamphlet ;  anonymous,  but  one  which  made  a  great 
impression  on  the  town.  It  was  on  the  subject  discussed 
between  Randal  and  Hurley.  It  was  quoted  at  great  length 
in  the  newspapers.  And  Burley  started  to  his  feet  one 
morning  and  exclaimed,  "  My  own  thoughts  ! — my  very 
words  !  Who  the  devil  is  this  pamphleteer  ?  " 

Leonard  took  the  newspaper  from  Burley's  hand.  The 
most  flattering  encomiums  preceded  the  extracts,  and  the 
extracts  were  as  stereotypes  of  Burley's  talk. 

"  Can  you  doubt  the  author  ?  "  cried  Leonard,  in  deep 
disgust  and  ingenuous  scorn.  "  The  young  man  who  came 
to  steal  your  brains  and  turn  your  knowledge " 

"  Into  power,"  interrupted  Burley,  with  a  laugh,  but  it 
was  a  laugh  of  pain.  "  Well,  ttiis  was  very  mean  ;  I  shall 
tell  him  so  when  he  comes." 

"  He  will  come  no  more,"  said  Leonard.  Nor  did 
Randal  come  again.  But  he  sent  Mr.  Burley  a  copy  of  the 
pamphlet  with  a  polite  note,  saying,  with  candid  but  care- 
less acknowledgment,  that  "  he  had  profited  much  by  Mr. 
Burley's  hints  and  remarks." 

And  now  it  was  in  all  the  papers,  that  the  pamphlet 
which  had  made  so  great  a  noise  was  by  a  very  young 
man,  Mr.  Audley  Egerton's  relation.  And  high  hopes 
were  expressed  respecting  the  future  career  of  Mr.  Randal 
Leslie. 

Burley  still  attempted  to  laugh,  and  still  his  pain  was 
visible.  Leonard  most  cordially  despised  and  hated  Randal 
Leslie,  and  his  heart  moved  to  Burley  with  noble  but  peril- 
ous compassion.  In  his  desire  to  soothe  and  comfort  the 
man  whom  he  deemed  cheated  out  of  fame,  he  forgot  the 
caution  he  had  hitherto  imposed  on  himself,  and  yielded 
more  and  more  to  the  charm  of  that  wasted  intellect.  He 
accompanied  Burley  now  to  the  haunts  to  which  his  friend 
went  to  spend  his  evenings  ;  and  more  and  more — though 
gradually  and  with  many  a  recoil  and  self-rebuke — there 
crept  over  him  the  cynic's  contempt  for  glory,  and  misera- 
ble philosophy  of  debased  content. 

Randal  had  risen  into  grave  repute  upon  the  strength  of 
Burley's  knowledge.  But,  had  Burley  written  the  pamphlet, 
would  the  same  repute  have  attended  him?  Certainly  not. 
Randal  Leslie  brought  to  that  knowledge  qualities  all  his  own 
—a  style,  simple,  strong,  and  logical  ;  a  certain  tone  of  good 
society,  and  allusions  to  men  and  to  parties  that  showed  his 


464  MY  NOVEL;    OR, 

connection  with  a  cabinet  minister,  and  proved  that  he  had 
profited  no  less  by  Egerton's  talk  than  Burley's. 

Had  Burley  written  the  pamphlet,  it  would  have  shown 
more  genius,  it  would  have  had  humor  and  wit,  but  have 
been  so  full  of  whims  and  quips,  sins  against  taste,  and 
defects  in  earnestness,  that  it  would  have  failed  to  create 
any  serious  sensation.  Here,  then,  there  was  something 
else  besides  knowledge,  by  which  knowledge  became  power. 
Knowledge  must  not  smell  of  the  brandy-bottle. 

Randal  Leslie  might  be  mean  in  his  plagiarism,  but  he 
turned  the  useless  into  use.  And  so  far  he  was  original. 

But  one's  admiration,  after  all,  rests  where  Leonard's 
rested — with  the  poor,  riotous,  lawless,  big,  fallen  man. 

Burley  took  himself  off  to  the  Brent,  and  fished  again 
for  the  one-eyed  perch.  Leonard  accompanied  him.  His 
feelings  were  indeed  different  from  what  they  had  been 
when  he  had  reclined  under  the  old  tree,  and  talked  with 
Helen  of  the  future.  But  it  was  almost  pathetic  to  see  how 
Burley's  nature  seemed  to  alter,  as  he  strayed  along  the 
banks  of  the  rivulet,  and  discoursed  of  his  own  boyhood.  The 
man  then  seemed  restored  to  something  of  the  innocence 
of  the  child.  He  cared,  in  truth,  little  for  the  perch,  which 
continued  intractable,  but  he  enjoyed  the  air  and  the  sky, 
the  rustling  grass  and  the  murmuring  waters.  These  ex- 
cursions to  the  haunts  of  youth  seemed  to  rebaptize  him, 
and  then  his  eloquence  took  a  pastoral  character,  and  Isaac 
Walton  himself  would  have  loved  to  hear  him.  But  as  he 
got  back  into  the  smoke  of  the  metropolis,  and  the  gas- 
lamps  made  him  forget  the  ruddy  sunset  and  the  soft  even- 
ing star,  the  gross  habits  resumed  their  sway,  and  on  he 
went  with  his  swaggering  reckless  step  to  the  orgies  in 
which  his  abused  intellect  flamed  forth,  and  then  sank  into 
the  socket  quenched  and  rayless. 


CHAPTER    VIII. 

HELEN  was  seized  with  profound  and  anxious  sadness. 
Leonard  had  been  three  or  four  times  to  see  her,  and  each 
time  she  saw  a  change  in  him  that  excited  all  her  fears.  He 
seemed,  it  is  true,  more  shrewd,  more  worldly-wise,  more 
fitted,  it  might  be,  for  coarse  daily  life.;  but,  on  the  other 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  465 

hand,  the  freshness  and  glory  of  his  youth  were  waning 
slowly.  His  aspirations  dropped  earthward.  He  had  not 
mastered  the  Practical,  and  moulded  its  uses  with  the  strong- 
hand  of  the  Spiritual  Architect,  of  the  Ideal  Builder ;  the 
Practical  was  overpowering  himself.  She  grew  pale  when 
he  talked  of  Burley,  and  shuddered,  poor  little  Helen  !  when 
she  found  he  was  daily  and  almost  nightly  in  a  companion- 
ship which,  with  her  native  honest  prudence,  she  saw  so 
unsuited  to  strengthen  him  in  his  struggles,  and  aid  him 
against  temptation.  She  almost  groaned  when,  pressing 
him  as  to  his  pecuniary  means,  she  found  his  old  terror  of 
debt  seemed  fading  away,  and  the  solid  healthful  principles 
he  had  taken  from  his  village  were  loosening  fast.  Under 
all,  it  is  true,  there  was  what  a  wiser  and  older  person  than 
Helen  would  have  hailed  as  the  redeeming  promise.  But 
that  something  was  grief — a  sublime  grief  in  his  o\vn  sense 
.of  falling— in  his  own  impotence  against  the  Fate  he  had 
provoked  and  coveted.  The  sublimity  of  that  grief  Helen 
could  not  detect ;  she  saw  only  that  it  was  grief,  and  she 
grieved  with  it,  letting  it  excuse  every  fault— making  her 
more  anxious  to  comfort,  in  order  that  she  might  save. 
Even  from  the  first,  when  Leonard  had  exclaimed,  "  Ah, 
Helen,  why  did  you  ever  leave  me?"  she  had  revolved  the 
idea  of  return  to  him  ;  and  when  in  the  boy's  last  visit  he 
told  her  that  Burley,  persecuted  by  duns,  was  about  to  fly 
from  his  present  lodgings,  and  take  his  abode  with  Leon- 
ard in  the  room  she  had  left  vacant,  all  doubt  was  over. 
She  resolved  to  sacrifice  the  safety  and  shelter  of  the  home 
assured  her.  She  resolved  to  come  back  and  share  Leon- 
ard's penury  and  struggles,  and  save  the  old  room,  wherein 
she  had  prayed  for  him,  from  the  tempter's  dangerous  pres- 
ence. Should  she  burden  him  ?  No  ;  she  had  assisted  her 
father  by  many  little  female  arts  in  needle  and  fancy  work. 
She  had  improved  herself  in  these  during  her  sojourn  with 
Miss  Starke.  She  could  bring  her  share  to  the  common 
stock.  Possessed  with  this  idea,  she  determined  to  realize 
it  before  the  day  on  which  Leonard  had  told  her  Burley 
was  to  move  his  quarters.  Accordingly  she  rose  very  early 
one  morning  ;  she  wrote  a  pretty  and  grateful  note  to  Miss 
Starke,  who  was  fast  asleep,  left  it  on  the  table,  and,  before 
any  one  was  astir,  stole  from  the  house,  her  little  bundle  on 
her  arm.  She  lingered  an  instant  at  the  garden-gate,  with 
a  remorseful  sentiment — a  feeling  that  she  had  ill-repaid 
the  cold  and  prim  protection  that  Miss  Starke  had  shown 


466  MY  NOVEL;    OR, 

her.  But  sisterly  love  carried  all  before  it.  She  closed  the 
gate  with  a  sigh,  and  went  on. 

She  arrived  at  the  lodging-house  before  Leonard  was 
up,  took  possession  of  her  old  chamber,  and  presenting  her- 
self to  Leonard,  as  he  was  about  to  go  forth,  said  (story- 
teller that  she  was), — "I  am  sent  away,  brother,  and  I  have 
come  to  you  to  take  care  of  me.  Do  not  let  us  part  again. 
But  you  must  be  very  cheerful  and  very  happy,  or  I  shall 
think  that  I  am  sadly  in  your  way." 

Leonard  at  first  did  look  cheerful,  and  even  happy  ;  but 
then  he  thought  of  Burley,  and  then  of  his  own  means  of 
supporting  Helen,  and  was  embarrassed,  and  began  ques- 
tioning her  as  to  the  possibility  of  reconciliation  with  Miss 
Starke.  And  Helen  said,  gravely,  "  Impossible — do  not  ask 
it,  and  do  not  go  near  her." 

Then  Leonard  thought  she  had  been  humbled  and  in- 
sulted, and  remembered  that  she  was  a  gentleman's  child, 
and  felt  for  her  wounded  pride — he  was  so  proud  himself. 
Yet  still  he  was  embarrassed. 

"  Shall  I  keep  the  purse  again,  Leonard  ? "  said  Helen, 
coaxingly. 

"Alas  !"  replied  Leonard,  "the  purse  is  empty." 

"That  is  very  naughty  in' the  purse,"  said  Helen,  "since 
you  put  so  much  into  it." 

"1?" 

"  Did  not  you  say  that  you  made,  at  least,  a  guinea  a  week?" 

"Yes  ;  but  Burley  takes  the  money  ;  and  then,  poor  fel- 
low !  as  I  owe  all  to  him,  I  have  not  the  heart  to  prevent 
him  spending  it  as  he  likes." 

"  Please,  I  wish  you  could  settle  the  month's  rent,"  said 
the  landlady,  suddenly  showing  herself.  She  said  it  civilly, 
but  with  firmness. 

Leonard  colored.      "It  shall  be  paid  to-day." 

Then  he  pressed  his  hat  on  his  head,  and  putting  Helen 
gently  aside,  went  forth. 

"  Speak  to  me  in  future,  kind  Mrs.  Smedley,''  said  Helen, 
with  the  air  of  a  housewife.  "  He  is  always  in  study,  and 
must  not  be  disturbed." 

The  landlady — a  good  woman,  though  she  liked  her 
rent — smiled  benignly.  She  was  fond  of  Helen,  whom  she 
had  known  of  old. 

"  I  am  so  glad  you  are  come  back  ;  and  perhaps  now 
the  young  man  will  not  keep  such  late  hours.  I  meant  to 
give  him  warning,  but " 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  467 

"  But  he  will  be  a  great  man  one  of  these  days,  and  you 
must  bear  with  him  now."  And  Helen  kissed  Mrs.  Smedley, 
and  sent  her  away  half  inclined  to  cry. 

Then  Helen  busied  herself  in  the  rooms.  She  found 
her  father's  box,  which  had  been  duly  forwarded.  She  re- 
examined  its  contents,  and  wept,  as  she  touched  each 
humble  and  pious  relic.  But  her  father's  memory  itself 
thus  seemed  to  give  this  home  a  sanction  which  the  former 
had  not ;  and  she  rose  quietly,  and  began  mechanically  to 
put  things  in  order,  sighing,  as  she  saw  all  so  neglected, 
till  she  came  to  the  rose-tree,  and  that  alone  showed  heed 
and  care.  "  Dear  Leonard  !  "  she  murmured,  and  the  srnile 
resettled  on  her  lips. 


CHAPTER  IX. 

NOTHING,  perhaps,  could  have  severed  Leonard  from 
Burley  but  Helen's  return  to  his  care.  It  was  impossible 
for  him,  even  had  there  been  another  room  in  the  house 
vacant  (which  there  was  not),  to  install  this  noisy,  riotous 
son  of  the  Muse  by  Bacchus,  talking  at  random,  and  smell- 
ing of  spirits,  in  the  same  dwelling  with  an  innocent,  deli- 
cate, timid,  female  child.  And  Leonard  could  not  leave  her 
alone  all  the  twenty-four  hours.  She  restored  a  home  to 
him,  and  imposed  its  duties.  He  therefore  told  Mr.  Burley 
that  in  future  he  should  write  and  study  in  his  own  room, 
and  hinted,  with  many «,  blush,  and  as  delicately  as  he 
could,  that  it  seemed  to  him  that  whatever  he  obtained  from 
his  pen  ought  to  be  halved  with  Burley,  to  whose  interest 
he  owed  the  employment,  and  from  whose  books  or  whose 
knowledge  he  took  what  helped  to  maintain  it  ;  but  that 
the  other  half,  if  his,  he  could  no  longer  afford  to  spend 
upon  feasts  or  libations.  He  had  another  life  to  provide 
for. 

Burley  pooh  poohed  the  notion  of  taking  half  his 
coadjutor's  earning  with  much  grandeur,  but  spoke  very 
fretfully  of  Leonard's  sober  appropriation  of  the  other  half; 
and,  though  a  good-natured,  warm-hearted  man,  felt  ex- 
tremely indignant  at  the  sudden  interposition  of  poor 
Helen.  However,  Leonard  was  firm  ;  and  then  Burley 
grew  sullen,  and  so  they  parted.  But  the  rent  was  still  to 


468  MY  NOVEL;    OR, 

be  paid.  How  ?  Leonard  for  the  first  time  thought  of  the 
pawnbroker.  He  had  clothes  to  spare,  and  Riccabocca's 
watch.  No  ;  that  last  he  shrank  from  applying  to  such 
base  uses. 

He  went  home  at  noon,  and  met  Helen  at  the  street-door. 
She,  too,  had  been  out,  and  her  soft  cheek  was  rosy-red 
with  unwonted  exercise  and  the  sense  of  joy.  She  had 
still  preserved  the  few  gold  pieces  which  Leonard  had  taken 
back  to  her  on  his  first  visit  to  Miss  Starke's.  She  had  now 
gone  out  and  bought  wools  and  implements  for  work  ;  and 
meanwhile  she  had  paid  the  rent. 

Leonard  did  not  object  to  the  work,  but  he  blushed 
deeply  when  he  knew  about  the  rent,  and  was  very  angry. 
He  paid  back  to  her  that  night  what  she  had  advanced  ;  and 
Helen  wept  silently  at  his  pride,  and  wept  more  when  she 
saw  the  next  day  a  woeful  hiatus  in  his  wardrobe. 

But  Leonard  now  worked  at  home,  and  worked  reso- 
lutely ;  and  Helen  sat  by  his  side,  working  too  ;  so  that 
next  day,  and  the  next,  slipped  peacefully  away,  and  in  the 
evening  of  the  second  he  asked  her  to  walk  out  in  the  fields. 
She  sprang  up  joyously' at  the  invitation,  when  bang  went 
the  door,  and  in  reeled  John  Burley — drunk ; — and  so 
drunk  !  •  • 


CHAPTER  X. 

AND  with  Burley  there  reeled  in  another  man — a  friend 
of  his — a  man  who  had  been  a  wealthy  trader  and  once  well 
to  do, — but  who,  unluckily,  had  literary  tastes,  and  was 
fond  of  hearing  Burley  talk.  So,  since  he  had  known  the 
wit,  his  business  had  fallen  from  him,  and  he  had  passed 
through  the  Bankrupt  Court.  A  very  shabby-looking  dog 
he  was,  indeed,  and  his  nose  was  redder  than  Burley's. 

John  made  a  drunken  dash  at  poor  Helen.  "  So  you 
are  the  Pentheus  in  petticoats  who  defies  Bacchus,"  cried 
he ;  and  therewith  he  roared  out  a  verse  from  Euripides. 
Helen  ran  away,  and  Leonard  interposed. 

"  For  shame,  Burley  !  " 

"  He's  drunk,"  said  Mr.  Douce,  the  bankrupt  trader — 
"very  drunk — don't  mind — him.  I  say,  sir,  I  hope  we  don't 
intrude.  Sit  still,  Burley,  sit  still,  and  talk,  do — that's  a 
good  man.  You  should  hear  him — ta — ta — talk,  sir." 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  469 

Leonard  meanwhile  had  got  Helen  out  of  the  room,  into 
her  own,  and  begged  her  not  to  be  alarmed,  and  keep  the 
door  locked.  He  then  returned  to  Burley,  who  had  seated 
himself  on  the  bed,  trying  wondrous  hard  to  keep  himself 
upright ;  while  Mr.  Douce  was  striving  to  light  a  short  pipe 
that  he  carried  in  his  button-hole — without  having  filled  it 
— and,  naturally  failing  in  that  attempt,  was  now  beginning 
to  weep. 

Leonard  was  deeply  shocked  and  revolted  for  Helen's 
sake  ;  but  it  was  hopeless  to  make  Burley  listen  to  reason. 
And  how  could  the  boy  turn  out  of  his  room  the  man  to 
Avhom  he  was  under  obligations  ? 

Meanwhile  there  smote  upon  Helen's  shrinking  ears  loud 
jarring  talk  and  maudlin  laughter,  and  cracked  attempts  at 
jovial  songs.  Then  she  heard  Mrs.  Smedley  in  Leonard's 
room,  remonstrating  ;  and  Burley's  laugh  was  louder  than 
before,  and  Mrs.  Smedley,  who  was  a  weak  woman,  evi- 
dently got  frightened,  and  was  heard  in  precipitate  retreat. 
Long  and  loud  talk  recommenced,  Burley's  great  voice  pre- 
dominant. Mr.  Douce  chiming  in  with  hiccupy  broken 
treble.  Hour  after  hour  this  lasted,  for  want  of  the  drink 
that  would  have  brought  it  to  a  premature  close.  And 
Burley  gradually  began  to  talk  himself  somewhat  sober. 
Then,  Mr.  Douce  was  heard  descending  the  stairs,  and 
silence  followed.  At  dawn,  Leonard  knocked  at  Helen's 
door.  She  opened  it  at  once,  for  she  had  not  gone  to  bed. 

"  Helen,"  said  he,  very  sadly,  "  you  cannot  continue 
here.  I  must  find  out  some  proper  home  for  you.  This 
man  has  served  me  when  all  London  was  friendless,  and  he 
tells  me  that  he  has  nowhere  else  to  go — that  the  bailiffs 
are  after  him.  He  has  now  fallen  asleep.  I  will  go  and 
find  you  some  lodging  close  at  hand — for  I  cannot  expel  him 
who  has  protected  me  ;  and  yet  you  cannot  be  under  the 
same  roof  with  him.  My  own  good  angel,  I  must  lose 
you." 

He  did  not  wait  for  her  answer,  but  hurried  down  the 
stairs. 

The  morning  looked  through  the  shutterless  panes  in 
Leonard's  garret,  and  the  birds  began  to  chirp  from  the 
elm-tree,  when  Burley  rose  and  shook  himself,  and  stared 
round.  He  could  not  quite  make  out  where  he  was.  He  got 
hold  of  the  water-jug,  which  he  emptied  at  three  draughts, 
and  felt  greatly  refreshed.  He  then  began  to  reconnoitre 
the  chamber — looked  at  Leonard's  MSS. — peeped  into  the 


470  MY  NOVEL;    OR, 

drawers — wondered  where  the  devil  Leonard  himself  had 
gone  to — and  finally  amused  himself  by  throwing  down  the 
fire-irons,  ringing  tho  bell,  and  making  all  the  noise  he 
could,  in  the  hopes  of  attracting  the  attention  of  somebody 
or  other,  and  procuring  himself  his  morning  dram. 

In  the  midst  of  this  charivari  the  door  opened  softly, 
but  as  if  with  a  resolute  hand,  and  the  small  quiet  form  of 
Helen  stood  before  the  threshold.  Burley  turned  round, 
and  the  two  looked  at  each  other  for  some  moments  with 
silent  scrutiny. 

BURLEY  (composing  his  features  into  their  most  friendly 
expression). — Come  hither,  my  dear.  So  you  are  the  little 
girl  whom  I  saw  with  Leonard  on  the  banks  of  the  Brent, 
and  you  have  come  back  to  live  with  him — and  I  have  come 
to  live  with  him  too.  You  shall  be  our  little  housekeeper, 
and  I  will  tell  you  the  story  of  Prince  Prettyman,  and  a 
great  many  others  not  to  be  found  in  Mother  Goose.  Mean- 
while, my  dear  little  girl,  here's  sixpence — just  run  out  and 
change  this  for  its  worth  in  rum. 

HELEN  (coming  slowly  up  to  Mr.  Burley,  and  still  gazing 
earnestly  into  his  face). — Ah,  sir,  Leonard  says  you  have  a 
kind  heart,  and  that  you  have  served  him — he  cannot  ask 
you  to  leave  the  house  ;  and  so  I,  who  have  never  served 
him,  am  to  go  hence  and  live  alone. 

BURLEY  (moved). — You  go,  my  little  lady? — and  why  ? 
Can  we  not  all  live  together  ? 

HELEN. — No,  sir.  I  left  everything  to  come  to  Leonard, 
for  we  had  met  first  at  my  father's  grave.  But  you  rob  me 
of  him,  and  I  have  no  other  friend  on  earth. 

BURLEY  (discomposed). — Explain  yourself.  Why  must 
you  leave  him  because  I  come  ? 

Helen  looks  at  Mr.  Burley  again,  long  and  wistfully,  but 
makes  no  answer. 

BURLEY  (with  a  gulp). — Is  it  because  he  thinks  I  am  not 
fit  company  for  you  ? 

Helen  bowed  her  head. 

Burley  winced,  and  after  a  moment's  pause,  said — "  He 
is  right." 

HELEN  (obeying  the  impulse  at  her  heart,  springs  for- 
ward and  takes  Burley's  hand). —"Ah,  sir,"  she  cried,  "be- 
fore he  knew  you,  he  was  so  different  ;  then  he  was  cheer- 
ful— then,  even  when  his  first  disappointment  came,  I 
grieved  and  wept  ;  but  I  felt  he  would  conquer  still — for 
his  heart  was  so  good  and  pure.  Oh,  sir,  don't  think  I  re- 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  471 

proach  you ;  but  what  is  to  become  of  him  if — if — No,  it  is 
not  for  myself  I  speak.  I  know  that  if  I  was  here,  that  if 
he  had  me  to  care  for,  he  would  come  home  early — and  work 
patiently — and — and — that  I  might  save  him.  But  now 
when  I  am  gone,  and  you  live  with  him — you  to  whom  he 
is  grateful,  you  whom  he  would  follow  against  his  own  con- 
science (you  must  see  that,  sir),  what  is  to  become  of  him  ?" 

Helen's  voice  died  in  sobs. 

Burley  took  three  or  four  long  strides  through  the  room  ; 
— he  was  greatly  agitated.  "I  am  a  demon,"  he  murmured. 
"  I  never  saw  it  before — but  it  is  true — I  should  be  this 
boy's  ruin."  Tears  stood  in  his  eyes,  lie  paused  abruptly, 
made  a  clutch  at  his  hat,  and  turned  to.  the  door. 

Helen  stopped  the  way,  and  taking  him  gently  by  the 
arm,  said — "  Oh,  sir,  forgive  me — I  have  pained  you  ;  "  and 
looked  up  at  him  with  a  compassionate  expression,  that  in- 
deed made  the  child's  sweet  face  as  that  of  an  angel. 

Burley  bent  down  as  if  to  kiss  her,  and  then  drew  back 
— perhaps  with  a  sentiment  that  his  lips  were  not  worthy  to 
touch  that  innocent  brow. 

"  If  I  had  had  a  sister — a  child  like  you,  little  one,"  he 
muttered,  "  perhaps  I  too  might  have  been  saved  in  time. 
Now " 

"Ah,  now  you  may  stay,  sir  ;  I  don't  fear  you  anymore." 

"  No,  no  ;  you  would  fear  me  again  ere  night-time,  and 
I  might  not  be  always  in  the  right  mood  to  listen  to  a  voice 
like  yours,  child.  Your  Leonard  has  a  noble  heart  and  rai'e 
gifts.  He  should  rise  yet,  and  he  shall.  I  will  not  drag  him 
into  the  mire.  Good-bye — you  will  see  me  no  more."  He 
broke  from  Helen,  cleared  the  stairs  with  a  bound,  and  was 
out  of  the  house. 

When  Leonard  returned,  he  was  surprised  to  hear  his 
unwelcome  guest  was  gone — but  Helen  did  not  venture  to 
tell  him  of  her  interposition.  She  knew  instinctively  how 
such  officiousness  would  mortify  and  offend  the  pride  of 
man — but  she  never  again  spoke  harshly  of  poor  Burley. 
Leonard  supposed  that  he  should  either  see  or  hear  of  the 
humorist  in  the  course  of  the  day.  Finding  he  did  not,  he 
went  in  search  of  him  at  his  old  haunts  ;  but  no  trace.  He 
inquired  at  the  Beehive  if  they  knew  there  of  his  new  address, 
but  no  tidings  of  Burley  could  be  obtained. 

As  he  came  home  disappointed  and  anxious,  for  he  felt 
uneasy  as  to  the  disappearance  of  his  wild  friend,  Mrs. 
Smedley  met  him  at  the -dour. 


472  MY  NOVEL;    OR, 

"  Please,  sir,  suit  yourself  with  another  lodging,"  said 
she  ;  ''  I  can  have  no  such  singings  and  shoutings  going  on 
at  night  in  my  house.  And  that  poor  little  girl,  too  ! — you 
should  be  ashamed  of  yourself." 

Leonard  frowned,  and  passed  by. 


CHAPTER  XI. 

MEANWHILE,  on  leaving  Helen,  Burley  strode  on  ;  and, 
as  if  by  some  better  instinct,  for  he  was  unconscious  of  his 
own  steps,  he  took  the  way  toward  the  still  green  haunts  of 
his  youth.  When  he  paused  at  length,  he  was  already  be- 
fore the  door  of  a  rural  cottage,  standing  alone  in  the  midst 
of  fields,  with  a  little  farm-yard  at  the  back  ;  and  far  through 
the  trees  in  front  was  caught  a  glimpse  of  the  winding 
Brent. 

With  this  cottage  Burley  was  familiar  ;  it  was  inhabited 
by  a  good  old  couple  who  had  known  him  from  a  boy. 
There  he  habitually  left  his  rods  and  fishing-tackle  ;  there, 
for  intervals  in  his  turbid,  riotous  life,  he  had  sojourned 
for  two  or  three  days  together — fancying  the  first  day  that 
the  country  was  a  heaven,  and  convinced  before  the  third 
that  it  was  a  purgatory. 

An  old  woman,  of  neat  and  tidy  exterior,  came  forth  to 
greet  him. 

"Ah,  Master  John,"  said  she,  clasping  his  nerveless 
hand — "well,  the  fields  be  pleasant  now — I  hope  you  are 
come  to  stay  a  bit  ?  Do  ;  it  will  freshen  you  ;  you  lose  all 
the  fine  color  you  had  once,  in  Lunnon  town." 

"  I  will  stay  with  you,  my  kind  friend,"  said  Burley,  with 
unusal  meekness — "  I  can  have  the  old  room,  then  ?  " 

"  Oh,  yes,  come  and  look  at  it.  I  never  let  it  now  to 
any  one  but  you — never  have  let  it  since  that  dear  beauti- 
ful lady  with  the  angel's  face  went  away.  Poor  thing, 
what  could  have  become  of  her  ? " 

Thus  speaking,  while  Burley  listened  not,  the  old 
woman  drew  him  within  the  cottage,  and  led  him  up  the 
stairs  into  a  room  that  might  have  well  become  a  better 
house,  for  it  was  furnished  with  taste,  and  even  elegance. 
A  small  cabinet  piano-forte  stood  opposite  the  fire-place,  and 
the  window  looked  upon  pleasant  meads  and  tangled  hedge- 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  473 

rows,  and  the  narrow  windings  of  the  blue  rivulet.  Burley 
sank  down  exhausted,  and  gazed  wistfully  from  the  case- 
ment. 

"You  have  not  breakfasted?"  said  the  hostess,  anx- 
iously. 

"No." 

"Well,  the  eggs  are  fresh  laid,  and  you  would  like  a 
rasher  of  bacon,  Master  John  ?  And  if  you  will  have 
brandy  in  your  tea,  I  have  some  that  you  left  long  ago  in 
your  own  bottle." 

Burley  shook  his  head.  "  No  brandy,  Mrs.  Goodyer  ; 
only  fresh  milk.  I  will  see  whether  I  can  yet  coax  Na- 
ture." 

Mrs.  Goodyer  did  not  know  what  was  meant  by  coaxing 
Nature,  but  she  said,  "Pray  do,  Master  John,"  and  van- 
ished. 

That  day  Burley  went  out  with  his  rod,  and  he  fished 
hard  for  the  one-eyed  perch  ;  but  in  vain.  Then  he  roved 
along  the  stream  with  his  hands  in  his  pockets,  whistling. 
He  returned  to  the  cottage  at  sunset,  partook  of  the  fare 
provided  for  him,  abstained  from  the  brandy,  and  felt 
dreadfully  low.  He  called  for  pen,  ink,  and  paper,  and 
sought  to  write,  but  could  not  achieve  two  lines.  He  sum- 
moned Mrs.  Goodyer.  "  Tell  your  husband  to  come  and  sit 
and  talk." 

Up  came  old  Jacob  Goodyer,  and  the  great  wit  bade  him 
tell  him  all  the  news  of  the  village.  Jacob  obeyed  willingly, 
and  Burley  at  last  fell  asleep.  The  next  day  it  was  much 
the  same,  only  at  dinner  he  had  up  the  brandy-bottle,  and 
finished  it ;  and  he  did  not  have  up  Jacob,  but  he  contrived 
to  write. 

The  third  day  it  rained  incessantly.  "  Have  you  no 
books,  Mrs.  Goodyer?"  asked  poor  John  Burley. 

"  Oh,  yes,  some  that  the  dear  lady  left  behind  her  ;  and 
perhaps  you  would  like  to  look  at  some  papers  in  her  own 
writing  ?  " 

"  No,  not  the  papers — all  women  scribble,  and  all  scrib- 
ble the  same  things.  Get  me  the  books." 

The  books  were  brought  up — poetry  and  essays — John 
knew  them  by  heart.  He  looked  out  on  the  rain,  and  at 
evening  the  rain  had  ceased.  He  rushed  to  his  hat,  and 
fled. 

"  Nature,  Nature  !  "  he  exclaimed,  when  he  was  out  in 
the  air  and  hurrying  by  the  dripping  hedge-rows,  '•  you  are 


474  MY  NOVEL;    OR, 

not  to  be  coaxed  by  me  !  I  have  jilted  you  shamefully,  I 
own  it ;  you  are  a  female,  and  unforgiving.  I  don't  com- 
plain. You  may  be  very  pretty,  but  you  are  the  stupidest 
and  most  tiresome  companion  that  ever  I  met  with.  Thank 
heaven,  I  am  not  married  to  you  !  " 

Thus  John  Burley  made  his  way  into  town,  and  paused 
at  the  first  public-house.  Out  of  that  house  he  came  with  a 
jovial  air,  and  on  he  strode  toward  the  heart  of  London. 
Now  he  is  in  Leicester  Square,  and  he  gazes  on  the  foreign- 
ers who  stalk  that  region,  and  hums  a  tune  ;  and  now  from 
yonder  alley  two  forms  emerge,  and  dog  his  careless  foot- 
steps ;  now  through  the  maze  of  passages  toward  St. 
Martin's  he  threads  his  path,  and,  anticipating  an  orgy  as  he 
nears  his  favorite  haunts,  jingles  the  silver  in  his  pockets; 
and  now  the  two  forms  are  at  his  heels. 

"  Hail  to  thee,  O  Freedom  !"  muttered  John  Burley,  "thy 
dwelling  is  in  cities,  and  thy  palace  is  the  tavern." 

"  In  the  king's  name,"  quoth  a  gruff  voice  ;  and  John 
Burley  feels  the  horrid  and  familiar  tap  on  the  shoulder. 

The  two  bailiffs  who  dogged  have  seized  their  prey. 

"  At  whose  suit  ? "  asked  John  Burley,  falteringly. 

"Mr.  Cox,  the  wine-merchant." 

"  Cox  !  A  man  to  whom  I  gave  a  cheque  on  my  banker's 
not  three  months  ago  !  " 

"  But  it  warn't  cashed." 

"What  does  that  signify? — the  intention  was  the  same. 
A  good  heart  takes  the  will  for  the  deed.     Cox  is  a  monster 
of  ingratitude,  and  I  withdraw  my  custom." 
-  "  Sarve  him  right.     Would  your  honor  like  a  jarvey  ?  " 

"  I  would  rather  spend  the  money  on  something  else," 
said  John  Burley.  "Give  me  your  arm,  I  am  not  proud. 
After  all,  thank  heaven,  I  shall  not  sleep  in  the  country." 

And  John  Burley  made  a  night  of  it  in  the  Fleet. 


CHAPTER  XII. 

Miss  STARKE  was  one  of  those  ladies  who  pass  their  lives 
in  the  direst  of  all  civil  strife — war  with  their  servants.  She 
looked  upon  the  members  of  that  class  as  the  unrelenting 
and  sleepless  enemies  of  the  unfortunate  householders  con- 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  475 

demned  to  employ  them.  She  thought  they  ate  and  drank 
to  their  villanous  utmost,  in  order  to  ruin  their  benefactors — 
that  they  lived  in  one  constant  conspiracy  with  one  another 
and  the  tradesmen,  the  object  of  which  was  to  cheat  and 
pilfer.  Miss  Starke  was  a  miserable  woman.  As  she  had  no 
relations  or  friends  who  cared  enough  for  her  to  share  her 
solitary  struggle  against  her  domestic  foes  ;  and  her  income, 
though  easy,  was  an  annuity  that  died  with  herself,  thereby 
reducing  various  nephews,  nieces,  or  cousins,  to  the  strict 
bounds  of  a  natural  affection — that  did  not  exist  ;  and  as  she 
felt  the  want  of  some  friendly  face  amidst  this  world  of  dis- 
trust and  hate,  so  she  had  tried  the  resource  of  venal  com- 
panions. But  the  venal  companions  had  never  stayed  long 
— either  they  disliked  Miss  Starke,  or  Miss  Starke  disliked 
them.  Therefore  the  poor  woman  had  resolved  upon  bring- 
ing up  some  little  girl  whose  heart,  as  she  said  to  herself, 
would  be  fresh  and  uncorrupted,  and  from  whom  she  might 
expect  gratitude.  She  had  been  contented,  on  the  whole, 
with  Helen,  and  had  meant  to  keep  that  child  in  her  house 
as  long  as  she  (Miss  Starke)  remained  upon  the  earth — per- 
haps some  thirty  years  longer  ;  and  then,  having  carefully 
secluded  her  from  marriage,  and  other  friendship,  to  leave 
her  nothing  but  the  regret  of  having  lost  so  kind  a  benefac- 
tress. Conformably  with  this  notion,  and  in  order  to  secure 
the  affections  of  the  child.  Miss  Starke  had  relaxed  the  frigid 
austerity  natural  to  her  manner  and  mode  of  thought,  and 
been  kind  to  Helen  in  an  iron  way.  She  had  neither  slapped 
nor  pinched  her,  neither  had  she  starved.  She  had  allowed 
her  to  see  Leonard,  according  to  the  agreement  made  with 
Dr.  Morgan,  and  had  laid  out  tenpence  on  cakes,  besides 
contributing  fruit  from  her  garden  for  the  first  interview — a 
hospitality  she  did  not  think  it  fit  to  renew  on  subsequent 
occasions.  In  return  for  this,  she  conceived  she  had  pur- 
chased the  right  to  Helen  bodily  and  spiritually,  and  nothing 
could  exceed  her  indignation  when  she  rose  one  morning  and 
found  the  child  had  gone.  As  it  never  had  occurred  to  her 
to  ask  Leonard's  address,  though  she  suspected  Helen  had 
gone  to  him,  she  was  at  a  loss  what  to  do,  and  remained  for 
twenty-four  hours  in  a  state  of  inane  depression.  But  then 
she  began  to  miss  the  child  so  much  that  her  energies  woke, 
and  she  persuaded  herself  that  she  was  actuated  by  the  purest 
benevolence  in  trying  to  reclaim  this  poor  creature  from  the 
world  into  which  Helen  had  thus  rashly  plunged. 

Accordingly,  she  put  an  advertisement  into  the  Times,  to 


476  MY  NOVEL;    OR, 

the  following  effect,  literally  imitated  from  one  by  which,  in 
former  years,  she  had  recovered  a  favorite  Blenheim  : — 


TWO  GUINEAS  REWARD. 

STRAYED,  from  Ivy  Cottage.   Highgate,  a   Little  Girl — answers  to  the 
name  of  Helen  ;  with  blue  eyes  and   brown  hair  ;  white  muslin  frock, 
and  straw  hat  with  blue  ribbons.    Whoever  will  bring  the  same  to  Ivy  Cottage, 
shall  receive  the  above  Reward. 

A7".  B. — Nothing  more  will  be  offered. 

Now,  it  so  happened  that  Mrs.  Smedley  had  put  an  ad- 
vertisement in  the  Times  on  her  own  account,  relating  to  a 
niece  of  hers  who  was  coming  from  the  country,  and  for 
whom  she  desired  to  find  a  situation.  So,  contrary  to  her 
usual  habit,  she  sent  for  the  newspaper,  and,  close  by  her 
own  advertisement,  she  saw  Miss  Starke's. 

It  was  impossible  that  she  could  mistake  the  description 
of  Helen  ;  and,  as  this  advertisement  caught  her  eye  the 
very  day  after  the  whole  house  had  been  disturbed  and 
scandalized  by  Mr.  Burley's  noisy  visit,  and  on  which  she 
had  resolved  to  get  rid  of  a  lodger  who  received  such  visitors, 
the  good-hearted  woman  was  delighted  to  think  that  she 
could  restore  Helen  to  some  safe  home.  While  thus  think- 
ing, Helen  herself  entered  the  kitchen  where  Mrs.  Smedley 
sat,  and  the  landlady  had  the  imprudence  to  point  out  the 
advertisement,  and  talk,  as  she  called  it,  "  seriously  "  to  the 
little  girl. 

Helen  in  vain  and  with  tears  entreated  her  to  take  no 
step  in  reply  to  the  advertisement.  Mrs.  Smedley  felt  it 
was  an  affair  of  duty,  and  was  obdurate,  and  shortly  after- 
ward put  on  her  bonnet  and  left  the  house.  Helen  con- 
jectured that  she  was  on  her  way  to  Miss  Starke's,  and  her 
whole  soul  was  bent  on  flight.  Leonard  had  gone  to  the 
office  of  the  Beehive  with  his  MSS.  ;  but  she  packed  up  all 
their  joint  effects,  and  just  as  she  had  done  so,  he  returned. 
She  communicated  the  news  of  the  advertisement,  and  said 
she  should  be  so  miserable  if  compelled  to  go  back  to  Miss 
Starke's,  and  implored  him  so  pathetically  to  save  her  from 
such  sorrow,  that  he  at  once  assented  to  her  proposal  of 
flight.  Luckily,  little  was  owing  to  the  landlady — that  little 
was  left  with  the  maid-servant ;  and,  profiting  by  Mrs. 
Smedley's  absence,  they  escaped  without  scene  or  conflict. 
Their  effects  were  taken  by  Leonard  to  a  stand  of  hackney- 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  477 

vehicles,  and  then  left  at  a  coach-office,  while  they  went  in 
search  of  lodgings.  It  was  wise  to  choose  an  entirely  new 
and  remote  district ;  and  before  night  they  were  settled  in 
an  attic  in  Lambeth. 


CHAPTER  XIII. 

As  the  reader  will  expect,  no  trace  of  Burley  could 
Leonard  find  ;  the  humorist  had  ceased  to  communicate 
with  the  Beehive.  But  Leonard  grieved  for  Burley's  sake  ; 
and,  indeed,  he  missed  the  intercourse  of  the  large  wrong 
mind.  But  he  settled  down  by  degrees  to  the  simple  loving 
society  of  his  child-companion,  and  in  that  presence  grew 
more  tranquil.  The  hours  in  the  daytime  that  he  did  not 
pass  at  work,  he  spent  as  before,  picking  up  knowledge  at 
book-stalls  ;  and  at  dusk  he  and  Helen  would  stroll  out — 
sometimes  striving  to  escape  from  the  long  suburbs  into 
fresh  rural  air,  more  often  wandering  to  and  fro  the  bridge 
that  led  to  glorious  Westminster — London's  classic  land — 
and  watching  the  vague  lamps  reflected  on  the  river.  This 
haunt  suited  the  musing  melancholy  boy.  He  would  stand 
long  and  with  wistful  silence  by  the  balustrade — seating 
Helen  thereon,  that  she  too  might  look  along  the  dark 
mournful  waters  which,  dark  though  they  be,  still  have  their 
charm  of  mysterious  repose. 

As  the  river  flowed  between  the  world  of  roofs,  and  the 
roar  of  human  passions  on  either  side,  so  in  those  two  hearts 
flowed  Thought — and  all  they  knew  of  London  was  its 
shadow. 


CHAPTER  XIV. 

THERE  appeared  in  the  Beehive  certain  very  truculent 
political  papers — papers  very  like  the  tracts  in  the  Tinker's 
bag.  Leonard  did  not  heed  them  much,  but  they  made  far 
more  sensation  in  the  public  that  read  the  Beehive  than 
Leonard's  papers,  full  of  rare  promise  though  the  last  were. 
They  greatly  increased  the  sale  of  the  periodical  in  the  man- 
ufacturing towns,  and  began  to  awake  the  drowsy  vigilance 


478  MY  NOVEL;    OR, 

of  the  Home  Office.  Suddenly  a  descent  was  made  upon 
the  Beehive,  and  all  its  papers  and  plant.  The  editor  saw 
himself  threatened  with  a  criminal  prosecution,  and  the  cer- 
tainty of  two  years'  imprisonment  ;  he  did  not  like  the  pros- 
pect, and  disappeared.  One  evening,  when  Leonard,  un- 
conscious of  these  mischances,  arrived  at  the  door  of  the 
office,  he  found  it  closed.  An  agitated  mob  was  before  it, 
and  a  voice  that  was  not  new  to  his  ear  was  haranguing  the 
bystanders,  with  many  imprecations  against  "  tyrants."  He 
looked,  and  to  his  amaze,  recognized  in  the  orator  Mr. 
Sprott  the  Tinker. 

The  police  came  in  numbers  to  disperse  the  crowd,  and 
Mr.  Sprott  prudently  vanished.  Leonard  learned,  then, 
what  had  befallen,  and  again  saw  himself  without  employ- 
ment and  the  means  of  bread. 

Slowly  he  walked  back.  "  O  knowledge,  knowledge  ! 
powerless,  indeed  ! "  he  murmured. 

As  he  spoke  thus,  a  handbill  in  large  capitals  met  his 
eyes  on  a  dead  wall — "  Wanted,  a  few  smart  young  men  for 
India." 

A  crimp  accosted  him — "You  would  make  a  fine  soldier, 
my  man.  You  have  stout  limbs  of  your  own." 

Leonard  moved  on. 

"It  has  come  back,  then,  to  this.  Brute  physical  force 
after  all!  O  Mind,  despair!  O  Peasant,  be  a  machine 
again  !  " 

He  entered  his  attic  noiselessly,  and  gazed  upon  Helen 
as  she  sate  at  work,  straining  her  eyes  by  the  open  window 
— with  tender  and  deep  compassion.  She  had  not  heard 
him  enter,  nor  was  she  aware  of  his  presence.  Patient  and 
still  she  sat,  and  the  small  fingers  plied  busily.  He  gazed, 
and  saw  that  her  cheek  was  pale  and  hollow,  and  the  hands 
looked  so  thin  !  His  heart  was  deeply  touched,  and  at  that 
moment  he  -had  not  one  memory  of  the  baffled  Poet,  one 
thought  that  proclaimed  the  Egotist. 

He  approached  her  gently,  laid  his  hand  on  her  shoul- 
der— "Helen,  put  on  your  shawl  and  bonnet,  and  walk  out 
— I  have  much  to  say." 

In  a  few  moments  she  was  ready,  and  they  took  their 
way  to  their  favorite  haunt  upon  the  bridge.  Pausing  in 
one  of  the  recesses,  or  nooks,  Leonard  then  began — "  Helen, 
we  must  part." 

"Part?— Oh,  brother!" 

"  Listen.     All  work  that  depends  on  mind  is  over  for 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  479 

me  — nothing  remains  but  the  labor  of  thews  and  sinews.  I 
cannot  go  back  to  my  village  and  say  to  all,  '  My  hopes 
were  self-conceit,  and  my  intellect  a  delusion  ! '  I  cannot. 
Neither  in  this  sordid  city  can  I  turn  menial  or  porter.  I 
might  be  born  to  that  drudgery,  but  my  mind  has,  it  may 
be  unhappily,  raised  me  above  my  birth.  What,  then,  shall 
I  do  ?  I  know  not  yet — serve  as  a  soldier,  or  push  my  way 
to  some  wilderness  afar,  as  an  emigrant,  perhaps.  But 
whatever  my  choice,  I  must  henceforth  be  alone  ;  I  have  a 
home  no  more.  But  there  is  a  home  for  you,  Helen,  a  very 
humble  one  (for  you,  too,  so  well  born),  but  very  safe — the 
roof  of — of — my  peasant  mother.  She  will  love  you  for  my 
sake,  and — and " 

Helen  clung  to  him  trembling,  and  sobbed  out,  "Any- 
thing, anything  you  will.  But  I  can  work  ;  I  can  make 
money,  Leonard.  I  do,  indeed,  make  money — you  do  not 
know  how  much — but  enough  for  us  both  till  better  times 
come  to  you.  Do  not  let  us  part." 

"  And  I — a  man,  and  born  to  labor,  to  be  maintained  by 
the  work  of  an  infant !  No,  Helen,  do  not  so  degrade  me." 

She  drew  back  as  she  looked  on  his  flushed  brow,  bowed 
her  head  submissively,  and  murmured,  "Pardon." 

"  Ah  !  "  said  Helen,  after  a  pause,  "  if  now  we  could  but 
find  my  poor  father's  friend  !  I  never  so  much  cared  for  it 
before." 

"  Yes,  he  would  surely  provide  for  you. " 

"  For  me  !  "  repeated  Helen,  in  a  tone  of  soft  deep  re- 
proach, and  she  turned  away  her  head  to  conceal  her  tears. 

"You  are  sure  you  would  remember  him,  if  we  met  him 
by  chance  ?" 

"  Oh  yes.  He  was  so  different  from  all  we  see  in  this 
terrible  city,  and  his  eyes  were  like  yonder  stars,  so  clear 
and  so  bright ;  yet  the  light  seemed  to  come  from  afar  off, 
as  ths  light  does  in  yours,  when  your  thoughts  are  away 
from  all  things  round  you.  And  then,  too,  his  dog,  whom 
he  called  Nero — I  could  not  forget  that." 

"  But  his  dog  may  not  be  always  with  him." 

But  the  bright  clear  eyes  are  !  Ah,  now  you  look  up  to 
heaven,  and  yours  seem  to  dream  like  his." 

Leonard  did  not  answer,  for  his  thoughts  were  indeed 
less  on  earth  than  struggling  to  pierce  into  that  remote  and 
mysterious  heaven. 

Both  were  silent  long  ;  the  crowd  passed  them  by  un- 
heedingly.  Night  deepened  over  the  river,  but  the  reflec- 


480  MY  NOl'EL;    OR, 

tion  of  the  lamp-lights  on  its  waves  was  more  visible  than 
that  of  the  stars.  The  beams  showed  the  darkness  of  the 
strong  current,  and  the  craft  that  lay  eastward  on  the  tide, 
with  sail-less  spectral  masts  and  black  dismal  hulks,  looked 
death-like  in  their  stillness. 

Leonard  looked  down,  and  the  thought  of  Chatterton's 
grim  suicide  came  back  to  his  soul  ;  and  a  pale  scornful 
face,  with  luminous  haunting  eyes,  seemed  to  look  up  from 
the  stream,  and  murmur  from  livid  lips — "  Struggle  no 
more  against  the  tides  on  the  surface — all  is  calm  and  rest 
within  the  deep." 

Starting  in  terror  from  the  gloom  of  his  reverie,  the  boy 
began  to  talk  fast  to  Helen,  and  tried  to  soothe  her  with 
descriptions  of  the  lowly  home  which  he  had  offered. 

He  spoke  of  the  light  cares  which  she  would  participate 
with  his  mother  (for  by  that  name  he  still  called  the  widow), 
and  dwelt,  with  an  eloquence  that  the  contrast  round  him 
made  sincere  and  strong,  on  the  happy  rural  life,  the  shadowy 
woodlands,  the  rippling  corn-fields,  the  solemn  lone  church- 
spire  soaring  from  the  tranquil  landscape.  Flatteringly  he 
painted  the  flowery  terraces  of  the  Italian  exile,  and  the 
playful  fountain  that,  even  as  he  spoke,  was  flinging  up  its 
spray  to  the  stars,  through  serene  air  untroubled  by  the 
smoke  of  cities,  and  untainted  by  the  sinful  sighs  of  men. 
He  promised  her  the  love  and  protection  of  natures  akin  to 
the  happy  scene  ;  the  simple  affectionate  mother — the  gen- 
tle pastor — the  exile  wise  and  kind — Violante,  with  dark 
eyes  full  of  the  mystic  thoughts  that  solitude  calls  from 
childhood, — Violante  should  be  her  companion. 

"And,  oh  !"  cried  Helen,  "if  life  be  thus  happy  there, 
return  with  me,  return — return  !  " 

"  Alas  ! "  murmured  the  boy,  "  if  the  hammer  once  strike 
the  spark  from  the  anvil,  the  spark  must  fly  upward  ;  it 
cannot  fall  back  to  earth  until  light  has  left  it.  Upward 
still,  Helen — let  me  go  upward  still!" 


CHAPTER  XV. 

THE  next  morning  Helen  was  very  ill — so  ill  that,  shortly 
after  rising,  she  was  forced  to  creep  back  to  bed.  Her 
frame  shivered — her  eyes  were  heavy — her  hand  burned  like 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  481 

fire.  Fever  had  set  in.  Perhaps  she  might  have  caught 
cold  on  the  bridge — perhaps  her  emotions  had  proved  too 
much  for  her  frame.  Leonard,  in  great  alarm,  called  in  the 
nearest  apothecary.  The  apothecary  looked  grave,  and 
said  there  was  danger.  And  danger  soon  declared  itself — 
Helen  became  delirious.  For  several  days  she  lay  in  this 
state,  between  life  and  death.  Leonard  then  felt  that  all 
the  sorrows  of  earth  are  light,  compared  with  the  fear  of 
losing  what  we  love.  How  valueless  the  envied  laurel 
seemed  beside  the  dying  rose. 

Thanks,  perhaps,  more  to  his  heed  and  tending  than  to 
medical  skill,  she  recovered  sense  at  last — immediate  peril 
was  over.  But  she  was  very  weak  and  reduced — her  ulti- 
timate  recovery  doubtful — convalescence,  at  best,  likely  to 
be  very  slow. 

But  when  she  learned  how  long  she  had  been  thus  ill, 
she  looked  anxiously  at  Leonard's  face  as  he  bent  over  her, 
and  faltered  forth, — "  Give  me  my  work  ;  I  am  strong 
enough  for  that  now — it  would  amuse  me." 

Leonard  burst  into  tears. 

Alas  !  he  had  no  work  himself ;  all  their  joint  money  had 
melted  away.  The  apothecary  was  not  like  good  Dr.  Mor- 
gan ;  the  medicines  were  to  be  paid  for — and  the  rent.  Two 
days  before,  Leonard  had  pawned  Riccabocca's  watch  ;  and 
when  the  last  shilling  thus  raised  was  gone,  how  should  he 
support  Helen  ?  Nevertheless  he  conquered  his  tears,  and 
assured  her  that  he  had  employment ;  and  that  so  earnestly, 
that  she  believed  him,  and  sank  into  soft  sleep.  He  listened 
to  her  breathing,  kissed  her  forehead,  and  left  the  room. 
He  turned  into  his  own  neighboring  garret,  and,  leaning  his 
face  on  his  hands,  collected  all  his  thoughts. 

He  must  be  a  beggar  at  last.  He  must  write  to  Mr.  Dale 
for  money — Mr.  Dale,  too,  who  knew  the  secret  of  his  birth. 
He  would  rather  have  begged  of  a  stranger — it  seemed  to 
add  a  new  dishonor  to  his  mother's  memory  for  the  child  to 
beg  of  one  who  was  acquainted  with  her  shame.  Had  he 
himself  been  the  only  one  to  want  and  to  starve,  he  would 
have  sunk  inch  by  inch  into  the  grave  of  famine,  before  he 
would  have  so  subdued  his  pride.  But  Helen,  there  on  that 
bed — Helen  needing,  for  weeks  perhaps,  all  support,  and 
illness  making  luxuries  themselves  like  necessaries  !  Beg 
he  must.  And  when  he  so  resolved,  had  you  but  seen  the 
proud  bitter  soul  he  conquered,  you  would  have  said — 
"  This,  which  he  thinks  is  degradation — this  is  heroism." 


482  MY  NOVEL;    OR, 

Oh  strange  human  heart !  no  epic  ever  written  achieves  the 
Sublime  and  the  Beautiful  which  are  graven,  unread  by 
human  eye,  in  thy  secret  leaves.  Of  whom  else  should  he 
bag?  His  mother  had  nothing,  Riccabocca  was  poor,  and 
the  stately  Violante,  who  had  exclaimed,  "  Would  that  I 
were  a  man  !  " — he  could  not  endure  the  thought  that  she 
should  pity  him,  and  despise.  The  Avenels  !  No — thrice  no. 
He  drew  toward  him  hastily  ink  and  paper,  and  wrote 
rapid  lines,  that  were  wrung  from  him  as  from  the  bleeding 
strings  of  life. 

But  the  hour  for  the  post  had  passed — the  letter  must 
wait  till  the  next  day  ;  and  three  days  at  least  would  elapse 
before  he  could,  receive  an  answer.  He  left  the  letter  on 
the  table,  and,  stifling  as  for  air,  went  forth.  He  crossed 
the  bridge — he  passed  on  mechanically — and  was  borne 
along  by  a  crowd  pressing  toward  the  doors  of  Parliament. 
A  debate  that  excited  popular  interest  was  fixed  for  that  even- 
ing, and  many  bystanders  collected  in  the  street  to  see  the 
members  pass  to  and  fro,  or  hear  what  speakers  had  yet  risen 
to  take  part  in  the  debate,  or  try  to  get  orders  for  the  gallery. 

He  halted  amidst  these  loiterers,  with  no  interest,  indeed, 
in  common  with  them,  but  looking  over  their  heads  abstract- 
edly toward  the  tall  Funeral  Abbey — imperial  Golgotha  of 
Poets,  and  Chiefs,  and  Kings. 

Suddenly  his  attention  was  diverted  to  those  around  by 
the  sound  of  a  name — displeasingly  known  to  him.  "  How 
are  you,  Randal  Leslie  ? — coming  to  hear  the  debate  ? "  said 
a  member,  who  was  passing  through  the  street. 

"  Yes  ;  Mr.  Egerton  promised  to  get  me  under  the  gal- 
lery. He  is  to  speak  himself  to-night,  and  I  have  never 
heard  him.  As  you  are  going  into  the  House,  will  you  re- 
mind him  of  his  promise  to  me  ?  " 

"  I  can't  now,  for  he  is  speaking  already — and  well  too. 
I  hurried  from  the  Athenaeum,  where  I  was  dining,  on  pur- 
pose to  be  in  time,  as  I  heard  that  his  speech  was  making  a 
great  effect." 

"  This  is  very  unlucky,"  said  Randal.  "  I  had  no  idea  he 
would  speak  so  early." 

"C brought  him  up  by  a  direct  personal  attack. 

But  follow  me  ;  perhaps  I  can  get  you  into  the  House  ;  and 
a  man  like  you,  Leslie,  from  whom  we  expect  great  things 
some  day,  I  can  tell  you,  should  not  miss  any  such  oppor- 
tunity of  knowing  what  this  House  of  ours  is  on  a  field 
night.  Come  on  !  " 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  483 

The  member  hurried  toward  the  door  ;  and  as  Randal 
followed  him,  a  bystander  cried — "  That  is  the  young  man 
who  wrote  the  famous  pamphlet — Egerton's  relation." 

"  Oh,  indeed  !  "  said  another.  "  Clever  man,  Egerton — 
I  am  Availing  for  him." 

"So  am  I." 

"  Why,  you  are  not  a  constituent  as  I  am." 

"  No  ;  but  he  has  been  very  kind  to  my  nephew,  and  I 
must  thank  him.  You  are  a  constituent — he  is  an  honor  to 
your  town." 

"  So  he  is  ;  enlightened  man  !  " 

"  And  so  generous  !  " 

"  Brings  forward  really  good  measures,"  quoth  the  poli- 
tician. 

"  And  clever  young  men,"  said  the  uncle. 

Therewith  one  or  two  others  joined  in  the  praise  of  Aud- 
ley  Egerton,  and  many  anecdotes  of  his  liberality  were  told. 

Leonard  listened  at  first  listlessly,  at  last  with  thought- 
ful attention.  He  had  heard  Burley,  too,  speak  highly  of 
this  generous  statesman,  who,  without  pretending  to  genius 
himself,  appreciated  it  in  others.  He  suddenly  remem- 
bered, too,  that  Egerton  was  half-brother  to  the  Squire. 
Vague  notions  of  some  appeal  to  this  eminent  person,  not 
for  charity,  but  employment  to  his  mind,  gleamed  across  him 
— inexperienced  boy  that  he  yet  was  !  And  while  thus  med- 
itating, the  door  of  the  House  opened,  and  out  came  Audley 
Egerton  himself.  A  partial  cheering,  followed  by  a  gen- 
eral murmur,  apprised  Leonard  of  the  presence  of  the  popu- 
lar statesman.  Egerton  was  caught  hold  of  by  some  five  or 
six  persons  in  succession  ;  a  shake  of  the  hand,  a  nod,  a  brief 
whispered  word  or  two,  sufficed  the  practised  member  for 
graceful  escape  ;  and  soon,  freed  from  the  crowd,  his  tall, 
erect  figure  passed  on,  and  turned  toward  the  bridge.  He 
paused  at  the  angle  and  took  out  his  watch,  looking  at  it  by 
the  lamplight. 

"  Harlcy  will  be  here  soon,"  he  muttered — "  he  is  always 
punctual  ;  and  now  that  I  have  spoken,  I  can  give  him  an 
hour  or  so.  That  is  well." 

As  he  replaced  the  watch  in  his  pocket,  and  rebuttoned 
his  coat  over  his  firm,  broad  chest,  he  lifted  his  eyes,  and 
saw  a  young  man,  standing  before  him. 

"  Do  you  want  me  ?  "  asked  the  statesman,  with  the  direct 
brevity  of  his  practical  character. 

"  Mr.  Egerton,"  said  the  young  man,  with  a  voice  that 


484  MY  NOVEL;    OR, 

slightly  trembled,  and  yet  was  manly  amidst  emotion,  "  you 
have  a  great  name,  and  great  power — I  stand  here  in  these 
streets  of  London  without  a  friend,  and  without  employ- 
ment. I  believe  that  I  have  it  in  me  to  do  some  nobler  work 
than  that  of  bodily  labor,  had  I  but  one  friend — one  opening 
for  my  thoughts.  And  now  I  have  said  this,  I  scarcely  know 
how,  or  why,  but  from  despair,  and  the  sudden  impulse 
which  that  despair  took  from  the  praise  that  follows  your 
success — I  have  nothing  more  to  add." 

Audley  Egerton  was  silent  for  a  moment,  struck  by  the 
tone  and  address  of  the  stranger  ;  but  the  consummate  and 
wary  man  of  the  world,  accustomed  to  all  manner  of  strange 
applications,  and  all  varieties  of  imposture,  quickly  re- 
covered from  a  passing  and  slight  effect. 

"  Are  you  a  native  of ?  "  (naming  the  town  which 

the  statesman  represented.) 

"No,  sir." 

"  Well,  young  man,  I  am  very  sorry  for  you  ;  but  the 
good  sense  you  must  possess  (for  I  judge  of  that  by  the 
education  you  have  evidently  received)  must  tell  you  that  a 
public  man,  whatever  be  his  patronage,  has  it  too  fully  ab- 
sorbed by  claimants  who  have  a  right  to  demand  it,  to  be 
able  to  listen  to  strangers." 

He  paused  a  moment,  and,  as  Leonard  stood  silent, 
added,  with  more  kindness  than  most  public  men  so  ac- 
costed would  have  shown — 

"You  say  you  are  friendless  ; — poor  fellow.  In  early 
life  that  happens  to  many  of  us,  who  find  friends  enough 
before  the  close.  Be  honest,  and  well-conducted  ;  lean  on 
yourself,  not  on  strangers  ;  work  with  the  body  if  you  can't 
with  the  mind  ;  and,  believe  me,  that  advice  is  all  I  can  give 
you,  unless  this  trifle," — and  the  minister  held  out  a  crown 
piece. 

Leonard  bowed,  shook  his  head  sadly,  and  walked  away. 
Egerton  looked  after  him  with  a  slight  pang. 

"  Pooh  !  "  said  he  to  himself,  "there  must  be  thousands 
in  the  same  state  in  these  streets  of  London.  I  cannot  re- 
dress the  necessities  of  civilization.  Well  educated  !  It  is 
not  from  ignorance  henceforth  that  society  will  suffer — it 
is  from  over-educating  the  hungry  thousands  who,  thus  un- 
fitted for  manual  toil,  and  with  no  career  for  mental,  will 
some  day  or  other  stand  like  that  boy  in  our  streets,  and 
puzzle  wiser  ministers  than  I  am." 

As  Egerton  thus  mused,  and  passed  on  to  the  bridge,  a 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  485 

bugle-horn  rang  merrily  from  the  box  of  a  gay  four-in- 
hand.  A  drag-coach  with  superb  blood-horses  rattled  over 
the  causeway,  and  in  the  driver  Egerton  recognized  his 
nephew — Frank  Hazeldean. 

The  young  Guardsman  was  returning,  with  a  lively  party 
of  men,  from  dining  at  Greenwich  ;  and  the  careless  laugh- 
ter of  these  children  of  pleasure  floated  far  over  the  still 
water  ;  it  vexed  the  ear  of  the  careworn  statesman — sad, 
perhaps,  with  all  his  greatness,  lonely  amidst  all  his  crowd 
of  friends.  It  reminded  him,  perhaps,  of  his  own  youth, 
when  such  parties  and  companionships  were  familiar  to 
him,  though  through  them  all  he  had  borne  an  ambitious, 
aspiring  soul — "  Le  jeu,  -uaut-il  la  chandelle?"  said  he,  shrug- 
ging his  shoulders. 

The  coach  rolled  rapidly  past  Leonard,  as  he  stood  lean- 
ing against  the  corner  of  the  bridge,  and  the  mire  of  the 
kennel  splashed  over  him  from  the  hoofs  of  the  fiery  horses. 
The  laughter  smote  on  his  ear  more  discordantly  than  on 
the  minister's,  but  it  begot  no  envy. 

"  Life  is  a  dark  riddle,"  said  he,  smiting  his  breast. 

And  he  walked  slowly  on,  gained  the  recess  where  he 
had  stood  several  nights  before  with  Helen,  and,  dizzy  with 
want  of  food,  and  worn  out  for  want  of  sleep,  he  sank  down 
into  the  dark  corner  ;  while  the  river  that  rolled  under  the 
arch  of  stone  muttered  dirge-like  in  his  ear — as  under  the 
social  key-stone  wails  and  rolls  on  for  ever  the  mystery  of 
Human  Discontent.  Take  comfort,  O  Thinker  by  the 
stream  !  'Tis  the  river  that  founded  and  gave  pomp  to  the 
city  ;  and  without  the  discontent,  where  were  progress — 
what  were  Man  ?  Take  comfort,  O  THINKER  !  wherever  the 
stream  over  which  thou  bendest,  or  beside  which  thou  sink- 
est,  weary  and  desolate,  frets  the  arch  that  supports  thee  ; 
— never  dream  that,  by  destroying  the  bridge,  thou  canst 
silence  the  moan  of  the  wave  ! 


CHAPTER  XVI. 

BEFORE  a  table,  in  the  apartments  appropriated  to  him 
in  his  father's  house  at  Knightsbridge,  sat  Lord  L'Estrange, 
sorting  or  destroying  letters  and  papers — an  ordinary  symp- 
tom of  change  of  residence.  There  are  certain  trifles  by 


486  MY  NOVEL;    OR, 

which  a  shrewd  observer  may  judge  of  a  man's  disposition. 
Thus,  ranged  on  the  table,  with  some  elegance,  but  with 
soldierlike  precision,  were  sundry  little  relics  of  former 
days,  hallowed  by  some  sentiment  of  memory,  or  perhaps 
endeared  solely  by  custom  ;  which,  whether  he  was  in 
Egypt,  Italy,  or  England,  always  made  part  of  the  furniture 
of  Harley's  room.  Even  the  small,  old-fashioned,  and  some- 
what inconvenient  inkstand  into  which  he  dipped  the  pen 
as  he  labelled  the  letters  he  put  aside  belonging  to  the  writ- 
ing-desk which  had  been  his  pride  as  a  schoolboy.  Even 
the  books  that  lay  scattered  round  were  not  new  works,  not 
those  to  which  we  turn  to  satisfy  the  curiosity  of  an  hour, 
or  to  distract  our  graver  thoughts  ;  they  were  chiefly  either 
Latin  or  Italian  poets,  with  many  a  pencil-mark  on  the 
margin  ;  or  books  which,  making  severe  demand  on  thought, 
require  slow  and  frequent  perusal,  and  become  companions. 
Somehow  or  other,  in  remarking  that  even  in  dumb,  inani- 
mate things,  the  man  was  averse  to  change,  and  had  the 
habit  of  attaching  himself  to  whatever  was  connected  with 
old  associations,  you  might  guess  that  he  clung  with  perti- 
nacity to  affections  more  important,  and  you  could  better 
comprehend  the  freshness  of  his  friendship  for  one  so  dis- 
similar in  pursuits  and  character  as  Audley  Egerton.  An 
affection  once  admitted  into  the  heart  of  Harley  L'Estrange, 
seemed  never  to  be  questioned  or  reasoned  with  ;  it  became 
tacitly  fixed,  as  it  were,  into  his  own  nature  ;  and  little  less 
than  a  revolution  of  his  whole  system  could  dislodge  or  dis- 
turb it. 

Lord  L'Estrange's  hand  rested  now  upon  a  letter  in  a 
stiff,  legible  Italian  character  ;  and  instead  of  disposing  of 
it  at  once  as  he  had  done  with  the  rest,  he  spread  it  before 
him,  and  re-read  the  contents.  It  was  a  letter  from  Ricca- 
bocca,  received  a  few  weeks  since,  and  ran  thus  : — 

Letter  from  Signor  Riccabocca  to  Lord  L'Estrange. 

"  I  thank  you,  my  noble  friend,  for  judging  of  me  with 
faith  in  my  honor,  and  respect  for  my  reverses. 

"  No,  and  thrice  no,  to  all  concessions,  all  overtures,  all 
treaty  with  Giulio  Franzini.  I  write  the  name,  and  my 
emotions  choke  me.  I  must  pause,  and  cool  back  into  dis- 
dain. It  is  over.  Pass  from  that  subject.  But  you  have 
alarmed  me.  This  sister!  I  have  not  seen  her  since  her 
childhood ;  but  she  was  brought  up  under  his  influence — 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  487 

she  can  but  work  as  his  agent.  She  wish  to  learn  my  resi- 
dence !  It  can  be  but  for  some  hostile  and  malignant  pur- 
pose. I  may  trust  in  you — I  know  that.  You  say  I  may 
trust  equally  in  the  discretion  of  your  friend.  Pardon  me — 
my  confidence  is  not  so  elastic.  A  word  may  give  the  clue 
to  my  retreat.  But,  if  discovered,  what  harm  can  ensue  ? 
An  English  roof  protects  me  from  Austrian  despotism,  true; 
but  not  the  brazen  tower  of  Danae  could  protect  me  from 
Italian  craft.  And,  were  there  nothing  worse,  it  would  be 
intolerable  to  me  to  live  under  the  eyes  of  a  relentless  spy. 
Truly  saith  our  proverb,  *  He  sleeps  ill  whom  the  enemy 
wakes.'  Look  you,  my  friend,  I  have  done  with  my  old 
life — I  wish  to  cast  it  from  me  as  a  snake  its  skin.  I  have 
denied  myself  all  that  exiles  deem  consolation.  No  pity  for 
misfortune,  no  messages  from  sympathizing  friendship,  no 
news  from  a  lost  and  bereaved  country,  follow  me  to  my 
hearth  under  the  skies  of  the  stranger.  From  all  these  I 
have  voluntarily  cut  myself  off.  I  am  as  dead  to  the  life  I 
once  lived  as  if  the  Styx  rolled  between  //  and  me.  With 
that  sternness  which  is  admissible  only  to  the  afflicted,  I 
have  denied  myself  even  the  consolation  of  your  visits. 
I  have  told  you  fairly  and  simply  that  your  presence  would 
unsettle  all  my  enforced  and  infirm  philosophy,  and  remind 
rne  only  of  the  past,  which  I  seek  to  blot  from  remembrance. 
You  have  complied  on  the  one  condition,  that  whenever  I 
really  want  your  aid  I  will  ask  it  ;  and,  meanwhile,  you 
have  generously  sought  to  obtain  me  justice  from  the  cabi- 
nets of  ministers  and  in  the  courts  of  kings.  I  did  not  re- 
fuse your  heart  this  luxury  ;  for  I  have  a  child — (Ah  !  I  have 
taught  that  child  already  to  revere  your  name,  and  in  her 
prayers  it  is  not  forgotten).  But  now  that  you  are  con- 
vinced that  even  your  zeal  is  unavailing,  I  ask  you  to  dis- 
continue attempts  which  may  but  bring  the  spy  upon  my 
track,  and  involve  me  in  new  misfortunes.  Believe  me,  O 
brilliant  Englishman,  that  I  am  satisfied  and  contented 
with  my  lot.  I  arU  sure  it  would  not  be  for  my  happiness 
to  change  it,  'Chi  non  ha  provato  il  male  non  conosce  il 
bene.'  (One  does  not  know  when  one  is  well  off  till  one 
has  known  misfortune.)  You  ask  me  how  I  live — I  answer 
alia  giornata  (to  the  day), — not  for  the  morrow,  as  I  did 
once.  I  have  accustomed  myself  to  the  calm  existence  of 
a  village.  I  take  interest  in  its  details.  There  is  my  wife, 
good  creature,  sitting  opposite  to  me,  never  asking  what  I 
write,  or  to  whom,  but  ready  to  throw  aside  her  work  and 


488  MY  NOVEL;    Off, 

talk  the  moment  the  pen  is  out  of  my  hand.  Talk — and 
what  about  ?  Heaven  knows  !  But  I  would  rather  hear 
that  talk,  though  on  the  affairs  of  a  hamlet,  than  babble 
again  with  recreant  nobles  and  blundering  professors  about 
commonwealths  and  constitutions.  When  I  want  to  see 
how  little  those  last  influence  the  happiness  of  wise  men, 
have  I  not  Machiavelli  and  Thucydides  ?  Then,  by  and  by, 
the  Parson  will  drop  in,  and  we  argue.  He  never  knows 
when  he  is  beaten,  so  the  argument  is  everlasting.  On  fine 
days  I  ramble  out  by  a  winding  rill  with  my  Violante,  or 
stroll  to  my  friend  the  Squire's,  and  see  how  healthful  a 
thing  is  true  pleasure  ;  and  on  wet  days  I  shut  myself  up 
and  mope,  perhaps,  till,  hark  !  a  gentle  tap  at  the  door,  and 
in  comes  Violante,  witli  her  dark  eyes,  that  shine  out 
through  reproachful  tears — reproachful  that  I  should  mourn 
alone,  while  she  is  under  my  roof — so  she  puts  her  arms 
around  me,  and  in  five  minutes  all  is  sunshine  within. 
What  care  we  for  your  English  gray  clouds  without  ?  " 

"  Leave  me,  my  dear  Lord — leave  me  to  this  quiet  happy 
passage  toward  old  age,  serenerthan  the  youth  that  I  wasted 
so  wildly  ;  and  guard  well  the  secret  on  which  my  happiness 
depends. 

"  Now  to  yourself,  before  I  close.  Of  that  same  yourself 
you  speak  too  little,  as  of  me  too  much.  But  I  so  well 
comprehend  the  profound  melancholy  that  lies  beneath  the 
wild  and  fanciful  humor  with  which  you  but  suggest,  as  in 
sport,  what  you  feel  so  in  earnest.  The  laborious  solitude 
of  cities  weighs  on  you.  You  are  flying  back  to  the  dolce 
far  niente — to  friends  few,  but  intimate  ;  to  life  monotonous, 
but  unrestrained  ;  and  even  there  the  sense  of  loneliness  will 
again  seize  upon  you  ;  and  you  do  not  seek,  as  I  do,  the 
annihilation  of  memory  ;  your  dead  passions  are  turned  to 
ghosts  that  haunt  you,  and  unfit  you  for  the  living  world.  I 
see  it  all — I  see  it  still,  in  your  hurried,  fantastic  lines,  as  I 
saw  it  when  we  two  sat  amidst  the  pines  and  beheld  the  blue 
lake  stretched  below ; — I  troubled  by  tfte  shadow  of  the 
Future,  you  disturbed  by  that  of  the  Past. 

"Well,  but  you  say,  half  seriously,  half  in  jest,  'I  will 
escape  from  this  prison-house  of  memory  ;  I  will  form  new 
ties,  like  other  men,  and  before  it  be  too  late  ;  I  will  marry 
— Ay,  but  I  must  love — there  is  the  difficulty' — difficulty — 
yes,  and  Heaven  be  thanked  for  it !  Recall  all  the  unhappy 
marriages  that  have  come  to  your  knowledge — pray  have  not 
eighteen  out  of  twenty  been  marriages  for  love  ?  It  always 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE,  489 

has  been  so,  and  it  always  will.  Because,  whenever  we  love 
deeply,  we  exact  so  much  and  forgive  so  little.  Be  content 
to  find  some  one  with  whom  your  hearth  and  your  honor 
are  safe.  You  will  grow  to  love  what  never  wounds  your 
heart — you  will  soon  grow  out  of  love  with  what  must 
always  disappoint  your  imagination.  Coi>petto  !  I  wish  my 
Jemima  had  a  younger  sister  for  you.  Yet  it  was  with  a 
deep  groan  that  I  settled  myself  to  a — Jemima. 

"  Now,  I  have  written  you  a  long  letter,  to  prove  how 
little  I  need  of  your  compassion  or  your  zeal.  Once  more 
let  there  be  long  silence  between  us.  It  is  not  easy  for  me 
to  correspond  with  a  man  of  your  rank,  and  not  incur  the 
curious  gossip  of  my  still  little  pool  of  a  world  which  the 
splash  of  a  pebble  can  break  into  circles.  I  must  take  this 
over  to  a  post-town  some  ten  miles  off,  and  drop  it  into  the 
box  by  stealth. 

"Adieu,  dear  and  noble  friend,  gentlest  heart  and  subt- 
lest fancy  that  I  have  met  in  my  walk  through  life.  Adieu. 
Write  me  word  when  you  have  abandoned  a  day-dream  and 
found  a  Jemima. 

"  ALPHONSO. 

"  P.S. — For  heaven's  sake,  caution  and  recaution  your 
friend  the  minister  not  to  drop  a  word  to  this  woman  that 
may  betray  my  hiding-place." 

"  Is  he  really  happy  ? "  murmured  Harley,  as  he  closed 
the  letter  ;  and  he  sank  for  a  few  moments  into  a  reverie. 

"  This  life  in  a  village — this  wife  in  a  lady  who  puts  down 
her  work  to  talk  about  villagers — what  a  contrast  to  Audley's 
full  existence!  And  I  cannot  envy  nor  comprehend  either 
— yet  my  own  existence — what  is  it  ? " 

He  rose,  and  moved  toward  the  window,  from  which  a 
rustic  stair  descended  to  a  green  lawn — studded  with  larger 
trees  than  are  often  found  in  the  grounds  of  a  suburban 
residence.  There  were  calm  and  coolness  in  the  sight,  and 
one  could  scarcely  have  supposed  that  London  lay  so  near. 

The  door  opened  softly,  and  a  lady  past  middle  age 
entered  ;  and  approaching  Harley,  as  he  still  stood  musing 
by  the  window,  laid  her  hand  on  his  shoulder.  What  char- 
acter there  is  in  a  hand  !  Hers  was  a  hand  that  Titian 
would  have  painted  with  elaborate  care  !  Thin,  white,  and 
delicate — with  the  blue  veins  raised  from  the  surface.  Yet 
there  was  something  more  than  mere  patrician  elegance  in 

21* 


490  MY  NOVEL;    OR, 

the  form  and  texture.  A  true  physiologist  would  have  said 
at  once,  "  There  are  intellect  and  pride  in  that  hand,  which 
seems  to  fix  a  hold  where  it  rests  ;  and  lying  so  lightly,  yet 
will  not  be  as  lightly  shaken  off." 

"  Harley,"  said  the  lady — and  Harley  turned — "you  do 
not  deceive  me  by  that  smile,"  she  continued,  sadly  ;  "you 
were  not  smiling  when  I  entered." 

"  It  is  rarely  that  we  smile  to  ourselves,  my  dear  mother  ; 
and  I  have  done  nothing  lately  so  foolish  as  to  cause  me  to 
smile  at  myself." 

"My son,"  said  Lady  Lansmere,  somewhat  abruptly,  but 
with  great  earnestness,  "you  come  from  a  line  of  illustrious 
ancestors  ;  and  methinks  they  ask  from  their  tombs  why  the 
last  of  their  race  has  no  aim  and  no  object — no  interest — no 
home  in  the  land  which  they  served,  and  which  rewarded 
them  with  its  honors." 

"  Mother,"  said  the  soldier,  simply,  "  when  the  land  was 
in  danger,  I  served  it  as  my  forefathers  served — and  my 
answer  would  be  the  scars  on  my  breast." 

"  Is  it  only  in  danger  that  a  country  is  served — only  in 
war  that  duty  is  fulfilled  ?  Do  you  think  that  your  father, 
in  his  plain  manly  life  of  country  gentleman,  does  not  fulfil, 
though  perhaps  too  obscurely,  the  objects  for  which  aristo- 
cracy is  created,  and  wealth  is  bestowed  ? " 

"  Doubtless  he  does,  ma'am — and  better  than  his  vagrant 
son  ever  can." 

"Yet  his  vagrant  son  has  received  such  gifts  from  nature 
— his  youth  was  so  rich  in  promise — his  boyhood  so  glowed 
at  the  dream  of  glory  ! — 

"Ay,"  said  Harley,  very  softly,  "it  is  possible — and  all 
to  be  buried  in  a  single  grave  !  " 

The  Countess  started,  and  withdrew  her  hand  from  Har- 
ley's  shoulder. 

Lady  Lansmere's  countenance  was  not  one  that  much 
varied  in  expression.  She  had  in  this,  as  in  her  cast  of  fea- 
ture, little  resemblance  to  her  son. 

Her  features  were  slightly  aquiline — the  eyebrows  of 
that  arch  which  gives  a  certain  majesty  to  the  aspect ;  the 
lines  round  the  mouth  were  habitually  rigid  and  compressed. 
Her  face  was  that  of  one  who  had  gone  through  great  emo- 
tion and  subdued  it.  There  was  something  formal,  and  even 
ascetic,  in  the  character  of  her  beauty,  which  was  still  consider- 
able— in  her  air  and  in  her  dress.  She  might  have  suggested 
to  you  the  idea  of  some  Gothic  baroness  of  old,  half  chate- 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  491 

laine,  half  abbess ;  you  would  see  at  a  glance  that  she  did 
not  live  in  the  light  world  around  her,  and  disdained  its 
fashion  and  its  mode  of  thought ;  yet  with  all  this  rigidity 
it  was  still  the  face  of  the  woman  who  has  known  human 
ties  and  human  affections.  And  now,  as  she  gazed  long  on 
Harley's  quiet,  saddened  brow,  it  was  the  face  of  a  mother. 

"  A  single  grave,"  she  said,  after  a  long  pause.  "And 
you  were  then  but  a  boy,  Harley  !  Can  such  a  memory 
influence  you  even  to  this  day  !  It  is  scarcely  possible  ;  it 
does  not  seem  to  me  within  the  realities  of  man's  life — 
though  it  might  be  of  woman's." 

"  I  believe,"  said  Harley,  half  soliloquizing,  "  that  I  have 
a  great  deal  of  the  woman  in  me.  Perhaps  men  who  live 
much  alone,  and  care  not  for  men's  objects,  do  grow  tena- 
cious of  impressions,  as  your  sex  does.  But  oh,"  he  cried, 
aloud,  and  with  a  sudden  change  of  countenance,  "  oh,  the 
hardest  and  the  coldest  man  would  have  felt  as  I  do,  had  he 
known  her — had  he  loved  her.  She  was  like  no  other 
woman  I  have  ever  met.  Bright  and'  glorious  creature  of 
another  sphere.  She  descended  on  this  earth,  and  darkened 
it  when  she  passed  away.  It  is  no  use  striving.  Mother,  I 
have  as  much  courage  as  our  steel-clad  fathers  ever  had.  I 
have  dared  in  battle  and  in  deserts — against  majn  and  the 
wild  beast — against  the  storm  and  the  ocean — against  the 
rude  powers  of  Nature — dangers  as  dread  as  ever  pilgrim  or 
Crusader  rejoiced  to  brave.  But  courage  against  that  one 
memory  !  no,  I  have  none  !  " 

"  Harley,  Harley,  you  break  my  heart ! "  cried  the 
Countess,  clasping  her  hands. 

"  It  is  astonishing,"  continued  her  son,  so  wrapped  in 
his  own  thoughts  that  he  did  not,  perhaps,  hear  her  outcry. 
"  Yea,  verily,  it  is  astonishing  that,  considering  the  thousands 
of  women  I  have  seen  and  spoken  with,  I  never  see  a  face 
like  hers — never  hear  a  voice  so  sweet.  And  all  this  uni- 
verse of  life  cannot  afford  me  one  look  and  one  tone  that 
can  restore  me  to  man's  privilege— love.  Well,  well,  well, 
life  has  other  things  yet — Poetry  and  Art  live  still — still 
smiles  the  heaven,  and  still  wave  the  trees.  Leave  me  to 
happiness  in  my  own  way." 

The  Countess  was  about  to  reply,  when  the  door  was 
thrown  hastily  open,  and  Lord  Lansmere  walked  in. 

The  Earl  was  some  years  older  than  the  Countess,  but 
his  placid  face  showed  less  wear  and  tear — a  benevolent, 
kindly  face,  without  any  evidence  of  commanding  intellect, 


492  MY  NOVEL;    OR, 

but  with  no  lack  of  sense  in  its  pleasant  lines.  His  form  not 
tall,  but  upright,  and  with  an  air  of  consequence— a  little 
pompous,  but  good-humoredly  so.  The  pomposity  of  the 
grand  seigneur,  who  has  lived  much  in  provinces — whose 
will  has  been  rarely  disputed,  and  whose  importance  has 
been  so  felt  and  acknowledged  as  to  react  insensibly  on  him- 
self ; — an  excellent  man  ;  but  when  you  glanced  toward  the 
high  brow  and  dark  eye  of  the  Countess,  you  marvelled  a 
little  how  the  two  had  come  together,  and,  according  to 
common  report,  lived  so  happily  in  the  union. 

"  Ho,  ho  !  my  dear  Harley,"  cried  Lord  Lansmere,  rub- 
bing his  hands  with  an  appearance  of  much  satisfaction,  "  I 
have  just  been  paying  a  visit  to  the  Duchess." 

"  What  duchess,  my  dear  father  ?  " 

"  Why,  your  mother's  first-cousin,  to  be  sure — the 
Duchess  of  Knaresborough,  whom,  to  oblige  me,  you  con- 
descended to  call  upon ;  and  delighted  I  am  to  hear  that 
you  admire  Lady  Mary — 

"  She  is  very  high-bred,  and  rather — high-nosed,"  ans- 
wered Harley. — Then,  observing  that  his  mother  looked 
pained,  and  his  father  disconcerted,  he  added  seriously, 
"  But  handsome,  certainly." 

"Well,  Harley,"  said  the  Earl,  recovering  himself,  "the 
Duchess,  taking  advantage  of  our  connection  to  speak 
freely,  has  intimated  to  me  that  Lady  Mary  has  been  no 
less  struck  with  yourself ;  and,  to  come  to  the  point,  since 
you  allow  that  it  is  time  you  should  think  of  marrying,  I  do 
not  know  a  more  desirable  alliance. — What  do  you  say, 
Catherine  ?  " 

"  The  Duke  is  of  a  family  that  ranks  in  history  before 
the  Wars  of  the  Roses,"  said  Lady  Lansmere,  with  an  air 
of  deference  to  her  husband  ;  "  and  there  has  never  been 
one  scandal  in  its  annals,  nor  one  blot  in  its  scutcheon. 
But  I  am  sure  my  dear  Lord  must  think  that  the  Duchess 
should  not  have  made  the  first  overture — even  to  a  friend 
and  a  kinsman  ?  " 

"Why,  we  are  old-fashioned  people,"  said  the  Earl, 
rather  embarrassed,  "  and  the  Duchess  is  a  woman  of  the 
world." 

"  Let  us  hope,"  said  the  Countess,  mildly,  "  that  her 
daughter  is  not." 

"  I  would  not  marry  Lady  Mary,  if  all  the  rest  of  the 
female  sex  were  turned  into  apes,"  said  Lord  L' Estrange, 
with  deliberate  fervor. 


VARIETIES  IN   ENGLISH  LIFE.  493 

"  Good  heavens  !"  cried  the  Earl,  "what  extraordinary 
language  is  this  ?  And  pray  why,  sir  ?  " 

HARLEY. — I  can't  say — there  is  no  why  in  these  cases. 
But,  my  dear  father,  you  are  not  keeping  faith  with  me. 

LORD  LANSMERE. — How  ? 

HARLEY. — You  and  my  Lady  here  entreat  me  to  marry  ; 
I  promise  to  do  my  best  to  obey  you  ;  but  on  one  condition 
— that  I  choose  for  myself,  and  take  my  time  about  it. 
Agreed  on  both  sides.  Whereon,  off  goes  your  Lordship — 
actually  before  noon,  at  an  hour  when  no  lady,  without  a 
shudder,  could  think  of  cold  blonde  and  damp  orange-flow- 
ers— off  goes  your  Lordship,  I  say,  and  commits  poor  Lady 
Mary  and  your  unworthy  son  to  a  mutual  admiration — 
which  neither  of  us  ever  felt.  Pardon  me,  my  father,  but 
this  is  grave.  Again  let  me  claim  your  promise — full  choice 
for  myself,  and  no  reference  to  the  Wars  of  the  Roses. 
What  war  of  the  Roses  like  that  between  Modesty  and  Love 
upon  the  cheek  of  the  Virgin  ! 

LADY  LANSMERE. — Full  choice  for  yourself,  Harley — 
so  be  it.  But  we,  too,  named  a  condition — did  we  not, 
Lansmere  ? 

The  EARL  (puzzled). — Eh — did  we  ?    Certainly  we  did. 

HARLEY.     What  was  it  ? 

LADY  LANSMERE. — The  son  of  Lord  Lansmere  can  only 
marry  the  daughter  of  a  gentleman. 

The  EARL. — Of  course — of  course. 

The  blood  rushed  over  Harley's  fair  face,  and  then  as 
suddenly  left  it  pale. 

He  walked  away  to  the  window  ;  his  mother  followed 
him,  and  again  laid  her  hand  on  his  shoulder. 

"  You  were  cruel,"  said  he,  gently,  and  in  a  whisper,  as 
he  winced  under  the  touch  of  the  hand.  Then  turning  to 
the  Earl,  who  was  gazing  at  him  in  blank  surprise — (it  never 
occurred  to  Lord  Lansmere  that  there  could  be  a  doubt  of 
his  son's  marrying  beneath  the  rank  modestly  stated  by  the 
Countess) — Harley  stretched  forth  his  hand,  and  said  in 
his  soft  winning  tone,  "You  have  ever  been  most  gracious 
to  me,  and  most  forbearing  ;  it  is  but  just  that  I  should 
sacrifice  the  habits  of  an  egotist,  to  gratify  a  wish  which 
you  so  warmly  entertain.  I  agree  with  you,  too,  that  our 
race  should  not  close  in  me — Noblesse  oblige.  But  you  know 
I  was  ever  romantic  ;  and  I  must  love  where  I  marry — or, 
if  not  love,  I  must  feel  that  my  wife  is  worthy  of  all  the 
love  I  could  once  have  bestowed.  Now,  as  to  the  vague 


494  My  NOVEL;    OR, 

word 'gentleman,'  that  my  mother  employs— a  word  that 
means  so  differently  on  different  lips, — I  confess  that  I  have 
a  prejudice  against  young  ladies  brought  up  in  the  '  excel- 
lent foppery  of  the  world/  as  the  daughters  of  gentlemen 
of  our  rank  mostly  are  ;  I  crave,  therefore,  the  most  liberal 
interpretation  cf  this  word  'gentleman.'  And  so  long  as 
there  be  nothing  mean  or  sordid  in  the  birth,  habits,  and 
education  of  the  father  of  this  bride  to  be,  I  trust  you  will 
both  agree  to  demand  nothing  more — neither  titles  nor 
pedigree." 

"Titles— no,  assuredly,"  said  Lady  Lansmere  ;  they  do 
not  make  gentlemen." 

"Certainly  not,"  said  the  Earl;  "many  of  our  best 
families  are  untitled." 

"Titles — no,"  repeated  Lady  Lansmere;  "but  ances- 
tors—yes." 

"  Ah,  my  mother,"  said  Harley,  with  his  most  sad  and 
quiet  smile,  "it  is  fated  that  we  shall  never  agree.  The 
first  of  our  race  is  ever  the  one  we  are  most  proud  of ;  and, 
pray,  what  ancestors  had  he  ?  Beauty,  virtue,  modesty,  in- 
tellect— -if  these  are  not  nobility  enough  for  a  man,  he  is  a 
slave  to  the  dead." 

With  these  words,  Harley  took  up  his  hat,  and  made 
toward  the  door. 

"  You  said  yourself,  '  Noblesse  oblige,'  "  said  the  Countess, 
following  him  to  the  threshold  ;  "  we  have  nothing  more  to 
add." 

Harley  slightly  shrugged  his  shoulders,  kissed  his 
mother's  hand,  whistled  to  Nero,  who  started  up  from  a 
doze  by  the  window,  and  went  his  way. 

"  Does  he  really  go  abroad  next  week  ?"  said  the  Earl. 

"  So  he  says." 

"I  am  afraid  there  is  no  chance  for  Lady  Mary," 
resumed  Lord  Lansmere,  with  a  slight  but  melancholy 
smile. 

"  She  has  not  intellect  enough  to  charm  him.  She  is 
not  worthy  of  Harley,"  said  the  proud  mother. 

"  Between  you  and  me,"  rejoined  the  Earl,  rather  timidly, 
"I  don't  see  what  good  his  intellect  does  him.  He  could 
not  be  more  unsettled  and  useless  if  he  were  the  merest 
dunce  in  the  three  kingdoms.  And  so  ambitious  as  he  was 
when  a  boy  !  Katherine,  I  sometimes  fancy  that  you  know 
what  changed  him." 

"  I  !     Nay,  my  dear  Lord,  it  is  a  common  change  enough 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  495 

with  the  young,  when  of  such  fortunes  ;  who  find,  when 
they  enter  life,  that  there  is  really  little  left  for  them  to 
strive  for.  Had  Harley  been  a  poor  man's  son,  it  might 
have  been  different." 

"I  was  born  to  the  same  fortunes  as  Harley,"  said  the 
Earl,  shrewcjly ;  "  and  yet  I  flatter  myself  I  am  of  some  use 
to  Old  England." 

The  Countess  seized  upon  the  occasion,  complimented 
her  Lord,  and  turned  the  subject. 


CHAPTER  XVII. 

HARLEY  spent  his  day  in  his  usual  desultory,  lounging 
manner — dined  in  his  quiet  corner  at  his  favorite  club — • 
Nero,  not  admitted  into  the  club,  patiently  waited  for  him 
outside  the  door.  The  dinner  over,  dog  and  man,  equally 
indifferent  to  the  crowd,  sauntered  down  that  thoroughfare 
which,  to  the  few  who  can  comprehend  the  Poetry  of  Lon- 
don, has  associations  of  glory  and  of  woe  sublime  as  any 
that  the  ruins  of  the  dead  elder  world  can  furnish — thorough- 
fare that  traverses  what  was  once  the  courtyard  of  White- 
hall, having  to  its  left  the  site  of  the  palace  that  lodged  the 
royalty  of  Scotland — gains,  through  a  narrow  strait,  that  old 
isle  of  Thorney,  in  which  Edward  the  Confessor  received 
the  ominous  visit  of  the  Conqueror — and,  widening  once 
more  by  the  Abbey  and  the  Hall  of  Westminster,  then  loses 
itself,  like  all  memories  of  earthly  grandeur,  amidst  humble 
passages  and  mean  defiles. 

Thus  thought  Harley  L'Estrange — ever  less  amidst  the 
actual  world  around  him,  than  the  images  invoked  by  his 
own  solitary  soul — as  he  gained  the  bridge,  and  saw  the  dull, 
lifeless  craft  sleeping  on  the  "  Silent  Way,"  once  loud  and 
glittering  with  the  gilded  barks  of  the  antique  Seignorie  of 
England. 

It  was  on  that  bridge  that  Audley  Egerton  had  appointed 
to  meet  L'Estrange,  at  an  hour  when  he  calculated  he  could 
best  steal  a  respite  from  debate.  For  Harley,  with  his 
fastidious  dislike  to  all  the  resorts  of  his  equals,  had  declined 
to  seek  his  friend  in  the  crowded  regions  of  Bellamy's. 

Harley's  eye,  as  he  passed  along  the  bridge,  was  attracted 
by  a  still  form,  seated  on  the  stones  in  one  of  the  nooks, 


496  MY  NOVEL;    OR, 

with  its  face  covered  by  its  hands.  "  If  I  were  a  sculptor," 
said  he  to  himself,  "  I  should  remember  that  image  whenever 
I  wished  to  convey  the  idea  of  Despondency 7  "  He  lifted  his 
looks  and  saw,  a  little  before  him,  in  the  midst  of  the  cause- 
way, the  firm  erect  figure  of  Audley  Egerton.  The  moon- 
light was  full  on  the  bronzed  countenance  of  the  strong 
public  man — with  its  lines  of  thought  and  care,  and  its  vig- 
orous but  cold  expression  of  intense  self-control. 

"And  looking  yonder,"  continued  Harley's  soliloquy,  "  I 
should  remember  that  form,  when  I  wished  to  hew  out  from 
the  granite  the  idea  of  Endurance" 

"  So  you  are  come,  and  punctually,"  said  Egerton,  link- 
ing his  arm  in  Harley's. 

HARLEY. — Punctually,  of  course,  for  I  respect  your  time, 
and  I  will  not  detain  you  long.  I  presume  you  will  speak 
to-night  ? 

EGERTON. — I  have  spoken. 

HARLEY  (with  interest). — And  well,  I  hope  ? 

EGERTON. — With  effect,  I  suppose,  for  I  have  been  loudly 
cheered,  which  does  not  always  happen  to  me. 

HARLEY. — And  that  gave  you  pleasure  ? 

EGERTON  (after  a  moment's  thought). — No,  not  the 
least. 

HARLEY. — What,  then,  attaches  you  so  much  to  this  life 
— constant  drudgery,  constant  warfare — the  more  pleasur- 
able faculties  dormant,  all  the  harsher  ones  aroused,  if  even 
its  rewards  (and  I  take  the  best  of  those  to  be  applause)  do 
not  please  you  ? 

EGERTON. — What  ?     Custom. 

HARLEY. — Martyr ! 

EGERTON. — You  say  it.  But  turn  to  yourself  ;  you  ha.ve 
decided,  then,  to  leave  England  next  week  ? 

HARLEY  (moodily). — Yes.  This  life  in  a  capital,  where 
all  are  so  active,  myself  so  objectless,  preys  on  me  like  a 
low  fever.  Nothing  here  amuses  me,  nothing  interests, 
nothing  comforts  and  consoles.  But  I  am  resolved,  before 
it  be  too  late,  to  make  one  great  struggle  out  of  the  Past, 
and  into  the  natural  world  of  men.  In  a  word,  I  have  re- 
solved to  marry. 

EGERTON. — Whom  ? 

HARLEY  (seriously). — Upon  my  life,  my  dear  fellow,  you 
are  a  great  philosopher.  You  have  hit  the  exact  question. 
You  see  I  cannot  marry  a  dream  ;  and  where,  out  of  dreams, 
shall  I  find  this  "  whom  ?  " 


VARIE7IES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  497 

EGERTON. — You  do  not  search  for  her. 

HARLEY. — Do  we  ever  search  for  love  ?  Does  it  not  flash 
upon  us  when  we  least  expect  it  ?  Is  it  not  like  the  inspira- 
tion to  the  muse  ?  What  poet  sits  down  and  says,  "  I  will 
write  a  poem  ?"  What  man  looks  out  and  says,  "  I  will  fall 
in  love  ?  "  No  !  Happiness,  as  the  great  German  tells  us, 
"falls  suddenly  from  the  bosom  of  the  gods  ;  "  so  does  love. 

EGERTON. — You  remember  the  old  line  in  Horace  :  "  The 
tide  flows  away  while  the  boor  sits  on  the  margin  and  waits 
for  the  ford." 

HARLEY. — An  idea  which  incidentally  dropped  from  you 
some  weeks  ago,  and  which  I  had  before  half-meditated, 
has  since  haunted  me.  If  I  could  but  find  some  child  with 
sweet  dispositions  and  fair  intellect  not  yet  formed,  and 
train  her  up,  according  to  my  ideal.  I  am  still  young 
enough  to  wait  a  few  years.  And  meanwhile  I  shall  have 
gained  what  I  so  sadly  want — an  object  in  life. 

EGERTON. — You  are  ever  the  child  of  romance.  But 
what 

Here  the  Minister  was  interrupted  by  a  messenger  from 
the  House  of  Commons,  whom  Audley  had  instructed  to 
seek  him  on  the  bridge  should  his  presence  be  required — 
"  Sir,  the  Opposition  are  taking  advantage  of  the  thinness 

of  the  House  to  call  for  a  division.  Mr. is  put  up  to 

speak  for  time,  but  they  won't  hear  him." 

Egerton  turned  hastily  to  Lord  L'Estrange — "You  see, 
you  must  excuse  me  now.  To-morrow  I  must  go  to  Wind- 
sor for  two  days  ;  but  -we  shall  meet  on  my  return." 

"  It  does  not  matter,"  answered  Harley  ;  "  I  stand  out 
of  the  pale  of  your  advice,  O  practical  man  of  sense.  And 
if,"  added  Harley,  with  affectionate  and  mournful  sweetness 
— "  if  I  weary  you  with  complaints  which  you  cannot  un- 
derstand, it  is  only  because  of  old  schoolboy  habits.  I  can 
have  no  trouble  that  I  do  not  confide  to  you." 

Egerton's  hand  trembled  as  it  pressed  his  friend's  ;  and, 
without  a  word,  he  hurried  away  abruptly.  Harley  re- 
mained motionless  for  some  seconds,  in  deep  and  quiet 
reverie  ;  then  he  called  to  his  dog,  and  turned  back  toward 
Westminster. 

He  passed  the  nook  in  which  had  sate  the  still  figure  of 
Despondency.  But  the  figure  had  now  risen,  and  was  lean- 
ing against  the  balustrade.  The  dog,  who  preceded  his 
master,  passed  by  the  solitary  form,  and  sniffed  it  sus- 
piciously. 


498  MY  NOVEL;    OR, 

"  Nero,  sir,  come  here,"  said  Harley. 

"Nero,"  that  was  the  name  by  which  Helen  had  said 
that  her  father's  friend  had  called  his  dog.  And  the  sound 
startled  Leonard  as  he  leant,  sick  at  heart,  against  the  stone. 
He  lifted  his  head  and  looked  wistfully,  eagerly  into  Harley 's 
face.  Those  eyes,  bright,  clear,  yet  so  strangely  deep  and 
absent,  which  Helen  had  described,  met  his  own,  and 
chained  them.  For  L'Estrange  halted  also ;  the  boy's 
countenance  was  not  unfamiliar  to  him.  He  returned  the 
inquiring  look  fixed  on  his  own,  and  recognized  the  student 
by  the  book-stall. 

"  The  dog  is  quite  harmless,  sir,"  said  L'Estrange,  with 
a  smile. 

"  And  you  call  him,  'Nero  ? '  "  said  Leonard,  still  gazing 
on  the  stranger. 

Harley  mistook  the  drift  of  the  question. 

"  Nero,  sir  ;  but  he  is  free  from  the  sanguinary  pro- 
pensities of  his  Roman  namesake."  Harley  was  about  to 
pass  on,  when  Leonard  said,  falteringly, — 

"  Pardon  me,  but  can  it  be  possible  that  you  are  one 
whom  I  have  sought  in  vain,  on  behalf  of  the  child  of 
Captain  Digby  ?" 

Harley  stopped  short.  "  Digby  !  "  he  exclaimed,  "  where 
is  he  ?  He  should  have  found  me  easily.  I  gave  him  an 
address." 

"  Ah,  Heaven  be  thanked  !  "  cried  Leonard.  "  Helen  is 
saved — she  will  not  die,"  and  he  burst  into  tears. 

A  very  few  moments,  and  a  very  few  words  sufficed  to 
explain  to  Harley  the  state  of  his  old  fellow-soldier's  orphan. 
And  Harley  himself  soon  stood  in  the  young  sufferer's 
room,  supporting  her  burning  temples  on  his  breast,  and 
whispering  into  ears  that  heard  him  as  in  a  happy  dream, 
"Comfort,  comfort ;  your  father  yet  lives  in  me." 

And  then  Helen,  raising  her  eyes,  said,  "  But  Leonard  is 
my  brother — more  than  brother — and  he  needs  a  father's 
care  more  than  I  do." 

"  Hush,  hush,  Helen.  I  need  no  one — nothing  now  !  " 
cried  Leonard,  and  his  tears  gushed  over  the  little  hand 
that  clasped  his  own. 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE,  499 


CHAPTER    XVIII. 

HARLEY  L'ESTRANGE  was  a  man  whom  all  things  that 
belong  to  the  romantic  and  poetic  side  of  our  human  life 
deeply  impressed.  When  he  came  to  learn  the  ties  between 
these  two  Children  of  Nature,  standing  side  by  side,  alone 
amidst  the  storms  of  fate,  his  heart  was  more  deeply  moved 
than  it  had  been  for  many  years.  In  those  dreary  attics, 
overshadowed  by  the  smoke  and  reek  of  the  humble  suburb 
— the  workday  world  in  its  harshest  and  tritest  forms  below 
and  around  them — he  recognized  that  divine  poem  which 
comes  out  from  all  union  between  the  mind  and  the  heart. 
Here,  on  the  rough  deal  table  (the  ink  scarcely  dry),  lay  the 
writings  of  the  young  wrestler  for  fame  and  bread  ;  there, 
on  the  other  side  the  partition,  on  that  mean  pallet,  lay  the 
boy's  sole  comforter — the  all  that  warmed  his  heart  with  liv- 
ing mortal  affection.  On  one  side  the  wall,  the  world  of 
imagination  ;  on  the  other,  this  world  of  grief  and  of  love. 
And  in  both,  a  spirit  equally  sublime — unselfish  Devotion 
— "  the  something  afar  from  the  sphere  of  our  sorrow." 

He  looked  round  the  room  into  which  he  had  followed 
Leonard,  on  quitting  Helen's  bedside.  He  noted  the  MSS. 
on  the  table,  and,  pointing  to  them,  said  gently,  "  And  these 
are  the  labors  by  which  you  supported  the  soldier's  orphan  ? 
— soldier  yourself  in  a  hard  battle  !  " 

"The  battle  was  lost — I  could  not  support  her,"  re- 
plied Leonard,  mournfully. 

"  But  you  did  not  desert  her.  When  Pandora's  box  was 
opened,  they  say  Hope  lingered  last " 

"  False,  false,"  said  Leonard  ;  "  a  heathen's  notion. 
There  are  deities  that  linger  behind  Hope — Gratitude, 
Love,  and  Duty." 

"  Yours  is  no  common  nature,"  exclaimed  Harley,  ad- 
miringly, "  but  I  must  sound  it  more  deeply  hereafter  ;  at 
present  I  hasten  for  the  physician  ;  I  shall  return  with 
him.  We  must  move  that  poor  child  from  this  low  close 
air  as  soon  as  possible.  Meanwhile,  let  me  qualify  your 
rejection  of  the  old  fable.  Wherever  Gratitude,  Love,  and 
Duty  remain  to  man,  believe  me  that  Hope  is  there  too, 
though  she  may  be  often  invisible,  hidden  behind  the 
sheltering  wings  of  the  nobler  deities." 


500  MY  NOVEL;    OR, 

Harley  said  this  with  that  wondrous  smile  of  his,  which 
cast  a  brightness  over  the  whole  room — and  went  away. 

Leonard  stole  softly  toward  the  grimy  window  ;  and 
looking  up  toward  the  stars  that  shone  pale  over  the  roof- 
tops, he  murmured,  "  O  thou,  the  All-seeing  and  All-merci- 
ful ! — how  it  comforts  me  now  to  think  that,  though  my 
dreams  of  knowledge  may  have  sometimes  obscured  the 
Heavens,  I  never  doubted  that  Thou  wert  there  ! — as  lumin- 
ous and  everlasting,  though  behind  the  cloud  ! "  So,  for  a 
few  minutes,  he  prayed  silently— then  passed  into  Helen's 
room,  and  sat  beside  her  motionless,  for  she  slept.  She 
woke  just  as  Harley  returned  with  a  physician  ;  and  then 
Leonard,  returning  to  his  own  room,  saw  amongst  his 
papers  the  letter  he  had  written  to  Mr.  Dale,  and  muttering, 
"  I  need  not  disgrace  my  calling — I  need  not  be  the  men- 
dicant now  " — held  the  letter  to  the  flame  of  the  candle. 
And  while  he  said  this,  and  as  the  burning  tinder  dropped 
on  the  floor,  the  sharp  hunger,  unfelt  during  his  late  anx- 
ious emotions,  gnawed  at  his  entrails.  Still,  even  hunger 
could  not  reach  that  noble  pride  which  had  yielded  to  a 
sentiment  nobler  than  itself — and  he  smiled,  as  he  repeated, 
"  No  mendicant ! — the  life  that  I  was  sworn  to  guard  is 
saved.  I  can  rise  against  Fate  the  front  of  Man  once 
more." 


CHAPTER  XIX. 

A  FEW  days  afterward,  and  Helen,  removed  to  a  pure 
air,  and  under  the  advice  of  the  first  physicians,  was  out  of 
all  danger. 

It  was  a  pretty  detached  cottage,  with  its  windows  look- 
ing over  the  wild  heaths  of  Norwood,  to  which  Harley  rode 
daily  to  watch  the  convalescence  of  his  young  charge  ;  an 
object  in  life  was  already  found.  As  she  grew  better  and 
stronger,  he  coaxed  her  easily  into  talking,  and  listened  to 
her  with  pleased  surprise.  The  heart  so  infantine,  and 
the  sense  so  womanly,  struck  him  much  by  its  rare  con- 
trast and  combination.  Leonard,  whom  he  had  insisted 
on  placing  also  in  the  cottage,  had  stayed  there  willingly 
till  Helen's  recovery  was  beyond  question.  Then  he  came 
to  Lord  L' Estrange,  as  the  latter  was  about  one  day  to 
leave  the  cottage,  and  said,  quietly,  "  Now,  my  Lord,  that 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  501 

Helen  is  safe,  and  now  that  she  will  need  me  no  more,  I 
can  no  longer  be  a  pensioner  on  your  bounty.  I  return  to 
London." 

"  You  are  my  visitor,  not  my  pensioner,  foolish  boy," 
said  Harley,  who  had  already  noticed  the  pride  which 
spoke  in  that  farewell  ;  "come  into  the  garden  and  let  us 
talk." 

Harley  seated  himself  on  a  bench  on  the  little  lawn  ; 
Nero  crouched  at  his  feet  ;  Leonard  stood  beside  him. 

"  So,"  said  Lord  L'Estrange,  "  you  would  return  to 
London  ?  What  to  do  ? " 

"  Fulfil  my  fate." 

"And  that?" 

"  I  cannot  guess.  Fate  is  the  Isis  whose  veil  no  mortal 
can  ever  raise." 

"You  should  be  born  for  great  things,"  said  Harley, 
abruptly.  "  I  am  sure  that  you  write  well.  I  have  seen 
that  you  study  with  passion.  Better  than  writing  and  bet- 
ter than  study,  you  have  a  noble  heart,  and  the  proud  desire 
of  independence.  Let  me  see  your  MSS.,  or  any  copies  of 
what  you  have  already  printed.  Do  not  hesitate — I  ask  but 
to  be  a  reader.  I  don't  pretend  to  be  a  patron  ;  it  is  a  word 
I  hate." 

Leonard's  eyes  sparkled  through  their  sudden  moisture. 
He  brought  out  his  portfolio,  placed  it  on  the  bench  be- 
side Harley,  and  then  went  softly  to  the  further  part  of  the 
garden.  Nero  looked  after  him,  and  then  rose  and  followed 
him  slowly.  The  boy  seated  himself  on  the  turf  and  Nero 
rested  his  dull  head  on  the  loud  heart  of  the  poet. 

Harley  took  up  the  various  papers  before  him,  and  read 
them  through  leisurely.  Certainly  he  was  no  critic.  He 
was  not  accustomed  to  analyze  what  pleased  or  displeased 
him  ;  but  his  perceptions  were  quick,  and  his  taste  exquis- 
ite. As  he  read,  his  countenance,  always  so  genuinely  ex- 
pressive, exhibited  now  doubt  and  now  admiration.  He 
was  soon  struck  by  the  contrast,  in  the  boy's  writings,  be- 
tween the  pieces  that  sported  with  fancy,  and  those  that 
grappled  with  thought.  In  the  first,  the  young  poet  seemed 
so  unconscious  of  his  own  individuality.  His  imagination, 
afar  and  aloft  from  the  scenes  of  his  suffering,  ran  riot 
amidst  a  paradise  of  happy  golden  creations.  But  in  the 
last,  the  THINKER  stood  out  alone  and  mournful,  question- 
ing, in  troubled  sorrow,  the  hard  world  on  which  he  gazed. 
All  in  the  thought  was  unsettled,  tumultuous  ;  all  in  the 


502  MY  NOVEL;   OR, 

fancy  serene  and  peaceful.  The  genius  seemed  divided  into 
twain  shapes  ;  the  one  bathing  its  wings  amidst  the  starry 
dews  of  heaven  ;  the  other  wandering  "  melancholy,  slow," 
amidst  desolate  and  boundless  sands.  Harley  gently  laid 
down  the  paper,  and  mused  a  little  while.  Then  he  rose 
and  walked  to  Leonard,  gazing  on  his  countenance  as  he 
neared  the  boy,  with  a  new  and  a  deeper  interest. 

"  I  have  read  your  papers/'  he  said,  "  and  recognize  in 
them  two  men,  belonging  to  two  worlds,  essentially  distinct." 

Leonard  started,  and  murmured,  "True,  true  ! " 

"  I  apprehend,"  resumed  Harley,  "  that  one  of  these 
men  must  either  destroy  the  other,  or  that  the  two  must 
become  fused  and  harmonized  into  a  single  existence. 
Get  your  hat,  mount  my  groom's  horse,  and  come  with  me 
to  London  ;  we  will  converse  by  the  way.  Look  you, 
I  believe  you  and  I  agree  in  this,  that  the  first  object 
of  every  nobler  spirit  is  independence.  It  is  toward  this 
independence  that  I  alone  presume  to  assist  you  ;  and 
this  is  a  service  which  the  proudest  man  can  receive  with- 
out a  blush." 

Leonard  lifted  his  eyes  toward  Harley's,  and  those 
eyes  swam  with  grateful  tears  ;  but  his  heart  was  too  full  to 
answer. 

"I  am  not  one  of  those,"  said  Harley,  when  they  were 
on  the  road,  "who  think  that  because  a  young  man  writes 
poetry  he  is  fit  for  nothing  else,  and  that  he  must  be  a 
poet  or  a  pauper.  I  have  said  that  in  you  there  seem  to 
me  to  be  two  men,  the  man  of  the  Actual  world,  the  man 
of  the  Ideal.  To  each  of  these  men  I  can  offer  a  separate 
career.  The  first  is  perhaps  the  more  tempting.  It  is 
the  interest  of  the  state  to  draw  into  its  service  all  the 
talent  and  industry  it  can  obtain  ;  and  under  his  native 
state  every  citizen  of  a  free  country  should  be  proud  to 
take  service.  I  have  a  friend  who  is  a  minister,  and  who  is 
known  to  encourage  talent — Audley  Egerton.  I  have  but 
to  say  to  him,  '  There  is  a  young  man  who  will  well  repay 
to  the  government  whatever  the  government  bestows  on 
him  ;'  and  you  will  rise  to-morrow  independent  in  means, 
and  with  fair  occasions  to  attain  to  fortune  and  distinction. 
This  is  one  offer — what  say  you  to  it  ? " 

Leonard  thought  bitterly  of  his  interview  with  Audley 
Egerton,  and  the  minister's  proffered  crown-piece.  He 
shook  his  head,  and  replied — 

"  Oh,  my  Lord,  how  have  I  deserved  such   kindness  ? 


VARIETIES     IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  503 

Do  with  me  what  you  will ;  but  if  I  have  the  option,  I 
would  rather  follow  my  own  calling.  This  is  not  the 
ambition  which  inflames  me." 

"  Hear,  then,  the  other  offer.  I  have  a  friend  with 
whom  I  am  less  intimate  than  Egerton,  and  who  has 
nothing  in  his  gift  to  bestow.  I  speak  of  a  man  of  letters 
— Henry  Norreys — of  whom  you  have  doubtless  heard, 
who,  I  should  say,  conceived  an  interest  in  you  when  he 
observed  you  reading  at  the  book-stall.  I  have  often  heard 
him  say,  '  that  literature  as  a  profession  is  misunderstood, 
and  that  rightly  followed,  with  the  same  pains  and  the 
same  prudence  which  are  brought  to  bear  on  other  pro- 
fessions, a  competence  at  least  can  be  always  ultimately 
obtained.'  But  the  way  may  be  long  and  tedious — and 
it  leads  to  no  power  but  over  thought ;  it  rarely  attains 
to  wealth  ;  and,  though  reputation  may  be  certain,  Fame, 
such  as  poets  dream  of,  is  the  lot  of  few.  What  say  you  to 
this  course  ? " 

"My  Lord,  I  decide,"  said  Leonard,  firmly;  and  then, 
his  young  face  lighting  up  with  enthusiasm,  he  exclaimed, 
"Yes,  if,  as  you  say,  there  be  two  men  within  me,  I  feel 
that  were  I  condemned  wholly  to  the  mechanical  and 
practical  world,  one  would  indeed  destroy  the  other.  And 
the  conqueror  would  be  the  ruder  and  the  coarser.  Let 
me  pursue  those  ideas  that,  though  they  have  but  flitted 
across  me,  vague  and  formless — have  ever  soared  toward  the 
sunlight.  No  matter  whether  or  not  they  lead  to  fortune  or 
to  fame,  at  least  they  will  lead  me  upward  !  Knowledge  for 
itself  I  desire — what  care  I  if  it  be  not  power  ! " 

"  Enough,"  said  Harley,  with  a  pleased  smile  at  his 
young  companion's  outburst.  "  As  you  decide  so  shall  it 
be  settled.  And  now  permit  me,  if  not  impertinent,  to  ask 
you  a  few  questions.  Your  name  is  Leonard  Fair  field  ?  " 

The  boy  blushed  deeply,  and  bowed  his  head  as  if  in 
assent. 

"  Helen  says  you  are  self-taught  ;  for  the  rest  she  refers 
me  to  you  ;  thinking,  perhaps,  that  I  should  esteem  you 
less — rather  than  yet  more  highly — if  she  said  you  were,  as 
I  presume  to  conjecture,  of  humble  birth." 

"  My  birth,"  said  Leonard,  slowly,  "  is  very — very — 
humble." 

"  The  name  of  Fairfield  is  not  unknown  to  me.  There 
was  one  of  that  name  who  married  into  a  family  in  Lans- 
mere — married  an  Avenel,"  continued  Harley,  and  his 


504  MY  NOVEL;    OR, 

voice    quivered.     "You    change   countenance.     Oh,    could 
your  mother's  name  have  been  Avenel  ? " 

"Yes,"  said  Leonard,  between  his  set  teeth.  Harley 
laid  his  hand  on  the  boy's  shoulder.  "Then,  indeed,  I 
have  a  claim  on  you — then,  indeed,  we  are  friends.  I 
have  a  right  to  serve  any  of  that  family." 

Leonard  looked  at  him  in  surprise. 

— "For,"  continued  Harley,  recovering  himself,  "they 
always  served  my  family  ;  and  my  recollections  of  Lans- 
mere,  though  boyish,  are  indelible."  He  spurred  on  his 
horse  as  the  words  closed — and  again  there  was  a  long 
pause  ;  but  from  that  time  Harley  always  spoke  to  Leonard 
in  a  soft  voice,  and  often  gazed  on  him  with  earnest 
and  kindly  eyes. 

They  reached  a  house  in  a  central  though  not  fashion- 
able street.  A  man-servant  of  a  singularly  grave  and 
awful  aspect  opened  the  door — a  man  who  had  lived  all 
his  life  with  authors.  Poor  fellow,  he  was  indeed  pre- 
maturely old  !  The  care  on  his  lip  and  the  pomp  on  his 
brow — no  mortal's  pen  can  describe  ! 

"  Is  Mr.  Norreys  at  home  ?  "  asked  Harley. 

"  He  is  at  home — to  his  friends,  my  Lord,"  answered 
the  man,  majestically ;  and  he  stalked  across  the  hall 
with  the  step  of  a  Dangeau  ushering  some  Montmorenci 
into  the  presence  of  Louis  le  Grand. 

"Stay — show  this  gentleman  into  another  room.  I 
will  go  first  into  the  library ;  wait  for  me,  Leonard." 
The  man  nodded,  and  conducted  Leonard  into  the  dining- 
room.  Then  pausing  before  the  door  of  the  library,  and 
listening  an  instant,  as  if  fearful  to  disturb  some  mood 
of  inspiration,  opened  it  very  softly.  To  his  ineffable  dis- 
gust, Harley  pushed  before,  and  entered  abruptly.  It 
was  a  large  room,  lined  with  books  from  the  floor  to  the 
ceiling.  Books  were  on  all  the  tables — books  were  on  all 
the  chairs.  Harley  seated  himself  on  a  folio  of  Raleigh's 
History  of  the  World,  and  cried — 

"  I  have  brought  you  a  treasure  !  " 

"  What  is  it  ? "  said  Norreys,  good-humoredly,  looking 
up  from  his  desk. 

"  A  mind  !  " 

"  A  mind  !  "  echoed  Norreys,  vaguely.     "Your  own  ?  " 

"  Pooh — I  have  none — I  have  only  a  heart  and  a  fancy. 
Listen.  You  remember  the  boy  we  saw  reading  at  the  book- 
stall. I  have  caught  him  for  you,  and  you  shall  train  him 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  505 

into  a  man.  I  have  the  warmest  interest  in  his  future — for 
I  know  some  of  his  family — and  one  of  that  family  was  very 
dear  to  me.  As  for  money,  he  has  not  a  shilling,  and  not  a 
shilling  would  he  accept  gratis  from  you  or  me  either.  But 
he  comes  with  bold  heart  to  work — and  work  you  must  find 
him."  Harley  then  rapidly  told  his  friend  of  the  two  offers 
he  had  made  to  Leonard — and  Leonard's  choice. 

"This  promises  very  well ;  for  letters  a  man  must  have 
a  strong  vocation  as  he  should  have  for  law — I  will  do  all 
that  you  wish." 

Harley  rose  with  alertness — shook  Norreys  cordially  by 
the  hand — hurried  out  of  the  room,  and  returned  with 
Leonard. 

Mr.  Norreys  eyed  the  young  man  with  attention.  He  was 
naturally  rather  severe  than  cordial  in  hismannerto  strangers 
— contrasting  in  this,  as  in  most  things,  the  poor  vagabond 
Burley.  But  hewasagood  judge  of  the  human  countenance, 
and  he  liked  Leonard's.  After  a  pause  he  held  out  his  hand. 

"  Sir,"  said  he,  "  Lord  L'Estrange  tells  me  that  you  wish 
to  enter  literature  as  a  calling,  and  no  doubt  to  study  it  as 
an  art.  I  may  help  you  in  this,  and  you  meanwhile  can 
help  me.  I  want  an  amanuensis — I  offer  you  that  place. 
The  salary  will  be  proportioned  to  the  services  you  will 
render  me.  I  have  a  room  in  my  house  at  your  disposal. 
When  I  first  came  up  to  London,  I  made  the  same  choice 
that  I  hear  you  have  done.  I  have  no  cause,  even  in  a 
worldly  point  of  view,  to  repent  my  choice.  It  gave  me  an 
income  larger  than  my  wants.  I  trace  my  success  to  these 
maxims,  which  are  applicable  to  all  professions — ist,  Never 
to  trust  to  genius  for  what  can  be  obtained  by  labor  ;  2dly, 
Never  to  profess  to  teach  what  we  have  not  studied  to  un- 
derstand ;  3rdly,  Never  to  engage  our  word  to  what  we  do 
not  our  best  to  execute. 

"  With  these  rules,  literature — provided  a  man  does  not 
mistake  his  vocation  for  it,  and  will,  under  good  advice,  go 
through  preliminary  discipline  of  natural  powers,  which  all 
vocations  require — is  as  good  a  calling  as  any  other.  With- 
out them,  a  shoeblack's  is  infinitely  better." 

"  Possibly  enough,"  muttered  Harley  ;  "but  there  have 
been  great  writers  who  observed  none  of  your  maxims." 

"  Great  writers,   probably,   but  very   unenviable    men. 
My  Lord,  my  Lord,  don't  corrupt  the  pupil  you  bring  to 
me."     Harley  smiled  and  took  his  departure,  and  left  Gen- 
ius at  school  with  Common  Sense  and  Experience. 
22 


5o6  MY  NOVEL;    OR, 


CHAPTER  XX. 

WHILE  Leonard  Fairfield  had  been  obscurely  wrestling 
against  poverty,  neglect,  hunger,  and  dread  temptation, 
bright  had  been  the  opening  day,  and  smooth  the  upward 
path,  of  Randal  Leslie.  Certainly  no  young  man,  able  and 
ambitious,  could  enter  life  under  fairer  auspices  ;  the  con- 
nection and  avowed  favorite  of  a  popular  and  energetic 
statesman,  the  brilliant  writer  of  a  political  work,  that  had 
lifted  him  at  once  into  a  station  of  his  own — received  and 
courted  in  those  highest  circles,  to  which  neither  rank  nor 
fortune  alone  suffices  for  a  familiar  passport — the  circles 
above  fashion  itself— the  circles  of  POWER — with  every  facil- 
ity of  augmenting  information,  and  learning  the  world  be- 
times through  the  talk  of  its  acknowledged  masters, — 
Randal  had  but  to  move  straight  onward,  and  success  was 
sure.  But  his  tortuous  spirit  delighted  in  scheme  and  in- 
trigue for  their  own  sake.  In  scheme  and  intrigue  he  saw 
shorter  paths  to  fortune,  if  not  to  fame.  His  besetting  sin 
was  also  his  besetting  weakness.  He  did  not  aspire — he 
coveted.  Though  in  a  far  higher  social  position  than  Frank 
Hazeldean,  despite  the  worldly  prospects  of  his  old  school- 
fellow, he  coveted  the  very  things  that  kept  Frank  Hazel- 
dean  below  him— coveted  his  idle  gaities,  his  careless 
pleasures,  his  very  waste  of  youth.  Thus,  also,  Randal 
less  aspired  to  Audley  Egerton's  repute  than  he  coveted 
Audley  Egerton's  wealth  and  pomp,  his  princely  expendi- 
ture, and  his  Castle  Rackrent  in  Grosvenor  Square.  It  was 
the  misfortune  of  his  birth  to  be  so  near  to  both  these  for- 
tunes— near  to  that  of  Leslie,  as  the  future  head  of  that 
fallen  house, — near  even  to  that  of  Hazeldean,  since,  as  we 
have  seen  before,  if  the  Squire  had  DO  son,  Randal's 
descent  from  the  Hazeldeans  suggested  himself  as  the  one 
on  whom  these  broad  lands  should  devolve.  Most  young 
men,  brought  into  intimate  contact  with  Audley  Egerton, 
would  have  felt  for  that  personage  a  certain  loyal  and  ad- 
miring, if  not  very  affectionate  respect.  For  there  was 
something  grand  in  Egerton— something  that  commands 
and  fascinates  the  young.  His  determined  courage,  his 
energetic  will,  his  almost  regal  liberality,  contrasting  a 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  507 

simplicity  in  personal  tastes  and  habits  that  was  almost 
austere — his  rare  and  seemingly  unconscious  power  of 
charming  even  the  women  most  wearied  of  homage,  and 
persuading  even  the  men  most  obdurate  to  counsel — all 
served  to  invest  the  practical  man  with  those  spells  which 
are  usually  confined  to  the  ideal  one.  But,  indeed,  Audley 
Egerton  was  an  ideal — the  ideal  of  the  Practical.  Not  the 
mere  vulgar,  plodding,  red-tape  machine  of  petty  business, 
but  the  man  of  strong  sense,  inspired  by  inflexible  energy, 
and  guided  to  definite  earthly  objects.  In  a  dissolute  and 
corrupt  form  of  government,  under  a  decrepit  monarchy, 
or  a  vitiated  republic,  Audley  Egerton  might  have  been  a 
most  dangerous  citizen  ;  for  his  ambition  was  so  resolute, 
and  his  sight  to  its  ends  wras  so  clear.  But  there  is  some- 
thing in  public  life  in  England  which  compels  the  really 
ambitious  man  to  honor,  unless  his  eyes  are  jaundiced  and 
oblique,  like  Randal  Leslie's.  It  is  so  necessary  in  England 
to  be  a  gentleman.  And  thus  Egerton  was  emphaticallv 
considered  a  gentleman.  Without  the  least  pride  in  other 
matters,  with  little  apparent  sensitiveness,  touch  him  on  the 
point  of  gentleman,  and  no  one  so  sensitive  and  so  proud.  As 
Randal  saw  more  of  him,  and  watched  his  moods  with  the 
lynx-eyes  of  the  household  spy,  he  could  perceive  that  this 
hard  mechanical  man  was  subject  to  fits  of  melancholy, 
even  of  gloom  ;  and  though  they  did  not  last  long,  there 
was  even  in  his  habitual  coldness  an  evidence  of  something 
compressed,  latent,  painful,  lying  deep  within  his  memory. 
This  would  have  interested  the  kindly  feelings  of  a  grateful 
heart.  But  Randal  detected  and  watched  it  only  as  a  clue 
to  some  secret  it  might  profit  him  to  gain.  For  Randal  Les- 
lie hated  Egerton  ;  and  hated  him  the  more  because,  with 
all  his  book-knowledge  and  his  conceit  in  his  own  talents, 
he  could  not  despise  his  patron — because  he  had  not  yet 
succeeded  in  making  his  patron  the  mere  tool  or  stepping- 
stone — because  he  thought  that  Egerton's  keen  eye  saw 
through  his  wily  heart,  even  while,  as  if  in  profound  dis- 
dain, the  minister  helped  the  protege".  But  this  last  suspi- 
cion was  unsound.  Egerton  had  not  detected  Leslie's 
corrupt  and  treacherous  nature.  He  might  have  other 
reasons  for  keeping  him  at  a  certain  distance,  but  he  in- 
quired too  little  into  Randal's  feelings  toward  himself  to 
question  the  attachment,  or  doubt  the  sincerity,  of  one  who 
owed  to  him  so  much.  But  that  which  more  than  all  embit- 
tered Randal's  feelings  toward  Egerton,  was  the  careful 


So8  Ml'  NOVEL;    OK, 

and  deliberate  frankness  with  which  the  latter  had,  more 
than  once,  repeated  and  enforced  the  odious  announcement, 
that  Randal  had  nothing  to  expect  from  the  minister's — 
WILL  ; — nothing  to  expect  from  that  wealth  which  glared  in 
the  hungry  eyes  of  the  pauper  heir  to  the  Leslies  of  Rood. 
To  whom,  then,  could  Egerton  mean  to  devise  his  fortune  ? 
To  whom  but  Frank  Hazeldean  ?  Yet  Audley  took  so  little 
notice  of  his  nephew — seemed  so  indifferent  to  him,  that 
that  supposition,  however  natural,  was  exposed  to  doubt. 
The  astuteness  of  Randal  was  perplexed.  Meanwhile, 
however,  the  less  he  himself  could  rely  upon  Egerton  for 
fortune,  the  more  he  revolved  the  possible  chances  of  oust- 
ing Frank  from  the  inheritance  of  Hazeldean — in  part,  at 
least,  if  not  wholly.  To  one  less  scheming,  crafty,  and  re- 
morseless than  Randal  Leslie,  such  a  project  would  have 
seemed  the  wildest  delusion.  But  there  was  something 
fearful  in  the  manner  in  which  this  young  man  sought  to 
turn  knowledge  into  power,  and  make  the  study  of  all 
weakness  in  others  subservient  to  his  own  ends.  He  wormed 
himself  thoroughly  into  Frank's  confidence.  He.  learned, 
through  Frank,  all  the  Squire's  peculiarities  of  thought  and 
temper,  and  pondered  over  each  word  in  the  father's  letters, 
which  the  son  gradually  got  into  the  habit  of  showing  to 
the  perfidious  eyes  of  his  friend.  Randal  saw  that  the 
Squire  had  two  characteristics,  which  are  very  common 
amongst  proprietors,  and  which  might  be  invoked  as  an- 
tagonists to  his  warm  fatherly  love.  First,  the  Squire  was 
as  fond  of  his  estate  as  if  it  were  a  living  thing,  and  part  of 
his  own  flesh  and  blood  ;  and  in  his  lecture  to  Frank  upon 
the  sin  of  extravagance,  the  Squire  always  let  out  this 
foible: — "What  was  to  become  of  the  estate  if  it  fell  into 
the  hands  of  a  spendthrift?  No  man  should  make  ducks 
and  drakes  of  Hazeldean  ;  let  Frank  beware  of  that"  etc. 
Secondly,  the  Squire  was  not  only  fond  of  his  lands,  but  he 
was  jealous  of  them — that  jealousy  which  even  the  tender- 
est  fathers  sometimes  entertain  toward  their  natural  heirs. 
He  could  not  bear  the  notion  that  Frank  should  count  on 
his  death  ;  and  he  seldom  closed  an  admonitory  letter  with- 
out repeating  the  information  that  Hazeldean  was  not 
entailed  ;  that  it  was  his  to  do  with  as  he  pleased  through 
life  and  in  death.  Indirect  menace  of  this  nature  rather 
wounded  and  galled  than  intimidated  Frank  ;  for  the  young 
man  was  extremely  generous  and  high-spirited  by  nature, 
and  was  always  more  disposed  to  some  indiscretion  after 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  509 

such  warnings  to  his  self-interest,  as  if  to  show  that  those 
were  the  last  kinds  of  appeals  likely  to  influence  him.  By 
the  help  of  such  insights  into  the  character  of  father  and 
son,  Randal  thought  he  saw  gleams  of  daylight  illuminat- 
ing his  own  chance  to  the  lands  of  Hazeldean.  Meanwhile 
it  appeared  to  him  obvious  that,  come  what  might  of  it,  his 
own  interests  could  not  lose,  and  might  most  probably  gain, 
by  whatever  could  alienate  the  Squire  from  his  natural 
heir.  Accordingly,  though  with  consummate  tact,  he  in- 
stigated Frank  toward  the  very  excesses  most  calculated 
to  irritate  the  Squire,  all  the  while  appearing  rather  to  give 
the  counter  advice,  and  never  sharing  in  any  of  the  follies 
to  which  he  conducted  his  thoughtless  friend.  In  this  he 
worked  chiefly  through  others,  introducing  Frank  to  every 
acquaintance  most  dangerous  to  youth,  either  from  the  wit 
that  laughs  at  prudence,  or  the  spurious  magnificence  that 
subsists  so  handsomely  upon  bills  endorsed  by  friends  of 
"  great  expectations." 

The  minister  and  his  protege  were  seated  at  breakfast, 
the  first  reading  the  newspaper,  the  last  glancing  over  his 
letters  ;  for  Randal  had  arrived  at  the  dignity  of  receiving 
many  letters — ay,  and  notes  too,  three-cornered,  and  fan- 
tastically embossed.  Egerton  uttered  an  exclamation,  and 
laid  down  the  newspaper.  Randal  looked  up  from  his  cor- 
respondence. The  minister  had  sunk  into  one  of  his  absent 
reveries. 

After  a  long  silence,  observing  that  Egerton  did  not  re- 
turn to  the  newspaper,  Randal  said,  "  Ehem — sir,  I  have  a 
note  from  Frank  Hazeldean,  who  wants  much  to  see  me  ; 
his  father  has  arrived  in  town  unexpectedly." 

"What  brings  him  here  ?"  asked  Egerton,  still  abstractedly. 

"  Why,  it  seems  that  he  has  heard  some  vague  reports  of 
poor  Frank's  extravagance,  and  Frank  is  rather  afraid,  or 
ashamed,  to  meet  him." 

"  Ay — a  very  great  fault  extravagance  in  the  young  ! — 
destroys  independence  ;  ruins  or  enslaves  the  future.  Great 
fault — very  !  And  what  does  youth-  want  that  it  should  be 
extravagant  ?  Has  it  not  everything  in  itself  merely  because 
it  is  ?  Youth  is  youth — what  needs  it  more  ?  " 

Egerton  rose  as  he  said  this,  and  retired  to  his  writing- 
table,  and  in  his  turn  opened  his  correspondence.  Randal 
took  up  the  newspaper,  and  endeavored,  but  in  vain,  to  con- 
jecture what  had  excited  the  minister's  exclamation,  and 
the  reverie  that  succeeded  it. 


5io  MY  NOVEL;    OR, 

Egerton  suddenly  and  sharply  turned  round  in  his  chair 
— "  If  you  have  done  with  the  Times,  have  the  goodness  to 
place  it  here." 

Randal  had  just  obeyed,  when  a  knock  at  the  street-door 
was  heard,  and  presently  Lord  L'Estrange  came  into  the 
room,  with  somewhat  a  quicker  step,  and  somewhat  a  gayer 
mien  than  usual. 

Audley's  hand,  as  if  mechanically,  fell  upon  the  news- 
paper— fell  upon  that  part  of  the  columns  devoted  to  births, 
deaths  and  marriges.  Randal  stood  by,  and  noted  ;  then, 
bowing  to  L'Estrange,  left  the  room. 

"  Audley,"  said  L'Estrange,  "  I  have  had  an  adventure 
since  I  saw  you — an  adventure  that  re-opened  the  past,  and 
may  influence  my  future." 

"  How  ?  " 

"  In  the  first  place,  I  have  met  with  a  relation  of — of — 
the  Avenels." 

"  Indeed  !     Whom — Richard  Avenel  ?  " 

"  Richard — Richard — who  is  he  ?  Oh,  I  remember  ;  the 
wild  lad  who  went  off  to  America  ;  but  that  was  when  I  was 
a  mere  child." 

"  That  Richard  Avenel  is  now  a  rich,  thriving  trader, 
and  his  marriage  is  in  this  newspaper — married  to  an  Honor- 
able Mrs.  M'Catchley.  Well — in  this  country — who  should 
plume  himself  on  birth  ?  " 

"  You  did  not  say  so  always,  Egerton,"  replied  Harley, 
with  a  tone  of  mournful  reproach. 

"And  I  say  so  now,  pertinently  to  a  Mrs.  M'Catchley, 
not  to  the  heir  of  the  L'Estranges.  But  no  more  of  these 
— these  Avenels." 

"  Yes,  more  of  them.  I  tell  you  I  have  met  a  relation  of 
theirs — a  nephew  of — of " 

"  Richard  Avenel's  ?  "  interrupted  Egerton  ;  and  then 
added,  in  the  slow,  deliberate,  argumentative  tone  in  which 
he  was  wont  to  speak  in  public,  "  Richard  Avenel,  the  trader! 
I  saw  him  once — a  presuming  and  intolerable  man  !  " 

"  The  nephew  has  not  those  sins.  He  is  full  of  promise, 
of  modesty,  yet  of  pride.  And  his  countenance — oh,  Eger- 
ton, he  has  her  eyes." 

Egerton  made  no  answer,  and  Harley  resumed — 

"  I  had  thought  of  placing  him  under  your  care.  I  knew 
you  would  provide  for  him." 

"I  will.  Bring  him  hither,"  cried  Egerton,  eagerly. 
"  All  that  I  can  do  to  prove  my — regard  for  a  wish  of  yours." 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  511 

Harley  pressed  his  friend's  hand  warmly. 

"  I  thank  you  from  my  heart ;  the  Audley  of  my  boy- 
hood speaks  now.  But  the  young  man  has  decided  other- 
wise ;  and  I  do  not  blame  him.  Nay,  I  rejoice  that  he 
chooses  a  career  in  which,  if  he  find  hardship,  he  may  es- 
cape dependence." 

"  And  that  career  is " 

"Letters." 

"  Letters — literature  !  "  exclaimed  the  statesman.  "  Beg- 
gary !  No,  no,  Harley,  this  is  your  absurd  romance." 

"  It  will  not  be  beggary,  and  it  is  not  my  romance  ;  it  is 
the  boy's.  Leave  him  alone  ;  he  is  my  care  and  my  charge 
henceforth.  He  is  of  her  blood,  and  1  said  that  he  had  her 
eyes." 

"  But  you  are  going  abroad  ;  let  me  know  where  he  is  ; 
I  will  watch  over  him." 

"And  unsettle  a  right  ambition  for  a  wrong  one?  No 
— you  shall  know  nothing  of  him  till  he  can  proclaim  him- 
self. I  think  that  day  will  come." 

Audley  mused  a  moment,  and  then  said,  "  Well,  perhaps 
you  are  right.  After  all,  as  you  say,  independence  is  a 
great  blessing,  and  my  ambition  has  not  rendered  myself 
the  better  or  the  happier." 

"  Yet,  my  poor  Audley,  you  ask  me  to  be  ambitious." 

"  I  only  wish  you  to  be  consoled,"  cried  Egerton,  with 
passion. 

"  I  will  try  to  be  so  ;  and  by  the  help  of  a  milder  remedy 
than  yours.  I  said  that  my  adventure  might  influence  my 
future  ;  it  brought  me  acquainted  not  only  with  the  young 
man  I  speak  of,  but  the  most  winning,  affectionate  child — 
a  girl." 

"  Is  this  child  an  Avenel  too  ?  " 

"  No,  she  is  of  gentle  blood — a  soldier's  daughter  ;  the 
daughter  of  that  Captain  Digby  on  whose  behalf  I  was  a 
petitioner  to  your  patronage.  He  is  dead,  and  in  dying  my 
name  was  on  his  lips.  He  meant  me,  doubtless,  to  be  the 
guardian  to  his  orphan.  I  shall  be  so.  I  have  at  last  an 
object  in  life." 

"  But  can  you  seriously  mean  to  take  this  child  with  you 
abroad  ? " 

"Seriously,  I  do." 

"  And  lodge  her  in  your  own  house  ?  ' 

"  For  a  year  or  so,  while  she  is  yet  a  child.  Then,  as 
she  approaches  youth,  I  shall  place  her  elsewhere." 


512  MY  NOVEL;    OR, 

11  You  may  grow  to  love  her.  Is  it  clear  that  she  will 
love  you  ? — not  mistake  gratitude  for  love  ?  It  is  -a  very 
hazardous  experiment." 

"  So  was  William  the  Norman's — still  he  was  William 
the  Conqueror.  Thou  biddest  me  move  on  from  the  Past, 
and  be  consoled,  yet  thou  wouldst  make  me  as  inapt  to 
progress,  as  the  mule  in  Slawkenbergius's  tale,  with  tl  y 
cursed  interlocutions,  '  Stumbling,  by  St.  Nicholas,  every 
step.  Why,  at  this  rate,  we  shall  be  all  night  in  getting 
into — '  Happiness!  Listen,"  continued  Harley,  setting  off, 
full  pelt,  into  one  of  his  wild,  whimsical  humors.  "  One  of 
the  sons  of  the  prophets  in  Israel,  felling  wood  near  the 
River  Jordan,  his  hatchet  forsook  the  helve,  and  fell  to  the 
bottom  of  the  river  ;  so  he  prayed  to  have  it  again  (it  was 
but  a  small  request,  mark  you)  ;  and  having  a  strong  faith, 
he  did  not  throw  the  hatchet  after  the  helve,  but  the  helve 
after  the  hatchet.  Presently,  two  great  miracles  were  seen. 
Up  springs  the  hatchet  from  the  bottom  of  the  water,  and 
fixes  itself  to  its  old  acquaintance,  the  helve.  Now,  had  he 
wished  to  coach  it  up  to  heaven  in  a  fiery  chariot,  like 
Elias,  be  as  rich  as  Job,  strong  as  Samson,  and  beautiful  as 
Absalom,  would  he  have  obtained  the  wish,  do  you  think  ? 
In  truth,  my  friend,  I  question  it  very  much." 

"  I  can't  comprehend  what  you  mean.  Sad  stuff  you 
are  talking." 

"  I  cannot  help  that  ;  Rabelais  is  to  be  blamed  for  it. 
I  am  quoting  him,  and  it  is  to  be  found  in  his  Prologue  to 
the  Chapters  on  the  Moderation  of  Wishes.  Kn&iiproposoi 
'  moderate  wishes  in  point  of  hatchet,'  I  want  you  to  under- 
stand that  I  ask  but  little  from  Heaven.  I  fling  but  the 
helve  after  the  hatchet  that  has  sunk  into  the  silent  stream. 
I  want  the  other  half  of  the  weapon  that  is  buried  fathom 
deep,  and  for  want  of  which  the  thick  woods  darken  round 
me  by  the  Sacred  River,  and  I  can  catch  not  a  glimpse  of 
the  stars." 

"  In  plain  English,"  said  Audley  Egerton,  "you  want — " 
he  stopped  short,  puzzled. 

"  I  want  my  purpose  and  my  will,  and  my  old  character, 
and  the  nature  God  gave  me.  I  want  the  half  of  my  soul 
which  has  fallen  from  me.  I  want  such  love  as  may  replace 
to  me  the  vanished  affections.  Reason  not — I  throw  the 
helve  after  the  hatchet." 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LiFE.  513 


CHAPTER  XXI. 

RANDAL  LESLIE,  on  leaving  Audley,  repaired  to  Frank's 
lodgings,  and  after  being  closeted  with  the  young  Guards- 
man an  hour  or  so,  took  his  way  to  Limner's  hotel,  and 
asked  for  Mr.  Hazeldean.  He  was  shown  into  the  coffee- 
room,  while  the  waiter  went  up-stairs  with  his  card,  to  see 
if  the  Squire  was  within,  and  disengaged.  The  Times  news- 
paper lay  sprawling  on  one  of  the  tables,  and  Randal,  lean- 
ing over  it,  looked  with  attention  into  the  column  contain- 
ing births,  deaths,  and  marriages.  But  in  that  long  and 
miscellaneous  li?t,  he  could  not  conjecture  the  name  which 
had  so  excited  Mr.  Egerton's  interest. 

"  Vexatious  !  "  he  muttered  ;  "  there  is  no  knowledge 
which  has  power  more  useful  than  that  of  the  secrets  of 
men." 

He  turned  as  the  waiter  entered  and  said  that  Mr. 
Hazeldean  would  be  glad  to  see  him. 

As  Randal  entered  the  drawing-room,  the  Squire, 
shaking  hands  with  him,  looked  toward  the  door  as  if  ex- 
pecting some  one  else,  and  his  honest  face  assumed  a  blank 
expression  of  disappointment  when  the  door  closed,  and  he 
found  that  Randal  was  unaccompanied. 

"  Well,"  said  he,  bluntly,  "  I  thought  your  old  school- 
fellow, Frank,  might  have  been  with  you." 

"  Have  not  you  seen  him  yet,  sir  i " 

"  No,  I  came  to  town  this  morning  ;  travelled  outside 
the  mail  ;  sent  to  his  barracks,  but  the  young  gentleman 
does  not  sleep  there — has  an  apartment  of  his  own  ;  he 
never  told  me  that.  We  are  a  plain  family,  the  Hazeldeans 
—young  sir ;  and  I  hate  being  kept  in  the  dark,  by  my  own 
son,  too." 

Randal  made  no  answer,  but  looked  sorrowful.  The 
Squire,  who  had  never  before  seen  his  kinsman,  had  a  vague 
idea  that  it  was  not  polite  to  entertain  a  stranger,  though  a 
connection  to  himself,  with  his  family  troubles,  and  so  re- 
sumed good-naturedly — 

"  I  am  very  glad  to  make  your  acquaintance  at  last,  Mr. 
Leslie.  You  know,  I  hope,  that  you  have  good  Hazeldean 
blood  in  your  veins  J " 


5 H  MY  NOVEL;    OR, 

RANDAL  (smiling). — I  am  not  likely  to  forget  that ;  it  is 
the  boast  of  our  pedigree. 

SQUIRE  (heartily). — Shake  hands  again  on  it,  my  boy. 
You  don't  want  a  friend,  since  my  grandee  of  a  half-brother 
has  taken  you  up  ;  but  if  ever  you  should,  Hazeldean  is  not 
very  far  from  Rood.  Can't  get  on  with  your  father  at  all, 
my  lad — more's  the  pity,  for  I  think  I  could  have  given  him 
a  hint  or  two  as  to  the  improvement  of  his  property.  If  he 
would  plant  those  ugly  commons — larch  and  fir  soon  come 
into  profit,  sir  ;  and  there  are  some  lowlands  about  Rood 
that  would  take  mighty  kindly  to  draining. 

RANDAL. — My  poor  father  lives  a  life  so  retired,  and  you 
cannot  wonder  at  it.  Fallen  trees  lie  still,  and  so  do  fallen 
families. 

SQUIRE. — Fallen  families  can  get  up  again,  which  fallen 
trees  can't. 

RANDAL. — Ah,  sir,  it  often  takes  the  energy  of  genera- 
tions to  repair  the  thriftlessness  and  extravagance  of  a  sin- 
gle owner. 

SQUIRE  (his  brow  lowering). — That's  very  true.  Frank 
is  d d  extravagant  ;  treats  me  very  coolly,  too — not  com- 
ing ;  near  three  o'clock.  By  the  bye,  I  suppose  he  told 
you  where  I  was,  otherwise  how  did  you  find  me  out  ? 

RANDAL  (reluctantly). — Sir,  he  did  ;  and  to  speak  frank- 
ly, I  am  not  surprised  that  he  has  not  yet  appeared. 

SQUIRE. — Eh  ! 

RANDAL. — We  have  grown  very  intimate. 

SQUIRE. — So  he  writes  me  word — and  I  am  glad  of  it. 
Our  member,  Sir  John,  tells  me  you  are  a  very  clever  fellow, 
and  a  very  steady  one.  And  Frank  says  that  he  wishes  he 
had  your  prudence,  if  he  can't  have  your  talents.  He  has 
a  good  heart,  Frank  [added  the  father,  reluctantly].  But 
zounds,  sir,  you  say  you  are  not  surprised  he  has  not  come 
to  welcome  his  own  father  ! 

"  My  dear  sir,"  said  Randal,  "  you  wrote  word  to  Frank 
that  you  had  heard  from  Sir  John  and  others  of  his  goings-on, 
and  that  you  were  not  satisfied  with  his  replies  to  your  letters." 

"  Well." 

"  And  then  you  suddenly  come  up  to  town." 

"Well." 

"  Well.  And  Frank  is  ashamed  to  meet  you.  For,  as 
you  say,  he  has  been  extravagant,  and  he  has  exceeded  his 
allowance  ;  and  knowing  my  respect  for  you,  and  my  great 
affection  for  himself,  he  has  asked  me  to  prepare  you  to  re- 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  515 

ceive  his  confession  and  forgive  him.  I  know  I  am  taking 
a  great  liberty.  I  have  no  right  to  interfere  between  father 
and  son  ;  but  pray — pray  think  I  mean  for  the  best." 

"  Humph  !  "  said  the  Squire,  recovering  himself  very 
slowly,  and  showing  evident  pain,  "  I  knew  already  that 
Frank  had  spent  more  than  he  ought ;  but  I  think  he  should 
not  have  employed  a  third  person  to  prepare  me  to  forgive 
him.  (Excuse  me — no  offence.)  And  if  he  wanted  a  third 
person,  was  not  there  his  own  mother?  What  the  devil! 
[firing  up]  am  I  a  tyrant — a  bashaw — that  my  own  son  is 
afraid  to  speak  to  me  ?  Gad,  I'll  give  it  to  him  !  " 

"  Pardon  me,  sir,"  said  Randal,  assuming  at  once  that 
air  of  authority  which  superior  intellect  so  well  carries  off 
and  excuses,  "  but  I  strongly  advise  you  not  to  express  any 
anger  at  Frank's  confidence  in  me.  At  present  I  have  in- 
fluence over  him.  Whatever  you  may  think  of  his  extrava- 
gance, I  have  saved  him  from  many  an  indiscretion,  and 
many  a  debt — a  young  man  will  listen  to  one  of  his  own 
age  so  much  more  readily  than  even  to  the  kindest  friend  of 
graver  years.  Indeed,  sir,  I  speak  for  your  sake  as  well  as 
for  Frank's.  Let  me  keep  this  influence  over  him  ;  and 
don't  reproach  him  for  the  confidence  he  placed  in  me.  Nay, 
let  him  rather  think  that  I  have  softened  any  displeasure 
you  might  otherwise  have  felt." 

There  seemed  so  much  good  sense  in  what  Randal  said, 
and  the  kindness  of  it  seemed  so  disinterested,  that  the 
Squire's  native  shrewdness  was  deceived. 

"You  are  a  fine  young  fellow,"  said  he,  "and  I  am  very 
much  obliged  to  you.  Well,  I  suppose  there  is  no  putting 
old  heads  upon  young  shoulders  ;  and  I  promise  you  I'll 
not  say  an  angry  word  to  Frank.  I  dare  say,  poor  boy,  he 
is  very  much  afflicted,  and  I  long  to  shake  hands  with  him. 
So,  set  his  mind  at  ease." 

"Ah,  sir,"  said  Randal,  with  much  apparent  emotion, 
"  your  son  may  well  love  you  ;  and  it  seems  to  be  a  hard 
matter  for  so  kind  a  heart  as  yours  to  preserve  the  proper 
firmness  with  him." 

"Oh,  I  can  be  firm  enough,"  quoth  the  Squire — "es- 
pecially when  I  don't  see  him — handsome  dog  that  he  is  ; 
very  like  his  mother — don't  you  think  so  ?  " 

"  I  never  saw  his  mother,  sir." 

"  Gad  !  Not  seen  my  Harry  ?  No  more  you  have  ;  you 
must  come  and  pay  us  a  visit.  I  suppose  my  half-brother 
will  let  you  come  ?"  , 


516  MY  NOVEL;   OR, 

"  To  be  sure,  sir.  Will  you  not  call  on  him  while  you 
are  in  town  ?  " 

"  Not  I.  He  would  think  I  expected  to  get  something 
from  the  Government.  Tell  him  the  ministers  must  go  on 
a  little  better,  if  they  want  my  vote  for  their  member.  But 
go.  I  see  you  are  impatient  to  tell  Frank  that  all's  forgot 
and  forgiven.  Come  and  dine  with  him  here  at  six,  and 
let  him  bring  his  bills  in  his  pocket.  Oh,  I  shan't  scold 
him." 

"Why,  as  to  that,"  said  Randal,  smiling,  "  I  think  (for- 
give me  still)  that  you  should  not  take  it  too  easily  ;  just  as  I 
think  that  you  had  better  not  blame  him  for  his  very  natural 
and  praiseworthy  shame  in  approaching  you,  so  I  think, 
also,  that  you  should  do  nothing  that  would  tend  to  diminish 
that  shame— it  is  such  a  check  on  him.  And  therefore,  if 
you  can  contrive  to  affect  to  be  angry  with  him  for  his 
extravagance,  it  will  do  good." 

"  You  speak  like  a  book,  and  I'll  try  my  best." 

"  If  you  threaten,  for  instance,  to  take  him  out  of  the 
army,  and  settle  him  in  the  country,  it  would  have  a  very 
good  effect." 

"What!  would  he  think  it  so  great  a  punishment  to 
come  home  and  live  with  his  parents  ? " 

"  I  don't  say  that ;  but  he  is  naturally  so  fond  of  Lon- 
don. At  his  age,  and  with  his  large  inheritance,  that  is 
natural." 

"  Inheritance  !  "  said  the  Squire,  moodily — "  inheritance  ! 
he  is  not  thinking  of  that,  I  trust.  Zounds,  sir,  I  have  as 
good  a  life  as  his  own.  Inheritance  ! — to  be  sure  the  Casino 
property  is  entailed  on  him  ;  but  as  for  the  rest,  sir,  I  am 
no  tenant  for  life.  I  could  leave  the  Hazeldean  lands  to 
my  ploughman,  if  I  chose  it.  Inheritance,  indeed  !  " 

"  My  dear  sir,  I  did  not  mean  to  imply  that  Frank  would 
entertain  the  unnatural  and  monstrous  idea  of  calculating 
on  your  death  ;  and  all  we  have  to  do  is  to  get.  him  to  sow 
his  wild  oats  as  soon  as  possible — marry,  and  settle  down 
into  the  country.  For  it  would  be  a  thousand  pities  if  his 
own  habits  and  tastes  grew  permanent — a  bad  thing  for  the 
Hazeldean  property,  that !  And,"  added  Randal,  laughing, 
"  I  feel  an  interest  in  the  old  place,  since  my  grandmother 
comes  of  the  stock.  So  just  force  yourself  to  seem  angry, 
and  grumble  a  little  when  you  pay  the  bills." 

"  Ah,  ah,  trust  me,"  said  the  Squire,  doggedly,  and  with 
a  very  altered  air.  "  I  am  much  obliged  to  you  for  these 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  517 

hints,  my  young  kinsman."  And  his  stout  hand  trembled 
a  little  as  he  extended  it  to  Randal. 

Leaving  Limner's,  Randal  hastened  to  Frank's  rooms 
in  St.  James's  Street.  "  My  dear  fellow,"  said  he,  when  he 
entered,  "it  is  very  fortunate  that  I  persuaded  you  to  let 
me  break  matters  to  your  father.  You  might  well  say  he 
was  rather  passionate  ;  but  I  have  contrived  to  soothe  him. 
You  need  not  fear  that  he  will  not  pay  your  debts. " 

"I  never  feared  that,"  said  Frank,  changing  color,  "I 
only  feared  his  anger.  But,  indeed,  I  fear  his  kindness 
still  more.  What  a  reckless  hound  I  have  been  !  How- 
ever, it  shall  be  a  lesson  to  me.  And  my  debts  once  paid, 
I  will  turn  as  economical  as  yourself." 

"  Quite  right,  Frank.  And,  indeed,  I  am  a  little  afraid 
that,  when  your  father  knows  the  total,  he  may  execute  a 
threat  that  would  be  very  unpleasant  to  you." 

"  What's  that  ? " 

"  Make  you  sell  out,  and  give  up  London." 

"  The  devil !  "  exclaimed  Frank,  with  fervent  emphasis  ; 
"  that  would  be  treating  me  like  a  child." 

"Why,  it  would  make  you  seem  rather  ridiculous  to 
your  set,  which  is  not  a  very  rural  one.  And  you,  who  like 
London  so  much,  and  are  so  much  the  fashion." 

"  Don't  talk  of  it,"  cried  Frank,  walking  to  and  fro  the 
room  in  great  disorder. 

"  Perhaps,  on  the  whole,  it  might  be  well  not  to  say  all 
you  owe,  at  once.  If  you  named  half  the  sum,  your  father 
would  let  you  off  with  a  lecture  ;  and  really  I  tremble  at 
the  effect  of  the  total." 

"  But  how  shall  I  pay  the  other  half  ?" 

"  Oh,  you  must  save  from  your  allowance  ;  it  is  a  very 
liberal  one  ;  and  the  tradesmen  are  not  pressing." 

"  No — but  the  cursed  bill-brokers " 

"  Always  renew  to  a  young  man  of  your  expectations. 
And  if  I  get  into  an  office,  I  can  always  help  you,  my  dear 
Frank." 

"  Ah,  Randal,  I  am  not  so  bad  as  to  take  advantage  of 
your  friendship,"  said  Frank,  warmly.  "  But  it  seems  to 
me  mean,  after  all,  and  a  sort  of  a  lie,  indeed,  disguising 
the  real  state  of  my  affairs.  I  should  not  have  listened  to 
the  idea  from  any  one  else.  But  you  are  such  a  sensible, 
kind,  honorable  fellow." 

"  After  epithets  so  nattering,  I  shrink  from  the  respon- 
sibility of  advice.  But  apart  from  your  own  interests,  I 


SiS  My  NOVEL;    OR, 

should  be  glad  to  save  your  father  the  pain  he  would  feel 
at  knowing  the  whole  extent  of  the  scrape  you  have  got 
into.  And  if  it  entailed  on  you  the  necessity  to  lay  by — 
and  give  up  Hazard,  and  not  be  security  for  other  men  — 
why,  it  would  be  the  best  thing  that  could  happen.  Really, 
too,  it  seems  hard  upon  Mr.  Hazeldean,  that  he  should  be 
the  only  sufferer,  and  quite  just  that  you  sbxmld  bear  half 
your  own  burdens." 

"So  it  is,  Randal  ;  that  did  not  strike  me  before.  I  will 
take  your  counsel  ;  and  now  I  will  go  at  once  to  Limner's. 
My  dear  father  !  I  hope  he  is  looking  well  ?  " 

"  Oh,  very.  Such  a  contrast  to  the  sallow  Londoners  ! 
But  I  think  you  had  better  not  go  till  dinner.  He  has 
asked  me  to  meet  you  at  six.  I  will  call  for  you  a  little 
before,  and  we  can  go  together.  This  will  prevent  a  great 
deal  of g£ne  and  constraint.  Good-bye  till  then.  Ha!  by 
the  way,  I  think  if  I  were  you,  I  would  not  take  the  matter 
too  seriously  and  penitentially.  You  see,  the  best  of  fathers 
like  to  keep  their  sons  under  their  thumb,  as  the  saying  is. 
And  if  you  wTant  at  your  age  to  preserve  your  indepen- 
dence, and  not  be  hurried  off  and  buried  in  the  country, 
like  a  school-boy  in  disgrace,  a  little  manliness  of  bearing 
would  not  be  amiss.  You  can  think  over  it." 

The  dinner  at  Limner's  went  off  very  differently  from 
what  it  ought  to  have  done.  Randal's  words  had  sunk 
deep,  and  rankled  sorely  in  the  Squire's  mind  ;  and  that 
impression  imparted  a  certain  coldness  to  his  manner  which 
belied  the  hearty,  forgiving,  generous  impulse  with  which 
he  had  come  up  to  London,  and  which  even  Randal  had  not 
yet  altogether  whispered  away.  On  the  other  hand,  Frank, 
embarrassed  both  by  the  sense  of  disingenuousness,  and  a 
desire  "not  to  take  the  thing  too  seriously,"  seemed  to  the 
Squire  ungracious  and  thankless. 

After  dinner  the  Squire  began  to  hum  and  haw,  and 
Frank  to  color  up  and  shrink.  Both  felt  discomposed  by 
the  presence  of  a  third  person  ;  till,  with  an  art  and  address 
worthy  of  a  better  cause,  Randal  himself  broke  the  ice,  and 
so  contrived  to  remove  the  restraint  he  had  before  imposed, 
that  at  length  each  was  heartily  glad  to  have  matters  made 
clear  and  brief  by  his  dexterity  and  tact. 

Frank's  debts  were  not,  in  reality,  large  ;  and  when  he 
named  the  half  of  them — looking  down  in  shame — the 
Squire,  agreeably  surprised,  was  about  to  express  himself 
with  a  liberal  heartiness  that  would  have  opened  his  son's 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  519 

excellent  heart  at  once  to  him.  But  a  warning  look  from 
Randal  checked  the  impulse  ;  and  the  Squire  thought  it 
right,  as  he  had  promised,  to  affect  an  anger  he  did  not  feel, 
and  let  fall  the  unlucky  threat,  "  that  it  was  all  very  well 
once  in  a  way  to  exceed  his  allowance  ;  but  if  Frank  did  not, 
in  future,  show  more  sense  than  to  be  led  away  by  a  set  of 
London  sharks  and  coxcombs,  he  must  cut  the  army,  come 
home,  and  take  to  farming." 

Frank  imprudently  exclaimed,  "  Oh,  sir,  I  have  no  taste 
for  farming.  And  after  London,  at  my  age,  the  country 
would  be  so  horribly  dull." 

"  Aha  ! "  said  the  squire,  very  grimly — and  he  thrust 
back  into  his  pocket-book  some  extra  bank-notes  which  his 
fingers  had  itched  to  add  to  those  he  had  already  counted 
out.  "  The  country  is  terribly  dull,  is  it  ?  Money  goes 
there  not  upon  follies  and  vices,  but  upon  employing  honest 
laborers,  and  increasing  the  wealth  of  the  nation.  It  does 
not  please  you  to  spend  money  in  that  way  :  it  is  a  pity  you 
should  ever  be  plagued  with  such  duties." 

"  My  dear  father — 

"  Hold  your  tongue,  you  puppy.  Oh,  I  dare  say,  if  you 
were  in  my  shoes,  you  would  cut  down  the  oaks,  and  mort- 
gage the  property — sell  it,  for  what  I  know — all  go  on  a  cast 
of  the  dice  !  Aha,  sir — very  well,  very  well — the  country  is 
horribly  dull,  is  it  ?  Pray  stay  in  town." 

"  My  dear  Mr.  Hazeldean,"  said  Randal,  blandly,  and  as 
if  with  the  wish  to  turn  off  into  a  joke  what  threatened  to 
be  serious,  "  you  must  not  interpret  a  hasty  expression  so 
literally.  Why  would  you  make  Frank  as  bad  as  Lord 

A ,  who  wrote  word  to  his  steward  to  cut  down  more 

timber  ;  and  when  the  steward  replied,  '  There  are  only 
three  sign-posts  left  on  the  whole  estate,'  wrote  back,  '  They've 
done  growing  at  all  events — down  with  them  ! '  You  ought 
to  know  Lord  A ,  sir  ;  so  witty  ;  and — Frank's  particu- 
lar friend." 

"  Your  particular  friend,  Master  Frank  ?  Pretty  friends  ! " 
— and  the  Squire  buttoned  up  the  pocket  to  which  he  had 
transferred  his  note-book,  with  a  determined  air. 

"  But  I'm  his  friend,  too,"  said  Randal  kindly  ;  "  and  I 
preach  to  him  properly,  I  can  tell  you."  Then,  as  if  deli- 
cately anxious  to  change  the  subject,  he  began  to  ask  ques- 
tions upon  crops,  and  the  experiment  of  bone  manure.  He 
spoke  earnestly  and  with  gusto,  yet  with  the  deference  of 
one  listening  to  a  great  practical  authority.  Randal  had 


520  MY  NOVEL;    OR, 

spent  the  afternoon  in  cramming  the  subject  from  agricul- 
tural journals  and  Parliamentary  reports  ;  and  like  all  prac- 
tised readers,  had  really  learned  in  a  few  hours  more  than 
many  a  man,  unaccustomed  to  study,  could  gain  from  books 
in  a  year.  The  Squire  was  surprised  and  pleased  at  the 
young  scholar's  information  and  taste  for  such  subjects. 

"  But,  to  be  sure,"  quoth  he,  with  an  angry  look  at  poor 
Frank,  "  you  have  good  Hazeldean  blood  in  you,  and  know 
a  bean  from  a  turnip." 

"  Why,  sir,"  said  Randal  ingenuously,  "  I  am  training 
myself  for  public  life  ;  and  what  is  a  public  man  worth  if 
he  do  not  study  the  agriculture  of  his  country  ?" 

"  Right — what  is  he  worth  ?  Put  that  question,  with  my 
compliments,  to  my  half-brother.  What  stuff  he  did  talk, 
the  other  night,  on  the  malt  tax,  to  be  sure  ! " 

"  Mr.  Egerton  has  had  so  many  other  things  to  think  of, 
that  we  must  excuse  his  want  of  information  upon  one  topic, 
however  important.  With  his  strong  sense  he  must  acquire 
that  information,  sooner  or  later;  for  he  is  fond  of  power; 
and,  sir,  knowledge  is  power  !  " 

"  Very  true  ;  very  fine  saying,"  quoth  the  poor  Squire, 
unsuspiciously,  as  Randal's  eye  rested  on  Mr.  Hazeldean's 
open  face,  and  then  glanced  toward  Frank,  who  looked  sad 
and  bored. 

"Yes,"  repeated  Randal,  "  knowledge  is  power  ;"  and  he 
shook  his  head  wisely,  as  he  passed  the  bottle  to  his  host. 

Still,  when  the  Squire,  who  meant  to  return  to  the  Hall 
next  morning,  took  leave  of  Frank,  his  heart  warmed  to  his 
son  ;  and  still  more  for  Frank's  dejected  looks.  It  was  not 
Randal's  policy  to  push  estrangement  too  far  at  first,  and  in 
his  own  presence. 

"Speak  to  poor  Frank — kindly  now,  sir — do;"  whis- 
pered he,  observing  the  Squire's  watery  eyes,  as  he  moved 
to  the  window. 

The  Squire  rejoiced  to  obey,  thrust  out  his  hand  to  his 
son — "  My  dear  boy,"  said  he,  "there,  don't  fret — pshaw  ! — 
it  was  but  a  trifle  after  all.  Think  no  more  of  it." 

Frank  took  the  hand,  and  suddenly  threw  his  arm  round 
his  father's  broad  shoulder. 

"  Oh,  sir,  you  are  too  good — too  good."  His  voice 
trembled  so,  that  Randal  took  alarm,  passed  by  him,  and 
touched  him  meaningly. 

The  Squire  pressed  his  son  to  his  heart — heart  so  large, 
that  it  seemed  to  fill  the  whole  width  under  his  broadcloth. 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  521 

"  My  dear  Frank,"  said  he,  half  blubbering,  "it  is  not 
the  money  ;  but,  you  see,  it  so  vexes  your  poor  mother  ; 
you  must  be' careful  in  future  ;  and,  zounds,  boy,  it  will  be 
all  yours  one  day  ;  only  don't  calculate  on  it  ;  I  could  not 
bear  that — I  could  not,  indeed." 

"  Calculate  !  "  cried  Frank.     "  Oh,  sir,  can  you  think  it  ? " 

"  I  am  so  delighted  that  I  had  some  slight  hand  in  your 
complete  reconciliation  with  Mr.  Hazeldean,"  said  Randal, 
as  the  young  men  walked  from  the  hotel.  "  I  saw  that  you 
were  disheartened,  and  I  told  him  to  speak  to  you  kindly." 

"  Did  you  ?     Ah  !: — I  am  sorry  he  needed  telling." 

"  I  know  his -character  so  well  already,"  said  Randal, 
"  that  I  flatter  myself  I  can  always  keep  things  between  you 
as  they  ought  to  be.  What  an  excellent  man  !  " 

"  The  best  man  in  the  world,"  cried  Frank,  heartily ; 
and  then,  as  his  accents  drooped,  "  yet  I  have  deceived  him. 
I  have  a  great  mind  to  go  back " 

"  And  tell  him  to  give  you  twice  as  much  money  as  you 
had  asked  for.  He  would  think  you  had  only  seemed  so 
affectionate  in  order  to  take  him  in.  No,  no,  Frank — save 
— lay  by — economize  ;  and  then  tell  him  that  you  have  paid 
half  your  own  debts.  Something  high-minded  in  that." 

"  So  there  is.  Your  heart  is  as  good  as  your  head. 
Good-night." 

"  Are  you  going  home  so  early  ?  Have  you  no  engage- 
ments?" 

"  None  that  I  shall  keep." 

"Good-night,  then." 

They  parted,  and  Randal  walked  into  one  of  the  fash- 
ionable clubs.  He  neared  a  table,  where  three  or  four 
young  men  (younger  sons,  who  lived  in  the  most  splendid 
style,  heaven  knew  how)  were  still  over  their  wine. 

Leslie  had  little  in  common  with  these  gentlemen,  but 
he  forced  his  nature  to  be  agreeable  to  them,  in  conse- 
quence of  a  very  excellent  piece  of  worldly  advice  given  to 
him  by  Audley  Egerton.  "  Never  let  the  dandies  call  you  a 
prig,"  said  the  statesman.  "Many  a  clever  fellow  fails 
through  life  because  the  silly  fellows,  whom  half  a  word 
well  spoken  could  make  his  claqueurs,  turn  him  into  ridicule. 
Whatever  you  are,  avoid  the  fault  of  most  reading  men  ;  in 
a  word,  don't  be  a  prig  !  " 

"  I  have  just  left  Hazeldean,"  said  Randal ;  "what  a  good 
fellow  he  is !  " 


522  MY  NOVEL;    OR, 

"  Capital ! "  said  the  Honorable  George  Borrowell. 
"Where  is  he?" 

"Why,  he  is  gone  to  his  rooms.  He  has  had  a  little 
scene  with  his  father,  a  thorough,  rough,  country  squire. 
It  would  be  an  act  of  charity  if  you  would  go  and  keep  him 
company,  or  take  him  with  you  to  some  place  a  little  more 
lively  than  his  own  lodgings." 

"What!  the  old  gentleman  has  been  teasing  him! — a 
horrid  shame  ! — Why,  Frank  is  not  extravagant,  and  he  will 
be  very  rich — eh  ?  " 

"An  immense  property,"  said  Randal,  "and  not  a  mort- 
gage on  it  ;  an  only  son,"  he  added,  turning  away. 

Among  these  young  gentlemen  there  was  a  kindly  and 
most  benevolent  whisper,  and  presently  they  all  rose,  and 
walked  away  toward  Frank's  lodgings. 

"The  wedge  is  in  the  tree,"  said  Randal  to  himself, 
"and  there  is  a  gap  already  between  the  bark  and  the 
wood." 


CHAPTER  XXII. 

HARLEY  L'ESTRANGE  is  seated  beside  Helen  at  the 
lattice-window  in  the  cottage  at  Norwood.  The  bloom  of 
reviving  health  is  on  the  child's  face,  and  she  is  listening 
with  a  smile,  for  Harley  is  speaking  of  Leonard  with  praise, 
and  of  Leonard's  future  with  hope.  "  And  thus,"  he  con- 
tinued, "secure  from  his  former  trials,  happy  in  his  occupa- 
tion, and  pursuing  the  career  he  has  chosen,  we  must  be 
content,  my  dear  child,  to  leave  him." 

"  Leave  him  ! "  exclaimed  Helen,  and  the  rose  on  her 
cheek  faded. 

Harley  was  not  displeased  to  see  her  emotion.  He 
would  have  been  disappointed  in  her  heart  if  it  had  been 
less  susceptible  to  affection. 

"It  is  hard  on  you,  Helen,"  said  he,  "to  be  separated 
from  one  who  has  been  to  you  as  a  brother.  Do  not  hate 
me  for  doing  so.  But  I  consider  myself  your  guardian,  and 
your  home  as  yet  must  be  mine.  We  are  going  from  this 
land  of  cloud  and  mist,  going  as  into  the  world  of  summer. 
Well,  that  does  not  content  you.  You  weep,  my  child  ; 
you  mourn  your  own  friend,  but  do  not  forget  your  father's. 
I  am  alone,  and  often  sad,  Helen  ;  will  you  not  comfort 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  523 

me  ?  You  press  my  hand,  but  you  must  learn  to  smile  on 
me  also.  You  are  born  to  be  the  Comforter.  Comforters 
are  not  egotists  ;  they  are  always  cheerful  when  they  con- 
sole." 

The  voice  of  Harley  was  so  sweet,  and  his  words  went 
so  home  to  the  child's  heart,  that  she  looked  up  and  smiled 
in  his  face  as  he  kissed  her  ingenuous  brow.  But  then  she 
thought  of  Leonard,  and  felt  so  solitary — so  bereft — that 
tears  burst  forth  again.  Before  these  were  dried,  Leonard 
himself  entered,  and,  obeying  an  irresistible  impulse,  she 
sprang  to  his  arms,  and  leaning  her  head  on  his  shoulder, 
sobbed  out,  "I  am  going  from  you,  brother — do  not  grieve 
— do  not  miss  me." 

Harley  was  much  moved  ;  he  folded  his  arms,  and  con- 
templated them  both  silently— and  his  own  eyes  were 
moist.  "This  heart,"  thought  he,  "  will-  be  worth  the  win- 
ning !  " 

He  drew  aside  Leonard,  and  whispered,  "  Soothe,  but  en- 
courage and  support  her.  I  leave  you  together  ;  come  to 
me  in  the  garden  later." 

It  was  nearly  an  hour  before  Leonard  joined  Harley. 

"  She  was  not  weeping  when  you  left  her  ? "  asked  L'Es- 
trange. 

"  No  ;  she  has  more  fortitude  than  we  might  suppose. 
Heaven  knows  how  that  fortitude  has  supported  mine.  I 
have  promised  to  write  to  her  often." 

Harley  took  two  strides  across  the  lawn,  and  then,  com- 
ing back  to  Leonard,  said,  "  Keep  your  promise,  and  write 
often  for  the  first  year.  I  would  then  ask  you  to  let  the 
correspondence  drop  gradually." 

"  Drop  !— Ah  !  my  lord  !  " 

"  Look  you,  my  young  friend,  I  wish  to  lead  this  fair 
mind  wholly  from  the  sorrows  of  the  Past.  I  wish  Helen* to 
enter,  not  abruptly,  but  step  by  step,  into  a  new  life.  You 
love  each  other  now  as  do  two  children — as  brother  and 
sister.  But  later,  if  encouraged,  would  the  love  be  the  same  ? 
And  is  it  not  better  for  both  of  you,  that  youth  should  open 
upon  the  world  with  youth's  natural  affections  free  and  un- 
forestalled  ?" 

"  True  !  And  she  is  so  above  me,"  said  Leonard,  mourn- 
fully. 

"  No  one  is  above  him  who  succeeds  in  your  ambition, 
Leonard.  It  is  not  that,  believe  me." 

Leonard  shook  his  head. 


524  MY  NOVEL;    OR, 

"  Perhaps,"  said  Harley,  with  a  smile,  "  I  rather  feel 
that  you  are  above  me.  For  what  vantage-ground  is  so 
high  as  youth  ?  Perhaps  I  may  become  jealous  of  you.  It 
is  well  that  she  should  learn  to  like  one  who  is  to  be  hence- 
forth her  guardian  and  protector.  Yet,  how  can  she  like 
me  as  she  ought,  if  her  heart  is  to  be  full  of  you  ? " 

The  boy  bowed  his  head  ;  and  Harley  hastened  to  change 
the  subject,  and  speak  of  letters  and  of  glory.  His  words 
were  eloquent  and  his  voice  kindling  :  for  he  had  been  an 
enthusiast  for  fame  in  his  boyhood  ;  and  in  Leonard's,  his 
own  seemed  to  him  to  revive.  But  the  poet's  heart  gave 
back  no  echo — suddenly  it  seemed  void  and  desolate.  Yet 
when  Leonard  walked  back  by  the  moonlight,  he  muttered 
to  himself,  "  Strange — strange — so  mere  a  child  ;— this  can- 
not be  love  !  Still  what  else  to  love  is  there  left  to  me  ? " 

And  so  he  paused  upon  the  bridge  where  he  had  so  often 
stood  with  Helen,  and  on  which  he  had  found  the  protector 
that  had  given  to  her  a  home- — to  himself  a  career.  And 
life  seemed  very  long,  and  fame  but  a  dreary  phantom. 
Courage,  still,  Leonard  !  These  are  the  sorrows  of  the  heart 
that  teach  thee  more  than  all  the  precepts  of  sage  and  critic. 

Another  day,  and  Helen  had  left  the  shores  of  England, 
with  her  fanciful  and  dreaming  guardian.  Years  will  pass 
before  our  tale  reopens.  Life  in  all  the  forms  we  have  seen 
it  travels  on.  And  the  Squire  farms  and  hunts  ;  and  the 
Parson  preaches  and  chides  and  soothes.  And  Riccabocca 
reads  his  Machiavelli,  and  sighs  and  smiles  as  he  moralizes 
on  Men  and  States.  And  Violante's  dark  eyes  grow  deeper 
and  more  spiritual  in  their  lustre  ;  and  her  beauty  takes 
thought  from  solitary  dreams.  And  Mr.  Richard  Avenel 
has  his  house  in  London,  and  the  Honorable  Mrs.  Avenel 
her  opera-box  ;  and  hard  and  dire  is  their  struggle  into 
fashion,  and  hotly  does  the  new  man,  scorning  the  aristoc- 
racy, pant  to  become  aristocrat.  And  Audley  Egerton  goes 
from  the  office  to  the  Parliament,  and  drudges,  and  debates, 
and  helps  to  govern  the  empire  on  which  the  sun  never 
sets.  Poor  Sun,  how  tired  he  must  be — but  not  more  tired 
than  the  Government  !  And  Randal  Leslie  has  an  excel- 
lent place  in  the  bureau  of  a  minister,  and  is  looking  to 
the  time  when  he  shall  resign  it  to  come  into  Parliament, 
and  on  that  large  arena  turn  knowledge  into  power.  And 
meanwhile,  he  is  much  where  he  was  with  Audley  Egerton  ; 
but  he  has  established  intimacy  with  the  Squire,  and  visited 
Hazeldeau  twice,  and  examined  the  house  and  the  map  of 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE,  525 

the  property,  and  very  nearly  fallen  a  second  time  into  the 
Ha-ha,  and  the  Squire  believes  that  Randal  Leslie  alone  can 
keep  Frank  out  of  mischief,  and  has  spoken  rough  words 
to  his  Harry  about  Frank's  continued  extravagance  :  and 
Frank  does  continue  to"  pursue  pleasure,  and  is  very  miser- 
able, and  horribly  in  debt.  And  Madame  di  Negra  has  gone 
from  London  to  Paris,  and  taken  a  tour  into  Switzerland, 
and  come  back  to  London  again,  and  has  grown  very  inti- 
mate with  Randal  Leslie  ;  and  Randal  has  introduced  Frank 
to  her  ;  and  Frank  thinks  her  the  loveliest  woman  in  the 
world,  and  grossly  slandered  by  certain  evil  tongues.  And 
the  brother  of  Madame  di  Negra  is  expected  in  England  at 
last  ;  and  what  with  his  repute  for  beauty  and  for  wealth, 
people  anticipate  a  sensation.  And  Leonard,  and  Harley, 
and  Helen  ?  Patience — they  will  all  reappear. 


526  MY  NOVEL;    OA\ 


BOOK  EIGHTH. 


INITIAL    CHAPTER. 

THE    ABUSE    OF    INTELLECT. 

THERE  is  at  present  so  vehement  a  flourish  of  trumpets, 
and  so  prodigious  a  roll  of  the  drum,  whenever  we  are 
called  upon  to  throw  up  our  hats,  and  cry  "  Huzza"  to  the 
"March  of  Enlightenment,"  that,  out  of  that  very  spirit  of 
contradiction  natural  to  all  rational  animals,  one  is  tempted 
to  stop  one's  ears,  and  say,  "  Gently,  gently  ;  LIGHT  is  noise- 
less ;  how  comes  'Enlightenment'  to  make  such  a  clatter? 
Meanwhile,  if  it  be  not  impertinent,  pray,  where  is  Enlight- 
enment marching  to  ?"  Ask  that  question  of  any  six  of  the 
loudest  bawlers  in  the  procession,  and  I'll  wager  tenpence 
to  California  that  you  get  six  very  unsatisfactory  answers. 
One  respectable  gentleman,  who,  to  our  great  astonishment, 
insists  upon  calling  himself  "a  slave,"  but  has  a  remarkably 
free  way  of  expressing  his  opinions,  will  reply — "  Enlighten- 
ment is  marching  toward  the  seven  points  of  the  Charter." 
Another,  with  his  hair  a  la  jeitne  France,  who  has  taken  a 
fancy  to  his  friend's  wife,  and  is  rather  embarrassed  with 
his  own,  asserts  that  Enlightenment  is  proceeding  toward 
the  Rights  of  Women,  the  reign  of  Social  Love,  and  the 
annihilation  of  Tyrannical  Prejudice.  A  third,  who  has  the 
air  of  a  man  well  to  do  in  the  middle  class,  more  modest  in 
his  hopes,  because  he  neither  wishes  to  have  his  head  broken 
by  his  errand-boy,  nor  his  wife  carried  off  to  an  Agapemone 
by  his  apprentice,  does  not  take  Enlightenment  a  step  farther 
than  a  siege  on  Debrett,  and  a  cannonade  on  the  Budget. 
Illiberal  man  !  the  march  that  he  swells  will  soon  trample 
him  under  foot.  No  one  fares  so  ill  in  a  crowd  as  the  man 
who  is  wedged  in  the  middle.  A  fourth,  looking  wild  and 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  527 

dreamy,  as  if  he  had  come  out  of  the  cave  of  Trophonins, 
and  who  is  a  mesmerizer  and  a  mystic,  thinks  Enlighten- 
ment is  in  full  career  toward  the  good  old  days  of  alche- 
mists and  necromancers.  A  fifth,  whom  one  might  take 
for  a  Quaker,  asserts  that  the  march  of  Enlightenment  is  a 
crusade  for  universal  philanthropy,  vegetable  diet,  and  the 
perpetuation  of  peace  by  means  of  speeches,  which  certainly 
do  produce  a  very  contrary  effect  from  the  Philippics  of 
Demosthenes!  The  sixth — (good  fellow  without  a  rag  on 
his  back) — does  not  care  a  straw  where  the  march  goes.  He 
can't  be  worse  off  than  he  is  ;  and  it  is  quite  immaterial  to 
him  whether  he  goes  to  the  dog-star  above,  or  the  bottom- 
less pit  below.  I  say  nothing,  however,  against  the  march, 
while  we  take  it  all  together.  Whatever  happens,  one  is  in 
good  company  ;  and  though  I  am  somewhat  indolent  by 
nature,  and  would  rather  stay  at  home  with  Locke  and 
Burke  (dull  dogs  though  they  were),  than  have  my  thoughts 
set  off  helter-skelter  with  those  cursed  trumpets  and  drums, 
blown  and  dub-a-dubbed  by  fellows  whom  I  vow  to  heaven 
I  would  not  trust  with  a  five-pound  note — still,  if  I  must 
march,  I  must ;  and  so  deuce  take  the  hindmost.  But  when 
it  comes  to  individual  marchers  upon  their  own  account — 
privateers  and  condottieri  of  Enlightenment — who  have  filled 
their  pockets  with  lucifer-matches,  and  have  a  sublime  con- 
tempt for  their  neighbors'  barns  and  hay-ricks,  I  don't  see 
why  I  should  throw  myself  into  the  seventh  heaven  of  ad- 
miration and  ecstasy. 

If  those  who  are  eternally  rhapsodizing  on  the  celestial 
blessings  that  are  to  follow  Enlightenment,  Universal  Knowl- 
edge, and  so  forth,  would  just  take  their  eyes  out  of  their 
pockets,  and  look  about  them,  I  would  respectfully  inquire 
if  they  have  never  met  any  very  knowing  and  enlightened 
gentleman  whose  acquaintance  is  by  no  mea'ns  desirable. 
If  not,  they  are  monstrous  lucky.  Every  man  must  judge 
by  his  own  experience  ;  and  the  worst  rogues  I  have  ever 
encountered  were  amazingly  well-informed  clever  fellows! 
From  dunderheads  and  dunces  we  can  protect  ourselves, 
but  from  your  sharp-witted  gentleman,  all  enlightenment  and 
no  prejudice,  we  have  but  to  cry,  "  Heaven  defend  us  !  "  It 
is  true,  that  the  rogue  (let  him  be  ever  so  enlightened) 
usually  comes  to  no  good  himself  (though  not  before  he  has 
done  harm  enough  to  his  neighbors).  But  that  only  shows 
that  the  world  wants  something  else  in  those  it  rewards,  be- 
sides intelligence/<?r  se  and  in  the  abstract ;  and  is  much  too 


528  MY  NOVEL;    OR, 

old  a  world  to  allow  any  Jack  Horner  to  pick  out  its  plums 
for  his  own  personal  gratification.  Hence  a  man  of  very 
moderate  intelligence,  who  believes  in  God,  suffers  his 
heart  to  beat  with  human  sympathies,  and  keeps  his  eyes  off 
your  strong-box,  will  perhaps  gain  a  vast  deal  more  power 
than  knowledge  ever  gives  to  a  rogue. 

Wherefore,  though  I  anticipate  an  outcry  against  me  on 
the  part  of  the  blockheads,  who,  strange  to  say,  are  the 
most  credulous  idolaters  of  enlightenment,  and,  if  knowledge 
were  power,  would  rot  on  a  dunghill ;  yet,  nevertheless,  I 
think  all  really  enlightened  men  will  agree  with  me,  that 
when  one  falls  in  with  detached  sharp-shooters  from  the  gen- 
eral March  of  Enlightenment,  it  is  no  reason  that  we  should 
make  ourselves  a  target,  because  Enlightenment  has  fur- 
nished them  with  a  gun.  It  has,  doubtless,  been  already 
remarked  by  the  judicious  reader,  that  of  the  numerous 
characters  introduced  into  this  work,  the  larger  portion  be- 
long to  that  species  which  we  call  the  INTELLECTUAL — that 
through  them  are  analyzed  and  developed  human  intellect, 
in  various  forms  and  directions.  So  that  this  History, 
rightly  considered,  is  a  kind  of  humble  familiar  Epic,  or,  if 
you  prefer  it,  a  long  Serio-Comedy,  upon  the  Varieties  of 
English  Life  in  this  our  Century,  set  in  movement  by  the 
intelligences  most  prevalent.  And  where  more  ordinary  and 
less  refined  types  of  the  species  round  and  complete  the 
survey  of  our  passing  generation,  they  will  often  suggest, 
by  contrast,  the  deficiencies  which  mere  intellectual  culture 
leaves  in  the  human  being.  Certainly,  I  have  no  spite 
against  intellect  and  enlightenment.  Heaven  forbid  I  should 
be  such  a  Goth  !  I  am  only  the  advocate  for  common  sense 
and  fair  play.  I  don't  think  an  able  man  necessarily  an 
angel ;  but  I  think  if  his  heart  match  his  head,  and  both 
proceed  in  the  Great  March  under  the  divine  Oriflammc, 
he  goes  as  near  to  the  angel  as  humanity  will  permit :  if  not, 
if  he  has  but  a  penn'orth  of  heart  to  a  pound  of  brains,  I 
say,  "Bon  jour,  man  ange !  I  see  not  the  starry  upward 
wings,  but  the  grovelling  cloven-hoof."  I'd  rather  be  of- 
fuscated  by  the  Squire  of  Hazeldean,  than  enlightened  by 
Randal  Leslie.  Every  man  to  his  taste.  But  intellect  itself 
(not  in  the  philosophical,  but  the  ordinary  sense  of  the  term) 
is  rarely,  if  ever,  one  completed  harmonious  agency  ;  it  is 
not  one  faculty,  but  a  compound  of  many,  some  of  which 
are  often  at  war  with  each  other,  and  mar  the  concord  of 
the  whole.  Few  of  us  but  have  some  predominant  faculty, 


VARIETIES  IN    ENGLISH  LIFE.  529 

in  itself  a  strength ;  but  which,  usurping  unseasonably 
dominion  over  the  rest,  shares  the  lot  of  all  tyranny,  how- 
ever brilliant,  and  leaves  the  empire  weak  against  disaffec- 
tion within,  and  invasion  from  without.  Hence,  intellect 
may  be  perverted  in  a  man  of  evil  disposition,  and  some- 
times merely  wasted  in  a  man  of  excellent  impulses,  for  want 
of  the  necessary  discipline,  or  of  a  strong  ruling  motive.  I 
doubt  if  there  be  one  person  in  the  world,  who  has  obtained 
a  high  reputation  for  talent,  who  has  not  met  somebody 
much  cleverer  than  himself,  which  said  somebody  has  never 
obtained  any  reputation  at  all !  Men  like  Audley  Egerton 
are  constantly  seen  in  the  great  positions  of  life  ;  while  men 
like  Harley  L  Estrange,  who  could  have  beaten  them  hollow 
in  anything  equally  striven  for  by  both,  float  away  down 
the  stream,  and,  unless  some  sudden  stimulant  arouse  their 
dreamy  energies,  vanish  out  of  sight  into  silent  graves.  If 
Hamlet  and  Polonius  were  living  now,  Polonius  would 
have  a  much  better  chance  of  being  a  Cabinet  Minister, 
though  Hamlet  would  unquestionably  be  a  much  more 
intellectual  character.  What  would  become  of  Hamlet  ? 
Heaven  knows  !  Dr.  Arnold  said,  from  his  experience  of  a 
school,  that  the  difference  between  one  man  and  another 
was  not  mere  ability — it  was  energy.  There  is  a  great  deal 
of  truth  in  that  saying. 

Submitting  these  hints  to  the  judgment  and  penetration 
of  the  sagacious,  I  enter  on  the  fresh  division  of  this  work, 
and  see  already  Randal  Leslie  gnawing  his  lips  on  the  back- 
ground. The  German  poet  observes,  that  the  Cow  of  Isis 
is  to  some  the  divine  symbol  of  knowledge,  to  others  but 
the  milch  cow,  only  regarded  for  the  pounds  of  butter 
she  will  yield.  O  tendency  of  our  age,  to  look  on  Isis  as 
the  milch  cow !  O  prostitution  of  the  grandest  desires  to 
the  basest  uses !  Gaze  on  the  goddess,  Randal  Leslie,  and 
get  ready  thy  churn  and  thy  scales.  Let  us  see  what  the 
butter  will  fetch  in  the  market. 


CHAPTER   II. 

A  NEW  Reign  has  commenced.  There  has  been  a  gen- 
eral election ;  the  unpopularity  of  the  Administration  has 
been  apparent  at  the  hustings.  Audley  Egerton,  hitherto 

23 


530  MY  NOVEL;    OA', 

returned  by  vast  majorities,  lias  barely  escaped  defeat — 
thanks  to  a  majority  of  five.  The  expenses  of  his  election 
are  said  to  have  been  prodigious.  "  But  who  can  stand 
against  such  wealth  as  Egerton's — no  doubt  backed,  too,  by 
the  Treasury  purse  ?  "  said  the  defeated  candidate.  It  is 
toward  the  close  of  October ;  London  is  already  full ;  Par- 
liament will  meet  in  less  than  a  fortnight. 

In  one  of  the  principal  apartments  of  that  hotel  in  which 
foreigners  may  discover  what  is  meant  by  English  comfort, 
and  the  price  which  foreigners  must  pay  for  it,  there  sat 
two  persons  side  by  side,  engaged  in  close  conversation. 
The  one  was  a  female,  in  whose  pale  clear  complexion  and 
raven  hair — in  whose  eyes,  vivid  with  a  power  of  expression 
rarely  bestowed  on  the  beauties  of  the  north,  we  recognize 
Beatrice,  Marchesa  di  Negra.  Undeniably  handsome  as 
was  the  Italian  lady,  her  companion,  though  a  man,  and  far 
advanced  into  middle  age,  was  yet  more  remarkable  for 
personal  advantages.  There  was  a  strong  family  likeness 
between  the  two  ;  but  there  was  also  a  striking  contrast  in 
air,  manner,  and  all  that  stamps  on  the  physiognomy  the 
idiosyncrasies  of  character.  There  was  something  of  grav- 
ity, of  earnestness  and  passion,  in  Beatrice's  countenance 
when  carefully  examined  ;  her  smile  at  times  might  be  false, 
but  it  was  rarely  ironical,  never  cynical.  Her  gestures, 
though  graceful,  were  unrestrained  and  frequent.  You 
could  see  she  was  a  daughter  of  the  south.  Her  compan- 
ion, on  the  contrary,  preserved  on  the  fair,  smooth  face,  to 
which  years  had  given  scarcely  a  line  or  wrinkle,  something 
that  might  have  passed,  at  first  glance,  for  the  levity  and 
thoughtlessness  of  a  gay  and  youthful  nature  ;  but  the  smile, 
though  exquisitely  polished,  took  at  times  the  derision  of  a 
sneer.  In  his  manners  he  was  as  composed  and  as  free  from 
gesture  as  an  Englishman.  His  hair  was  of  that  red  brown 
with  which  the  Italian  painters  produce  such  marvellous 
effects  of  color ;  and,  if  here  and  there  a  silver  thread 
gleamed  through  the  locks,  it  was  lost  at  once  amidst  their 
luxuriance.  His  eyes  were  light,  and  his  complexion, 
though  without  much  color,  was  singularly  transparent. 
His  beauty,  indeed,  would  have  been  rather  womanly  than 
masculine,  but  for  the  height  and  sinewy  spareness  of  a 
frame  in  which  muscular  strength  was  rather  adorned  than 
concealed  by  an  admirable  elegance  of  proportion.  You 
would  never  have  guessed  this  man  to  be  an  Italian  ;  more 
likely  you  would  have  supposed  him  a  Parisian.  He  con- 


VARIETIES    IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  531 

versed  in  French,  his  dress  was  of  French  fashion,  his  mode 
of  thought  seemed  French.  Not  that  he  was  like  the 
Frenchman  of  the  present  day — an  animal  either  rude  or 
reserved  ;  but  your  ideal  of  the  Marquis  of  the  old  regime — 
the  roue  oi  the  Regency. 

Italian,  however,  he  was,  and  of  a  race  renowned  in 
Italian  history.  But,  as  if  ashamed  of  his  country  and  his 
birth,  he  affected  to  be  a  citizen  of  the  world.  Heaven  help 
the  world  if  it  hold  only  such  citizens  ! 

"  But,  Giulio,"  said  Beatrice  di  Negra,  speaking  in  Italian, 
"  even  granting  that  you  discover  this  girl,  can  you  suppose 
that  her  father  will  ever  consent  to  your  alliance  ?  Surely 
you  know  too  well  the  nature  of  your  kinsman  ?" 

"  Tu  te  trompes,  ma  sceur"  replied  Giulio  Franzini,  Count 
di  Peschiera,  in  French,  as  usual — "  tu  tetrompes  ;  I  knew  it 
before  he  had  gone  through  exile  and  penury.  How  can  I 
know  it  now  ?  But  comfort  yourself,  my  too  anxious  Bea- 
trice ;  I  shall  not  care  for  his  consent  till  I've  made  sure  of 
his  daughter's.'' 

"  But  how  win  that  in  despite  of  the  father  ?  " 

"  Eh,  mordieu  !  ''  interrupted  the  Count,  with  true  French 
gaiety;  "what  would  become  of  all  the  comedies  ever 
written,  if  marriages  were  not  made  in  despite  of  the  father  ? 
Look  you,"  he  resumed,  with  a  very  slight  compression  of 
his  lip,  and  a  still  slighter  movement  in  his  chair — "  look 
you,  this  is  no  question  of  ifs  and  buts  !  it  is  a  question  of 
must  and  shall, — a  question  of  existence  to  you  and  to  me. 
When  Danton  was  condemned  to  the  guillotine,  he  said, 
flinging  a  pellet  of  bread  at  the  nose  of  his  respectable 
judge, — '  Mon  individu  sera  bientut  dans  I e  nranf,' — My  patri- 
mony is  there  already  !  I  am  loaded  with  debts.  I  see  be- 
fore me,  on  the  one  side,  ruin  or  suicide  ;  on  the  other  side, 
wedlock  and  wealth." 

<;  But  from  those  vast  possessions  which  you  have  been 
permitted  to  enjoy  so  long,  have  you  really  saved  nothing 
against  the  time  when  they  might  be  reclaimed  at  your 
hands  ?" 

"  My  sister,"  replied  the  Count,  "  do  I  look  like  a  man 
who  saved  ?  Besides,  when  the  Austrian  Emperor,  unwill- 
ing to  raze  from  his  Lombard  domains  a  name  and  a  house 
so  illustrious  as  our  kinsman's,  and  desirous  while  punish- 
ing that  kinsman's  rebellion,  to  reward  my  adherence,  for- 
bore the  peremptory  confiscation  of  those  vast  possessions, 
at  which  my  mouth  waters  while  we  speak,  but,  annexing 


532  MY  NOVEL;    OR, 

them  to  the  crown  during  pleasure,  allowed  me,  as  the  next 
male  kin,  to  retain  the  revenues  of  one-half  tor  the  same 
very  indefinite  period, — had  I  not  every  reason  to  suppose 
that,  before  long,  I  could  so  influence  his  Imperial  Majesty, 
or  his  minister,  as  to  obtain  a  degree  that  might  transfer  the 
whole,  unconditionally  and  absolutely,  to  myself  ?  And 
methinks  1  should  have  done  so,  but  for  this  accursed,  in- 
termeddling English  Milord,  who  has  never  ceased  to  be- 
siege the  court  or  the  minister  with  alleged  extenuations  of 
our  cousin's  rebellion,  and  proof-less  assertions  that  I  shared 
it  in  order  to  entangle  my  kinsman,  and  betrayed  it  in  order 
to  profit  by  his  spoils.  So  that,  at  last,  in  return  for  all  my 
services  and  in  answer  to  all  my  claims,  I  received  from  the 
minister  himself  this  cold  reply: — 'Count  of  Peschiera, 
your  aid  was  important,  and  your  reward  has  been  large. 
That  reward  it  would  not  be  for  your  honor  to  extend,  and 
jiistify  the  ill  opinion  of  your  Italian  countrymen  by  for- 
mally appropriating  to  yourself  all  that  was  forfeited  by  the 
treason  you  denounced.  A  name  so  noble  as  yours  should 
be  dearer  to  you  than  fortune  itself.'  " 

"  Ah,  Giulio,"  cried  Beatrice,  her  face  lighting  up, 
changed  in  its  whole  character, — "those  were  words  that 
might  make  the  demon  that  tempts  to  avarice  fly  from  your 
breast  in  shame." 

The  Count  opened  his  eyes  in  great  amaze  ;  then  he 
glanced  round  the  room,  and  said,  quietly, — 

"  Nobody  else  hears  you,  my  dear  Beatrice  ;  talk  com- 
mon sense.  Heroics  sound  well  in  mixed  society  ;  but 
there  is  nothing  less  suited  to  the  tone  of  a  family  conver- 
sation." 

Madame  di  Negra  bent  down  her  head  abashed,  and 
that  sudden  change  in  the  expression  of  her  countenance 
which  had  seemed  to  betray  susceptibility  to  generous  emo- 
tion, faded  as  suddenly  away. 

"  But  still,"  she  said,  coldly,  "  you  enjoy  one-half  of  those 
ample  revenues, — why  talk,  then,  of  suicide  and  ruin?" 

"  I  enjoy  them  at  the  pleasure  of  the  crown  ;  and  what 
if  it  be  the  pleasure  of  the  crown  to  recall  our  cousin,  and 
reinstate  him  in  his  possessions  ?" 

"  There  is  a  probability,  then,  of  that  pardon  ?  When 
you  first  employed  me  in  your  researches,  you  only  thought 
there  was  a possibility." 

"There  is  a  great  probability  of  it,  and  therefore  I  am 
here.  I  learned  some  little  time  since  that  the  question  of 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  533 

such  recall  had  been  suggested  by  the  Emperor,  and  dis- 
cussed in  council.  The  danger  to  the  State  which  might 
arise  from  our  cousin's  wealth,  his  alleged  abilities — (abili- 
ties !  bah  !) — and  his  popular  name,  deferred  any  decision  on 
the  point  ;  and,  indeed,  the  difficulty  of  dealing  with  myself 
must  have  embarrassed  the  minister.  But  it  is  a  mere  ques- 
tion of  time.  He  cannot  long  remain  excluded  from  the 
general  amnesty  already  extended  to  the  other  refugees. 
The  person  who  gave  me  this  information  is  high  in  power, 
and  friendly  to  myself ;  and  he  added  a  piece  of  advice,  on 
which  I  acted.  '  It  was  intimated,'  said  he,  '  by  one  of  the 
partisans  of  your  kinsman,  that  the  exile  could  give  a  host- 
age for  his  loyalty  in  the  person  of  his  daughter  and  heiress  ; 
that  she  had  arrived  at  marriageable  age  ;  that  if  she  were 
to  wed,  with  the  Emperor's  consent,  some  one  whose  attach- 
ment to  the  Austrian  crown  was  unquestionable,  there  would 
be  a  guarantee  both  for  the  faith  of  the  father,  and  for  the 
transmission  of  so  important  a  heritage  to  safe  and  loyal 
hands.  Why  not,'  continued  my  friend,  '  apply  to  the  Em- 
peror for  his  consent  to  that  alliance  for  yourself  ? — you,  on 
whom  he  can  depend  ;— you  who,  if  the  daughter  should 
die,  would  be  the  legal  heir  to  those  lands?'  On  that  hint 
I  spoke." 

"  You  saw  the  Emperor  ?  " 

'*'  And  after  combating  the  unjust  prepossessions  against 
me,  I  stated  that,  so  far  from  my  cousin  having  any  fair 
cause  of  resentment  against  me,  when  all  was  duly  explained 
to  him,  I  did  not  doubt  that  he  would  willingly  give  me  the 
hand  of  his  child." 

"  You  did  !  "  cried  the  Marchesa,  amazed. 

"  And,"  continued  the  Count,  imperturbably,  as  he 
smoothed,  with  careless  hand,  the  snowy  plaits  of  his  shirt- 
front, — "  and  that  I  should  thus  have  the  happiness  of  be- 
coming myself  the  guarantee  of  my  kinsman's  loyalty, — the 
agent  for  the  restoration  of  his  honors,  while,  in  the  eyes 
of  the  envious  and  malignant,  I  should  clear  up  my  own 
name  from  all  suspicion  that  I  had  wronged  him." 

"  And  the  Emperor  consented  ?  " 

"  Pardieu,  my  dear  sister  ;  what  else  could  his  majesty 
do  ?  My  proposition  smoothed  every  obstacle,  and  recon- 
ciled policy  with  mercy.  It  remains,  therefore,  only  to  find 
out  what  has  hitherto  baffled  all  our  researches,  the  retreat 
of  our  dear  kinsfolk,  and  to  make  myself  a  welcome  lover 
to  the  demoiselle.  There  is  some  disparity  of  years,  I  ow,n; 


534  MY  NOVEL;    OR, 

but — unless  your  sex  and  my  glass  flatter  me  over-much — 
I  am  still  a  match  for  many  a  gallant  of  five-and-twentv." 

The  Count  said  this  with  so  charming  a  smile,  and 
looked  so  pre-eminently  handsome,  that  he  carried  off  the 
coxcombry  of  the  words  as  gracefully  as  if  they  had  been 
spoken  by  some  dazzling  hero  of  the  grand  old  comedy  of 
Parisian  life. 

Then  interlacing  his  fingers,  and  lightly  leaning  his 
hands,  thus  clasped,  upon  his  sister's  shoulder,  he  looked 
into  her  face,  and  said  slowly — "And  now,  my  sister,  for 
some  gentle  but  deserved  reproach.  Have  you  not  sadly 
failed  me  in  the  task  I  imposed  on  your  regard  for  my  in- 
terests ?  Is  it  not  some  years  since  you  first  came  to  Eng- 
land on  the  mission  of  discovering  these  worthy  relations 
of  ours  ?  Did  I  not  entreat  you  to  seduce  into  your  toils 
the  man  whom  I  knew  to  be  my  enemy,  and  who  was  in- 
dubitably acquainted  with  our  cousin's  retreat — a  secret  he 
has  hitherto  locked  within  his  bosom  ?  Did  you  not  tell 
me,  that  though  he  was  then  in  England,  you  could  find  no 
occasion  even  to  meet  him,  but  that  you  had  obtained  the 
friendship  of  the  statesman  to  whom  I  had  directed  your 
attention,  as  his  most  intimate  associate  ?  And  yet  you, 
whose  charms  are  usually  so  irresistible,  learn  nothing  from 
the  statesman,  as  you  see  nothing  of  Milord.  Nay,  baffled 
and  misled,  you  actually  suppose  that  the  quarry  has  taken 
refuge  in  France.  You  go  thither — you  pretend  to  search 
the  capital — the  provinces,  Switzerland,  que  sais-je — all  in 
vain, — though-^/W  de  gcntilhomme — your  police  costs  me 
dearly — you  return  to  England — the  same  chase,  and  the 
same  result.  Palsambleu,  ma  steur,  I  do  too  much  credit  to 
your  talents  not  to  question  your  zeal.  In  a  word,  have  you 
been  in  earnest — or  have  you  not  had  some  womanly  pleas- 
ure in  amusing  yourself  and  abusing  my  trust  ?  " 

"Giulio,"  answered  Beatrice,  sadly,  "you  know  the  in- 
fluence you  have  exercised  over  my  character  and  my  fate. 
Your  reproaches  are  not  just.  I  made  such  inquiries  as 
were  in  my  power,  and  I  have  now  cause  to  believe  that  I 
know  one  who  is  possessed  of  this  secret,  and  can  guide  us 
to  it." 

"  Ah,  you  do  !  "  exclaimed  the  Count.  Beatrice  did  not 
heed  the  exclamation,  and  hurried  on. 

"  But  grant  that  my  heart  shrunk  from  the  task  you 
imposed  on  me,  would  it  not  have  been  natural  ?  When  I 
firstt  came  to  England,  you  informed  me  that  your  object  in 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  535 

discovering  the  exiles  was  one  which  I  could  honestly  aid. 
You  naturally  wished  first  to  know  if  the  daughter  lived  ; 
if  not,  you  were  the  heir.  If  she  did,  you  assured  me  you 
desired  to  effect,  through  my  mediation,  some  liberal  com- 
promise with  Alphonso,  by  which  you  would  have  sought 
to  obtain  his  restoration,  provided  he  would  leave  you  for 
life  in  possesssion  of  the  grant  you  hold  from  the  crown. 
While  these  were  your  objects,  I  did  my  best,  ineffectual  as 
it  was,  to  obtain  the  information  required." 

"And  what  made  me  lose  so  important,  though  so  in- 
effectual an  ally  ?  "  asked  the  Count,  still  smiling  ;  but  a 
gleam  that  belied  the  smile  shot  from  his  eye. 

"What  !  when  you  bade  me  receive  and  co-operate  with 
the  miserable  spies — the  false  Italians — whom  you  sent  over, 
and  seek  to  entangle  this  poor  exile,  when  found,  in  some 
rash  correspondence  to  be  revealed  to  the  court;— when 
you  sought  to  seduce  the  daughter  of  the  Count  of  Pes- 
chiera,  the  descendant  of  those  who  had  ruled  in  Italy, 
into  the  informer,  the  corrupter,  and  the  traitress  !  No, 
Giulio — then  I  recoiled  ;  and  then,  fearful  of  your  own 
sway  over  me,  I  retreated  into  France.  I  have  answered 
you  frankly." 

The  Count  removed  his  hands  from  the  shoulder  on 
which  they  had  reclined  so  cordially. 

"And  this,"  said  he,  "is  your  wisdom,  and  this  your 
gratitude.  You,  whose  fortunes  are  bound  up  in  mine — 
you,  who  subsist  on  my  bounty — you,  who " 

"  Hold,"  cried  the  Marchesa,  rising,  and  with  a  burst  of 
emotion,  as  if  stung  to  the  utmost,  and  breaking  into  revolt 
from  the  tyranny  of  years — "hold — gratitude!  bounty! 
Brother,  brother — what,  indeed,  do  I  owe  to  you  ?  The 
shame  and  the  misery  of  a  life.  While  yet  a  child,  you  con- 
demned me  to  marry  against  my  will — against  my  heart — 
against  my  pr?yers — and  laughed  at  my  tears  when  I  knelt 
to  you  for  mercv.  I  was  pure  then,  Giulio — pure  and  inno- 
cent as  the  flowers  in  my  virgin  crown.  And  now—  now " 

Beatrice  stopped  abruptly,  and  clasped  her  hands  before 
her  face. 

"Now  you  upbraid  me,"  said  the  Count,  unruffled  by 
her  sudden  passion,  "because  I  gave  you  in  marriage  to  a 
man  young  and  noble  ?" 

"  Old  in  vices,  and  mean  of  soul !  The  marriage  I  for- 
gave you.  You  had  the  right,  according  to  the  customs  of 
our  country,  to  dispose  of  my  hand.  But  I  forgave  you 


536  MY  NOVEL;    OR, 

not  the  consolations  that  you  whispered  in  the  ear  of  a 
wretched  and  insulted  wife." 

"  Pardon  me  the  remark,"  replied  the  Count,  with  a 
courtly  bend  of  his  head,  "  but  those  consolations  were  also 
conformable  to  the  customs  of  our  country,  and  I  was  not 
aware  till  now  that  you  had  wholly  disdained  them.  And," 
continued  the  Count,  "  you  were  not  so  long  a  wife  that 
the  gall  of  the  chain  should  smart  still.  You  were  soon 
left  a  widow — free,  childless,  young,  beautiful. 

"And  penniless." 

"  True,  Di  Negra  was  a  gambler,  and  very  unlucky  ;  no 
fault  of  mine.  I  could  neither  keep  the  cards  from  his 
hands,  nor  advise  him  how  to  play  them." 

"And  my  own  portion  ?  Oh  Giulio,  I  knew  but.  at  his 
death  why  you  had  condemned  me  to  that  renegade 
Genoese.  He  owed  you  money,  and  against  honor,  and  I 
believe  against  law,  you  had  accepted  my  fortune  in  dis- 
charge of  the  debt." 

"  He  had  no  other  way  to  discharge  it — a  debt  of  honor 
must  be  paid — old  stories  these.  What  matters  ?  Since 
then  my  purse  has  been  open  to  you." 

"  Yes,  not  as  your  sister,  but  your  instrument — your 
spy  !  Yes,  your  purse  has  been  open — with  a  niggard 
hand." 

"  Un  peu  de  conscience,  ma  chcre,  you  are  so  extravagant. 
But  come,  be  plain.  What  would  you  ?  " 

"  I  would  be  free  from  you." 

"  That  is,  you  would  form  some  second  marriage  with 
one  of  those  rich  island  lords.  Ma  foi,  I  respect  your  am- 
bition." 

"  It  is  not  so  high.  I  aim  but  to  escape  from  slavery — 
to  be  placed  beyond  dishonorable  temptation.  I  desire," 
cried  Beatrice,  with  increased  emotion  —  "I  desire  to  re- 
enter  the  life  of  woman." 

"Eno'I"  said  the  Count,  with  a  visible  impatience; 
"  is  there  anything  in  the  attainment  of  your  object  that 
should  render  you  indifferent  to  mine  ?  You  desire  to  marry, 
if  I  comprehend  you  right.  And  to  marry,  as  becomes 
you,  you  should  bring  to  your  husband  not  debts,  but  a 
dowry.  Be  it  so.  I  will  restore  the  portion  that  !  saved 
from  the  spendthrift  clutch  of  the  Genoese — the  moment 
that  it  is  mine  to  bestow— the  moment  that  I  am  husband 
to  my  kinsman's  heiress.  And  now,  Beatrice,  you  imply 
that  my  former  notions  revolted  your  conscience ;  my 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  537 

present  plan  should  content  it :  for  by  this  marriage  shall 
our  kinsman  regain  his  country,  and  repossess,  at  least,  half 
his  lands.  And  if  I  am  not  an  excellent  husband  to  the 
demoiselle,  it  will  be  her  own  fault.  I  have  sown  my  wild 
oats.  Je  suis  ban  prince,  when  I  have  things  a  little  my  own, 
way.  It  is  my  hope  and  my  intention,  and  certainly  it  will' 
be  my  interest,  to  become  digne  epoux  et  irreproachable  pere\ 
de  famille.  I  speak  lightly — 'tis  my  way.  I  mean  seriously,  j 
The  little  girl  will  be  very  happy  with  me,  and  I  shall  suc-j 
ceed  in  soothing  all  resentment  her  father  may  retain.  Willj 
you  aid  me  then — yes  or  no  ?  Aid  me,  and  you  shall  indeed' 
be  free.  The  magician  will  release  the  fair  spirit  he  has 
bound  to  his  will.  Aid  me  not,  ma  chere,  and  mark,  I  do  not 
threaten — I  do  but  warn — aid  me  not ;  grant  that  I  become 
a  beggar,  and  ask  yourself  what  is  to  become  of  you — still 
young,  still  beautiful,  and  still  penniless  ?  Nay,  worse  than 
penniless;  you  have  done  me  the  honor"  (and  here  the 
Count,  looking  on  the  table,  drew  a  letter  from  a  portfolio 
emblazoned  with  his  arms  and  coronet),  "  you  have  done 
me  the  honor  to  consult  me  as  to  your  debts." 

"  You  will  restore  my  fortune  ?  "  said  the  Marchesa,  ir- 
resolutely— and  averting  her  head  from  an  odious  schedule 
of  figures. 

"When  my  own,  with  your  aid,  is  secured." 
"  But  do  you  not  overrate  the  value  of  my  aid  ? " 
"  Possibly,"  said  the  Count,  with  a  caressing  suavity — 
and  he  kissed  his  sister's  forehead.      "  Possibly  ;  but,  by  my 
honor,  I  wish  to  repair  to  you  any  wrong,  real  or  supposed, 
I  may  have  done  you  in  past  times.     I  wish  to  find  again  my 
own  dear  sister.     I   may  overvalue  your  aid,  but  not  the 
affection   from   which    it   comes.     Let   us   be   friends,  cara 
Beatrice  mia,"  added  the  Count,  for  the  first  time  employing 
Italian  words. 

The  Marchesa  laid  her  head  on  his  shoulder  and  her 
tears  flowed  softly.  Evidently  this  man  had  great  influence 
over  her — and  evidently,  whatever  her  cause  for  complaint, 
her  affection  for  him  was  still  sisterly  and  strong.  A  nature 
with  fine  flashes  of  generosity,  spirit,  honor,  and  passion, 
was  hers — but  uncultured,  unguided — spoilt  by  the  worst 
social  examples — easily  led  into  wrong — not  always  aware 
where  the  wrong  was — letting  affections  good  or  bad  whis- 
per away  her  conscience  or  blind  her  reason.  Such  women 
are  often  far  more  dangerous  when  induced  to  wrong,  than 
those  who  are  thoroughly -abandoned — such  women  are  the 

23* 


538  MY  NOVEL;    OR, 

,'iccomplices  men  like  the  Count  of  Peschiera  most  desire 
to  obtain. 

"  Ah,  Giulio,"  said  Beatrice,  after  a  pause,  and  looking 
up  at  him  through  her  tears,  "when  you  speak  to  me  thus, 
you  know  you  can  do  with  me  what  you  will.  Fatherless 
and  motherless,  whom  had  my  childhood  to  love  and  obey 
but  you  ? " 

"  Dear  Beatrice,"  murmured  the  Count  tenderly — and 
he  again  kissed  her  forehead.  "So,"  he  continued,  more 
carelessly — "so  the  reconciliation  is  effected,  and  our  in- 
terests and  our  hearts  re-allied.  Now,  alas  !  to  descend  to 
business.  You  say  that  you  know  some  one  whom  you 
believe  to  be  acquainted  with  the  lurking-place  of  my 
father-in-law — that  is  to  be  ! " 

"  I  think  so.  You  remind  me  that  I  have  an  appoint- 
ment with  him  this  day  :  it  is  near  the  hour — I  must  leave 
you." 

"To  learn  the  secret  ? — Quick — quick.  I  have  no  fear  of 
your  success,  if  it  is  by  his  heart  that  you  lead  him  ! " 

"You  mistake  ;  on  his  heart  I  have  no  hold.  But  he  has 
a  friend  who  loves  me,  and  honorably,  and  whose  cause  he 
pleads.  I  think  here  that  I  have  some  means  to  control  or 
persuade  him.  If  not — ah,  he  is  of  a  character  that  per- 
plexes me  in  all  but  his  worldly  ambition ;  and  how  can  we 
foreigners  influence  him  through  that?" 

"  Is  he  poor,  or  is  he  extravagant  ? " 

"Not  extravagant,  and  not  positively  poor,  but  de- 
pendent." 

"  Then  we  have  him,"  said  the  Count,  composedly.  "  If 
his  assistance  be  worth  buying,  we  can  bid  high  for  it.  Sur 
mon  dmc,  I  never  yet  knew  money  fail  with  any  man  who  was 
both  worldly  and  dependent.  I  put  him  and  myself  in 
your  hands." 

Thus  saying,  the  Count  opened  the  door,  and  conducted 
his  sister  with  formal  politeness  to  her  carriage.  He  then 
returned,  reseated  himself,  and  mused  in  silence.  As  he  did 
so,  the  muscles  of  his  countenance  relaxed.  The  levity  of 
the  Frenchman  fled  from  his  visage,  and  in  his  eye,  as  it 
gazed  abstractedly  into  space,  there  was  that  steady  depth 
so  remarkable  in  the  old  portraits  of  Florentine  diplomatist 
or  Venetian  Oligarch.  Thus  seen,  there  was  in  that  face, 
despite  all  its  beauty,  something  that  would  have  awed  back 
even  the  fond  gaze  of  love  ;  something  hard,  collected, 
inscrutable,  remorseless.  But  this  change'  of  countenance 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  539 

did  not  last  long.  Evidently  thought,  though  intense  for 
the  moment,  was  not  habitual  to  the  man.  Evidently  he 
had  lived  the  life  which  takes  all  things  lightly — so  he  rose 
with  a  look  of  fatigue,  shook  and  stretched  himself,  as  if  to 
cast  off,  or  grow  out  of,  an  unwelcome  and  irksome  mood. 
An  hour  afterward,  the  Count  of  Peschiera  was  charming 
all  eyes,  and  pleasing  all  ears,  in  the  saloon  of  a  high-born 
beauty,  whose  acquaintance  he  had  made  at  Vienna,  and 
whose  charms,  according  to  that  old  and  never-truth  speak- 
ing oracle,  Polite  Scandal,  were  now  said  to  have  attracted 
to  London  the  brilliant  foreigner. 


CHAPTER  III. 

THE  Marchesa  regained  her  house,  which  was  in  Curzon 
Street,  and  withdrew  to  her  own  room,  to  readjust  her  dress, 
and  remove  from  her  countenance  all  trace  of  the  tears  she 
had  shed. 

Half  an  hour  afterward  she  was  seated  in  her  drawing- 
room,  composed  and  calm  ;  nor,  seeing  her  then,  could  you 
have  guessed  that  she  was  capable  of  so  much  emotion  and 
so  much  weakness.  In  that  stately  exterior,  in  that  quiet 
attitude,  in  that  elaborate  and  finished,elegance  which  comes 
alike  from  the  arts  of  the  toilet  and  the  conventional  repose 
of  rank,  you  could  see  but  the  woman  of  the  world  and  the 
great  lady. 

A  knock  at  the  door  was  heard,  and  in  a  few  moments 
there  entered  a  visitor,  with  the  easy  familiarity  of  intimate 
acquaintance — a  young  man,  but  with  none  of  the  bloom  of 
youth.  His  hair,  fine  as  a  woman's,  was  thin  and  scanty, 
but  it  fell  low  over  the  forehead,  and  concealed  that  noblest 
of  our  human  features.  "  A  gentleman,"  says  Apuleitis, 
"ought  to  wear  his  whole  mind  on  his  forehead."*  The 
young  visitor  would  never  have  committed  so  frank  an  im- 
prudence. His  cheek  was  pale,  and  in  his  step  and  his 
movements  there  was  a  languor  that  spoke  of  fatigued 
nerves  or  delicate  health.  But  the  light  of  the  eye  and  the 
tone  of  the  voice  were  those  of  a  mental  temperament  con- 
trolling the  bodily — vigorous  and  energetic.  For  the  rest, 
his  general  appearance  was  distinguished  by  a  refinement 

*  "  Hominem  libcrum  et  magnificum  Jcbcre,  si  qucat,  in  primori  fronte,  aninium  gestarc." 


540  MY  NOVEL;    OR, 

alike  intellectual  and  social.  Once  seen,  you  would  not 
easily  forget  him.  And  the  reader,  no  doubt,  already  rec- 
ognizes Randal  Leslie.  His  salutation,  as  I  before  said, 
was  that  of  intimate  familiarity  :  yet  it  was  given  and  replied 
to  with  that  unreserved  openness  which  denotes  the  absence 
of  a  more  tender  sentiment. 

Seating  himself  by  the  Marchesa's  side,  Randal  began 
first  to  converse  on  the  fashionable  topics  and  gossip  of  the 
day  ;  but  it  was  observable  that,  while  he  extracted  from 
her  the  curent  anecdote  and  scandal  of  the  great  world, 
neither  anecdote  nor  scandal  did  he  communicate  in  return. 
Randal  Leslie  had  already  learned  the  art  not  to  commit 
himself,  nor  to  have  quoted  against  him  one  ill-natured  re- 
mark upon  the  eminent.  Nothing  more  injures  the  man 
who  would  rise  beyond  the  fame  of  the  salons,  than  to  be 
considered  backbiter  and  gossip  ;  "yet  it  is  always  useful," 
thought  Randal  Leslie,  "to  know  the  foibles — the  small 
social  and  private  springs  by  which  the  great  are  moved. 
Critical  occasions  may  arise  in  which  such  knowledge  may 
be  power."  And  hence,  perhaps  (besides  a  more  private 
motive,  soon  to  be  perceived),  Randal  did  not  consider  his 
time  thrown  away  in  cultivating  Madame  di  Negra's  friend- 
ship. For,  despite  much  that  was  whispered  against  her, 
she  had  succeeded  in  dispelling  the  coldness  with  which  she 
had  at  first  been  received  in  the  London  circles.  Her  beauty, 
her  grace,  and  her  high  birth,  had  raised  her  into  fashion  ; 
and  the  homage  of  men  of  the  first  station,  while  it  perhaps 
injured  her  reputation  as  woman,  added  to  her  celebrity  as 
line  lady.  So  much  do  we  cold  English,  prudes  though 
we  be,  forgive  to  the  foreigner  what  we  avenge  on  the 
native. 

Sliding  at  last  from  these  general  topics  into  very  well- 
bred  and  elegant  personal  compliment,  and  reciting  various 
eulogies,  which  Lord  this  and  the  Duke  of  that  had  passed 
on  the  Marchesa's  charms,  Randal  laid  his  hand  on  hers, 
with  the  license  of  admitted  friendship,  and  said — 

"  But  since  you  have  deigned  to  confide  in  me,  since  when 
(happily  for  me,  and  with  a  generosity  of  which  no  coquette 
could  have  been  capable)  you,  in  good  time,  repressed  into 
friendship  feelings  that-might  else  have  ripened  into  those 
you  are  formed  to  inspire  and  disdain  to  return,  you  told 
me  with  your  charming  smile,  'Let  no  one  speak  to  me  of 
love  who  does  not  offer  me  his  hand,  and  with  it  the  means 
to  supply  tastes  that  I  fear  are  terribly  extravagant ; ' — since 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  541 

thus  you  allowed  me  to  divine  your  natural  objects,  and 
upon  that  understanding  our  intimacy  has  been  founded, 
you  will  pardon  me  for  saying  that  the  admiration  you 
excite  amongst  these  grands  seigneurs  \  have  named  only 
serves  to  defeat  your  own  purpose,  and  scare  away  admirers 
less  brilliant,  but  more  in  earnest.  Most  of  these  gentlemen 
are  unfortunately  married  ;  and  they  who  are  not  belong  to 
those  members  of  our  aristocracy  who,  in  marriage,  seek  more 
than  beauty  and  wit — namely,  connections  to  strengthen 
their  political  station,  or  wealth  to  redeem  a  mortgage  and 
sustain  a  title." 

"  My  dear  Mr.  Leslie,"  replied  the  Marchesa — and  a  cer- 
tain sadness  might  be  detected  in  the  tone  of  the  voice  and 
the  droop  of  the  eye — "  I  have  lived  long  enough  in  the  real 
world  to  appreciate  the  baseness  and  the  falsehood  of  most 
of  those  sentiments  which  take  the  noblest  names.  I  see 
through  the  hearts  of  the  admirers  you  parade  before  me, 
and  know  that  not  one  of  them  would  shelter  with  his  ermine 
the  woman  to  whom  he  talks  of  his  heart.  Ah,"  continued 
Beatrice,  with  a  softness  of  which  she  was  unconscious,  but 
which  might  have  been  extremely  dangerous  to  youth  less 
steeled  and  self-guarded  than  was  Randal  Leslie's — "Ah,  I 
am  less  ambitious  than  you  suppose.  I  have  dreamed  of  a 
friend,  a  companion,  a  protector,  with  feelings  still  fresh, 
undebased  by  the  low  round  of  vulgar  dissipation  and  mean 
pleasures — of  a  heart  so  new,  that  it  might  restore  my  own 
to  what  it  was  in  its  happy  spring.  I  have  seen  in  your 
country  some  marriages,  the  mere  contemplation  of  which 
has  filled  my  eyes  with  delicious  tears.  I  have  learned  in 
England  to  know  the  value  of  home.  And  with  such  a 
heart  as  I  describe,  and  such  a  home,  I  could  forget  that 
I  ever  knew  a  less  pure  ambition." 

"This  language  does  not  surprise  me,"  said  Randal; 
"  yet  it  does  not  harmonize  with  your  former  answer  to  me." 

"To  you,"  repeated  Beatrice,  smiling,  and  regaining  her 
lighter  manner  :  "  to  you — true.  But  I  never  had  the  vanity 
to  think  that  your  affection  for  me  could  bear  the  sacrifices 
it  would  cost  you  in  marriage  ;  that  you,  with  your  ambition, 
could  bound  your  dreams  of  happiness  to  home.  And 
then,  too,"  said  she,  raising  her  head,  and  with  a  certain 
grave  pride  in  her  air — "and  then,  I  could  not  have  con- 
sented to  share  rny  fate  with  one  whom  my  poverty  would 
cripple.  I  could  not  listen  to  my  heart,  if  it  had  beat  for  a 
lover  without  fortune,  for  to  him  I  could  then  have  brought 


542  MY  NOVEL;    OR, 

but  a  burden,  and  betrayed  him  into  a  union  with  poverty 
and  debt.  Now,  it  may  be  different.  Now  I  may  have  the 
dowry  that  befits  rny  birth.  And  now  I  may  be  free  to 
choose  according  to  my  heart  as  woman,  not  according  to 
my  necessities,  as  one  poor,  harassed,  and  despairing." 

"Ah,"  said  Randal,  interested,  and  drawing  still  closerto- 
ward  his  fair  companion — "  ah,  I  congratulate  you  sincerely  ; 
you  have  cause,  then,  to  think  that  you  shall  be — rich  ? " 

The  Marchesa  paused  before  she  answered,  and  during 
that  pause  Randal  relaxed  the  web  of  the  scheme  which  he 
had  been  secretly  weaving,  and  rapidly  considered  whether, 
if  Beatrice  di  Negra  would  indeed  be  rich,  she  might  answer 
to  himself  as  a  wife  ;  and  in  what  way,  if  so,  he  had  best 
change  his  tone  from  that  of  friendship  into  that  of  love. 
While  thus  reflecting,  Beatrice  answered — 

"  Not  rich  for  an  Englishwoman  ;  for  an  Italian,  yes. 
My  fortune  should  be  half  a  million — " 

"  Half  a   million  !  "  cried   Randal,  and  with  difficulty  he 
restrained  himself  from  falling  at  her  feet  in  adoration. 

"  Of  francs  !  "  continued  the  Marchesa. 

"  Francs  !  Ah,"  said  Randal,  with  a  long-drawn-  breath, 
and  recovering  from  his  sudden  enthusiasm,  "  about  twenty 
thousand  pounds? — eight  hundred  a  year  at  four  per  cent. 
A  very  handsome  portion  certainly  (Genteel  poverty  !  he 
murmured  to  himself.  What  an  escape  I  have  had  !  but  I 
see — I  see.  This  will  smooth  all  difficulties  in  the  way  of 
my  better  and  earlier  project.  I  see) — a  very  handsome 
portion,"  he  repeated  aloud — "  not  for  a  grand  seigneur,  in- 
deed, but  still  for  a  gentleman  of  birth  and  expectations 
worthy  of  your  choice,  if  ambition  be  not  your  first  object. 
Ah,  while  you  spoke  with  such  endearing  eloquence  of  feel- 
ings that  were  fresh,  of  a  heart  that  was  new,  of  the  happy 
English  home,  you  might  guess  that  my  thoughts  ran  to  my 
friend  who  loves  you  so  devotedly,  and  who  so  realizes  your 
ideal.  Proverbially,  with  us,  happy  marriages  and  happy 
homes  are  found  not  in  the  gay  circles  of  London  fashion, 
but  at  the  hearths  of  our  rural  nobility — our  untitled  coun- 
try gentlemen.  And  who,  amongst  all  your  adorers,  can 
offer  you  a  lot  so  really  enviable  as  the  one  whom,  I  see 
by  your  blush,  you  already  guess  that  I  refer  to  ? " 

"  Did  I  blush  ?  "  said  the  Marchesa,  with  a  silvery  laugh. 
"Nay,  I  think  that  your  zeal  for  your  friend  misled  you. 
But  I  will  own  frankly,  I  have  been  touched  by  his  honest 
ingenuous  love— so  evident,  yet  rather  looked  than  spoken. 


VARlETfES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  543 

I  have  contrasted  the  love  that  honors  me  with  the  suitors 
that  seek  to  degrade  ;  more  I  cannot  say.  For  though  I 
grant  that  your  friend  is  handsome,  high-spirited,  and  gen- 
erous, still  he  is  not  what — " 

"You  mistake,  believe  me,"  interrupted  Randal.  "You 
shall  not  finish  your  sentence.  He  is 'till  that  you  do  not 
yet  suppose  him  ;  for  his  shyness,  and  his  very  love,  his 
very  respect  for  your  superiority,  do  not  allow  his  mind  and 
his  nature  to  appear  to  advantage.  You,  it  is  true,  have  a 
taste  for  letters  and  poetry  rare  among  your  countrywomen. 
He  has  not  at  present — few  men  have.  But  what  Cimon 
would  not  be  refined  by  so  fair  an  Iphigenia?  Such  frivol- 
ities as  he  now  shows  belong  but  to  youth  and  inexperience 
of  life.  Happy  the  brother  who  could  see  his  sister  the  wife 
of  Frank  Hazeldean." 

The  Marchesa  leant  her  cheek  on  her  hand  in  silence. 
To  her,  marriage  was  more  than  it  usually  seems  to  dream- 
ing maiden  or  to  disconsolate  widow.  So  had  the  strong 
desire  to  escape  from  the  control  of  her  unprincipled  and 
remorseless  brother  grown  a  part  of  her  very  soul — so  had 
whatever  was  best  and  highest  in  her  very  mixed  and  com- 
plex character  been  galled  and  outraged  by  her  friendless 
and  exposed  position,  the  equivocal  worship  rendered  to  her 
beauty,  the  various  debasements  to  which  pecuniary  em- 
barrassments had  subjected  her — (not  without  design  on  the 
part  of  the  Count,  who,  though  grasping,  was  not  miserly, 
and  who  by  precarious  and  seemingly  capricious  gifts  at 
one  time,  and  refusals  of  all  aid  at  another,  had  involved 
her  in  debt  in  order  to  retain  his  hold  on  her) — so  utterly 
painful  and  humiliating  to  a  woman  of  her  pride  and  her 
birth  was  the  station  that  she  held  in  the  world — that  in 
marriage  she  saw  liberty,  life,  honor,  self-redemption  ;  and 
these  thoughts,  while  they  compelled  her  to  co-operate  with 
the  schemes,  by  which  the  Count,  on  securing  to  himself  a 
bride,  was  to  bestow  on  herself  a  dower,  also  disposed  her 
now  to  receive  with  favor  Randal  Leslie's  pleadings  on  be- 
half of  his  friend. 

The  advocate  saw  that  he  had  made  an  impression,  and 
with  the  marvellous  skill  which  his  knowledge  of  those 
natures  that  engaged  his  study  bestowed  on  his  intelli- 
gence, he  continued  to  improve  his  cause  by  such  repre- 
sentations as  were  likely  to  be  most  effective.  With  what 
admirable  tact  he  avoided  panegyric  of  Frank  as  the 
mere  individual,  and  drew  him  rather  as  the  type,  the 


544  MY  NOVEL;    OR, 

ideal  of  what  a  woman  in  Beatrice's  position  might  de- 
sire, in  the  safety,  peace,  and  honor  of  a  home,  in  the 
trust,  and  constancy,  and  honest  confiding  love  of  its 
partner !  He  did  not  paint  an  elysium,  he  described  a 
haven  ;  he  did  not  glowingly  delineate  a  hero  of  romance 
— he  soberly  portrayed  that  Representative  of  the  Re- 
spectable and  the  Real  which  a  woman  turne  to  when 
romance  begins  to  seem  to  her  but  delusion.  Verily,  if 
you  could  have  looked  into  the  heart  of  the  person  he 
addressed,  and  heard  him  speak,  you  would  have  cried 
admiringly,  "  Knowledge  is  power ;  and  this  man,  if  as 
able  on  a  larger  field  of  action,  should  play  no  mean  part 
in  the  history  of  his  time." 

Slowly  Beatrice  roused  herself  from  the  reveries  which 
crept  over  her  as  he  spoke — slowly,  and  with  a  deep  sigh, 
and  said — 

"  Well,  well,  grant  all  you  say  ;  at  least  before  I  can 
listen  to  so  honorable  a  love,  I  must  be  relieved  from  the 
base  and  sordid  pressure  that  weighs  on  me.  I  cannot 
say  to  the  man  wbo  woos  me,  'Will  you  pay  the  debts  oi 
the  daughter  of  Franzini,  and  the  widow  of  di  Negra  ? ' ' 

"Nay,  your  debts,  surely,  make  so  slight  a  portion  of 
your  dowry." 

"But  the  dowry  has  to  be  secured  ;"  and  here,  turning 
the  tables  upon  her  companion,  as  the  apt  proverb  ex- 
presses it,  Madame  di  Negra  extended  her  hand  to  *Ran- 
dal,  and  said  in  the  most  winning  accents,  "You  are, 
then,  truly  and  sincerely  my  friend?" 
'Can  you  doubt  it  ?  " 

'I  prove  that  I  do  not,  for  I  ask  your  assistance." 

'Mine?     How?" 

'Listen  :  my  brother  has  arrived  in  London " 

'  I  see  that  arrival  announced  in  the  papers." 
'And  he  comes,  empowered  by  the  consent  of  the 
Emperor,  to  ask  the  hand  of  a  relation  and  countrywoman 
of  his;  an  alliance  that  will  heal  long  family  dissensions, 
and  add  to  his  own  fortunes  those  of  an  heiress.  My 
brother,  like  myself,  has  been  extravagant.  The  dowry 
which  by  law  he  still  owes  me  it  would  distress  him  to 
pay  till  this  marriage  be  assured." 

"  I  understand,"  said  Randal.  "  But  how  can  I  aid  this 
marriage  ? " 

"  By  assisting  us  to  discover  the  bride.  She,  with  her 
father,  sought  refuge  and  concealment  in  England." 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  545 

"  The  father  had,  then,  taken  part  in  some  political 
disaffections,  and  was  proscribed  ?  " 

"  Exactly ;  and  so  well  has  he  concealed  himself,  that 
he  has  baffled  all  our  efforts  to  discover  his  retreat.  My 
brother  can  obtain  him  his  pardon  in  cementing  this 
alliance " 

"  Proceed." 

"  Ah,  Randal,  Randal,  is  this  the  frankness  of  friend- 
ship ?  You  know  that  I  have  before  sought  to  obtain 
the  secret  of  our  relation's  retreat — sought  in  vain  to 
obtain  it  from  Mr.  Egerton,  who  assuredly  knows  it " 

"  But  who  communicates  no  secrets  to  living  man," 
said  Randal,  almost  bitterly ;  "  who,  close  and  compact  as 
iron,  is  as  little  malleable  to  me  as  to  you." 

"  Pardon  me.  I  know  you  so  well  that  I  believe  you 
could  attain  to  any  secret  you  sought  earnestly  to  acquire. 
Nay,  more,  I  believe  that  you  know  already  that  secret 
which  I  ask  you  to  share  with  me." 

"  What  on  earth  makes  you  think  so  ?  " 

"  When,  some  weeks  ago,  you  asked  me  to  describe  the 
personal  appearance  and  manners  of  the  exile,  which  I 
did  partly  from  the  recollections  of  my  childhood,  partly 
from  the  description  given  to  me  by  others,  I  could  not 
but  notice  your  countenance,  and  remark  its  change  ;  in 
spite,"  said  the  Marchesa,  smiling,  and  watching  Randal 
while  she  spoke— "in  spite  of  your  habitual  self-com- 
mand. And  when  I  pressed  you  to  own  that  you  had 
actually  seen  some  one  who  tallied  with  that  description, 
your  denial  did  not  deceive  me.  Still  more,  when  return- 
ing recently  of  your  own  accord,  to  the  subject,  you 
questioned  me  so  shrewdly  as  to  my  motives  in  seeking 
the  clue  to  our  refugees,  and  I  did  not  then  answer  you 
satisfactorily,  I  could  detect " 

"  Ha,  ha!  "  interrupted  Randal,  with  the  low  soft  laugh 
by  which  occasionally  he  infringed  upon  Lord  Chester- 
field's recommendations  to  shun  a  merriment  so  natural  as 
to  be  ill-bred — "  Ha,  ha,  you  have  the  fault  of  all  observers 
too  minute  and  refined.  But  even  granting  that  I  may 
have  seen  some  Italian  exiles  (which  is  likely  enough), 
what  could  be  more  natural  than  my  seeking  to  compare 
your  description  with  their  appearance  ;  and  granting  that 
I  might  suspect  some  one  amongst  them  to  be  the  man  you 
search  for,  what  more  natural,  also,  than  that  I  should 
desire  to  know  if  you  meant  him  harm  or  good  in  dis- 


546  MY  NOVEL;    OR, 

covering  his  '  wherabout  ? '  For  ill,"  added  Randal,  with 
an  air  of  prudery — "  ill  would  it  become  me  to  betray,  even 
to  friendship,  the  retreat  of  one  who  would  hide  from 
persecution  ;  and  even  if  I  did  so — for  honor  itself  is  a 
weak  safeguard  against  your  fascinations — such  indiscre- 
tion might  be  fatal  to  my  future  career." 

"How?" 

"  Do  you  not  say  that  Egerton  knows  the  secret,  yet 
will  not  communicate? — and  is  he  .a  man  who  would  ever 
forgive  in  me  an  imprudence  that  committed  himself? 
My  dear  friend,  1  will  tell  you  more.  When  Audley 
Egerton  first  noticed  my  growing  intimacy  with  you,  he 
said,  with  his  usual  dryness  of  counsel,  '  Randal,  I  do  not 
ask  you  to  discontinue  acquaintance  with  Madame  di 
Negra — for  an  acquaintance  with  women  like  her  forms  the 
manners,  and  refines  the  intellect  ;  but  charming  women  are 
dangerous,  and  Madame  di  Negra  is — a  charming  woman." 

The  Marchesa's  face  flushed.  Randal  resumed  :  "'Your 
fair  acquaintance  (I  am  still  quoting  Egerton)  'seeks  to 
discover  the  home  of  a  countryman  of  hers.  She  suspects 
that  I  know  it.  She  may  try  to  learn  it  through  you.  Ac- 
cident may  possibly  give  you  the  information  she  requires. 
Beware  how  you  betray  it.  By  one  such  weakness  I  should 
judge  of  your  general  character.  He  from  whom  a  Avoman 
can  extract  a  secret  will  never  be  fit  for  public  life.' 
Therefore,  my  dear  Marchesa,  even  supposing  I  possess 
this  secret,  you  would  be  no  true  friend  of  mine  to  ask  me 
to  reveal  what  would  imperil  all  my  prospects.  For,  as  yet," 
added  Randal,  with  a  gloomy  shade  on  his  brow — "as  yet  I 
do  not  stand  alone  and  erect — I  lean ; — I  am  dependent." 

"There  may  be  a  Avay,"  replied  Madame  di  Negra,  per- 
sisting, "to  communicate  this  intelligence,  without  the 
possibility  of  Mr.  Egerton's  tracing  our  discovery  to  your- 
self ;  and,  though  I  will  not  press  you  farther,  I  add  this — 
You  urge  me  to  accept  your  friend's  hand  ;  you  seem  in- 
terested in  the  success  of  his  suit,  and  you  plead  it  with 
a  warmth  that  shows  how  much  you  regard  what  you  sup- 
pose is  his  happiness  ;  I  will  never  accept  his  hand  till  I  can 
do  so  without  a  blush  for  my  penury — till  my  dowry  is 
secured,  and  that  can  only  be  by  my  brother's  union  with 
the  exile's  daughter.  For  your  friend's  sake,  therefore, 
think  well  how  you  can  aid  me  in  the  first  step  to  that  al- 
liance. The  young  lady  once  discovered,  and  my  brother 
has  no  fear  for  the  success  of  his  suit." 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  547 

"  And  you  would  marry  Frank  if  the  dower  was 
secured  ?  " 

"  Your  arguments  in  his  favor  seem  irresistible,"  re- 
plied Beatrice,  looking  down. 

A  flash  went  from  Randal's  eyes,  and  he  mused  a  few 
moments. 

Then  slowly  rising  and  drawing  on  his  gloves,  he  said — 

"  Well,  at  least  you  so  far  reconcile  my  honor  toward 
aiding  your  research,  that  you  now  inform  me  you  mean  no 
ill  to  the  exile." 

"111! — the  restoration  to  fortune,  honors,  his  native  land." 

"  And  you  so  far  enlist  my  heart  on  your  side,  that  you 
inspire  me  with  the  hope  to  contribute  to  the  happiness  of 
two  friends  whom  I  dearly  love.  I  will  therefore  diligently 
try  to  ascertain  if,  among  the  refugees  I  have  met  with, 
lurk  those  whom  you  seek  ;  and  if  so,  I  will  thought- 
fully consider  how  to  give  you  the  clue.  Meanwhile,  not 
one  incautious  word  to  Egerton." 
>  "  Trust  me — I  am  a  woman  of  the  world." 

Randal  now  had  gained  the  door.  He  paused  and  re- 
newed carelessly — 

"  This  young  lady  must  be  ^heiress  to  great  wealth,  to 
induce  a  man  of  your  brother's  rank  to  take  so  much  pains 
to  discover  her." 

"  Her  wealth  will  be  vast,"  replied  the  Marchesa  ;  "  and 
if  anything  from  wealth  or  influence  in  a  foreign  state 
could  be  permitted  to  prove  my  brother's  gratitude " 

"Ah,  fie!"  interrupted  Randal;  and.  approaching 
Madame  di  Negra,  he  lifted  her  hand  to  his  lips,  and  said, 
gallantly — 

"This  is  reward  enough  to  your preux  chevalier" 

With  those  words  he  took  his  leave. 


CHAPTER  IV. 

WITH  his  hands  behind  him,  and  his  head  drooping  on 
his  breast — slow,  stealthy,  noiseless,  Randal  Leslie  glided 
along  the  streets  on  leaving  the  Italian's  house.  Across 
the  scheme  he  had  before  revolved,  there  glanced  another 
yet  more  glittering,  for  its  gain  might  be  more  sure  and 
immediate.  If  the  exile's  daughter  were  heiress  to  such 


548  MY  NOVEL;    OR, 

wealth,  might  he  himself  hope ?  He  stopped  short  even 

in  his  own  soliloquy,  and  his  breath  came  quick.  Now,  in 
his  last  visit  to  Hazeldean  he  had  come  in  contact  with 
Riccabocca,  and  been  struck  by  the  beauty  of  Violante.  A 
vague  suspicion  had  crossed  him  that  these  might  be  the 
persons  of  whom  the  Marchesa  was  in  search,  and  the  sus- 
picion had  been  confirmed  by  Beatrice's  description  of  the 
refugee  she  desired  to  discover.  But  as  he  had  not  then 
learned  the  reason  for  her  inquiries,  nor  conceived  the  pos- 
sibility that  he  could  have  any  personal  interest  in  ascer- 
taining the  truth,  he  had  only  classed  the  secret  in  question 
among  those  the  farther  research  into  which  might  be  left 
to  time  and  occasion.  Certainly,  the  reader  will  not  do  the 
unscrupulous  intellect  of  Randal  Leslie  the  injustice  to 
suppose  that  he  was  deterred  from  confiding  to  his  fair 
friend  all  that  he  knew  of  Riccabocca,  by  the  refinement  of 
honor  to. which  he  had  so  chivalrously  alluded.  He  had 
correctly  stated  Audley  Egerton's  warning  against  any  in- 
discreet confidence,  though  he  had  forborne  to  mention,  a 
more  recent  and  direct  renewal  of  the  same  caution.  His 
first  visit  to  Hazeldean  had  been  paid  without  consulting 
Egerton.  He  had  been  passing  some  days  at  his  father's 
house,  and  had  gone  over  thence  to  the  Squire's.  On  his 
return  to  London,  he  had,  however,  mentioned  this  visit  to 
Audley,  who  had  seemed  annoyed,  and  even  displeased  at 
it,  though  Randal  knew  sufficient  of  Egerton's  character  to 
guess  that  such  feelings  could  scarce  be  occasioned  merely 
by  his  estrangement  from  his  half-brother.  This  dissatis- 
faction had,  therefore,  puzzled  the  young  man.  But  as  it 
was  necessary  to  his  views  to  establish  intimacy  with  the 
Squire,  he  did  not  yield  the  point  with  his  customary 
deference  to  his  patron's  whims.  Accordingly,  he  observed, 
that  he  should  be  very  sorry  to  do  anything  displeasing  to 
his  benefactor,  but  that  his  father  had  been  naturally  an- 
xious that  he  should  not  appear  positively  to  slight  the 
friendlv  overtures  of  Mr.  Hazeldean. 

'•  Why  naturally  ?  "  asked  Egerton. 

"  Because  you  know  that  Mr.  Hazeldean  is  a  relation  of 
mine — that  my  grandmother  was  a  Hazeldean." 

"Ah!"  said  Egerton,  who,  as  it  has  been  before  said, 
knew  little  and  cared  less  about  the  Hazeldean  pedigree, 
"  I  was  either  not  aware  of  that  circumstance,  or  had  for- 
gotten it.  And  your  father  thinks  that  the  Squire  may 
leave  you  a  legacy  ? " 


VARIETIES   IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  549 

"  Oh,  sir,  my  father  is  not  so  mercenary — such  an  idea 
never  entered  his  head.  But  the  Squire  himself  has  indeed 
said — '  Why,  if  anything  happened  to  Frank,  you  would  be 
next  heir  to  my  lands,  and  therefore  we  ought  to  know  each 
other.'  But " 

"  Enough,"  interrupted  Egerton.  "  I  am  the  last  man 
to  pretend  to  the  right  of  standing  between  you  and  a 
single  chance  of  fortune,  or  of  aid  to  it.  And  whom  did 
you  meet  at  Hazeldean  ?  " 

"  There  was  no  one  there,  sir  !  not  even  Frank." 

"  Hum.  Is  the  Squire  not  on  good  terms  with  his  par- 
son ?  Any  quarrel  about  tithes  ? " 

"  Oh,  no  quarrel.  I  forg;ot  Mr.  Dale  ;  I  saw  him  pretty 
often.  He  admires  and  praises  you  very  much,  sir." 

"  Me — and  why?     What  did  he   say  of  me  ?  " 

"  That  your  heart  was  as  sound  as  your  head  ;  that  he 
had  once  seen  you  about  some  old  parishioners  of  his  ;  and 
that  he  had  been  much  impressed  with  the  depth  of  feeling 
he  could  not  have  anticipated  in  a  man  of  the  world,  and  a 
statesman." 

"  Oh,  that  was  all  ;  some  affair  when  I  was  member  for 
Lansmere  ?" 

"  I  suppose  so." 

Here  the  conversation  had  broken  off ;  but  the  next 
time  Randal  was  led  to  visit  the  Squire,  he  had  formally 
asked  Egerton's  consent,  who,  after  a  moment's  hesitation, 
had  as  formally  replied,  "  I  have  no  objection." 

On  returning  from  his  visit,  Randal  mentioned  that  he 
had  seen  Riccabocca  ;  and  Egerton,  a  little  startled  at  first, 
said,  composedly,  "  Doubtless  one  of  the  political  refugees  ; 
take  care  not  to  set  Madame  di  Negra  on  his  track.  Re- 
member, she  is  suspected  of  being  a  spy  of  the  Austrian 
government." 

"  Rely  on  me.  sir,"  said  Randal  ;  "  but  I  should  think  this 
poor  doctor  can  scarcely  be  the  person  she  seeks  to  discover." 

"That  is  no  affair  of  ours,"  answered  Egerton  ;  "  we  are 
English  gentlemen,  and  make  not  a  step  toward  the  secrets 
of  another." 

Now,  when  Randal  revolved  this  rather  ambiguous  an- 
swer, and  recalled  the  uneasiness  with  which  Egerton  had 
first  heard  of  his  visit  to  Hazeldean,  he  thought  that  he  was 
indeed  near  the  secret  which  Egerton  desired  to  conceal 
from  him  and  from  all — viz.,  the  incognito  of  the  Italian 
whom  Lord  L'Estrange  had  taken  under  his  protection. 


550  MY  NOVEL;    OR, 

"  My  cards,"  said  Randal  to  himself,  as  with  a  deep- 
drawn  sigh  he  resumed  his  soliloquy,  "are  become  difficult 
to  play.  On  the  one  hand,  to  entangle  Frank  into  mar- 
riage with  this  foreigner,  the  Squire  could  never  forgive 
him.  On  the  other  hand,  if  she  will  not  marry  him  with- 
out the  dowry — and  that  depends  on  her  brother's  wed- 
ding this  countrywoman — and  that  countrywoman  be,  as 
I  surmise,  Violante — and  Violante  be  this  heiress,  and  to  be 
Avon  by  me !  Tush,  tush.  Such  delicate  scruples  in  a 
woman  so  placed  and  so  constituted  as  Beatrice  di  Negra 
must  be  easily  talked  away.  Nay,  the  loss  itself  of  this  al- 
liance to  her  brother,  the  loss  of  her  own  dowry — the  very 
pressure  of  poverty  and  debt,  would  compel  her  into  the 
sole  escape  left  to  her  option.  I  will  then  follow  up  the  old 
plan  ;  I  will  go  down  to  llazeldean,  and  see  if  there  be  any 
substance  in  the  new  one  ; — and  then  to  reconcile  both. 
Aha — the  House  of  Leslie  shall  rise  yet  from  its  ruin — 
and " 

Here  he  was  startled  from  his  reverie  by  a  friendly  slap 
on  the  shoulder,  and  an  exclamation — "  Why,  Randal,  you 
are  more  absent  than  when  you  used  to  steal  away  from  the 
cricket-ground,  muttering  Greek  verses,  at  Eton." 

''My  dear  Frank,"  said  Randal,  "you — you  are  so 
brusque,  and  I  was  just  thinking  of  you." 

"Were  you  ?  And  kindly,  then,  I  am  sure,"  said  Frank 
Hazeldean,  his  honest  handsome  face  lighted  up  with  the 
unsuspecting  genial  trust  of  friendship  ;  "  and  heaven 
knows,"  he  added,  with  a  sadder  voice,  and  a  graver  ex- 
pression on  his  eye  and  lip, — "  heaven  knows  I  want  all 
the  kindness  you  can  give  me  ! " 

"  I  thought,"  said  Randal,  "  that  your  father's  last  sup- 
ply, of  which  I  was  fortunate  enough  to  be  the  bearer, 
would  clear  off  your  more  pressing  debts.  I  don't  pretend 
to  preach,  but  really  I  must  say,  once  more,  you  should  not 
be  so  extravagant." 

FRANK  (seriously). — I  have  done  my  best  to  reform.  I 
have  sold  off  my  horses,  and  I  have  not  touched  dice  nor 
cards  these  six  months ;  I  would  not  even  put  into  the 
raffle  for  the  last  Derby."  This  last  was  said  with  the  air 
of  a  man  who  doubted  the  possibility  of  obtaining  belief  to 
some  assertion  of  preternatural  abstinence  and  virtue. 

RANDAL. — Is  it  possible  ?  But  with  such  self-conquest, 
how  is  it  that  you  cannot  contrive  to  live  within  the  bounds 
of  a  very  liberal  allowance  ? 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  551 

FRANK  (despondingly). — Why,  when  a  man  once  gets 
his  head  under  water,  it  is  so  hard  to  float  back  again  on 
the  surface.  You  see,  I  attribute  all  my  embarrassments 
to  that  first  concealment  of  my  debts  from  my  father,  when 
they  could  have  been  so  easily  met,  and  when  he  came  up 
to  town  so  kindly." 

"  I  am  sorry,  then,  that  I  gave  you  that  advice." 

"  Oh,  you  meant  it  so  kindly,  I  don't  reproach  you  ;  it 
was  all  my  own  fault." 

"  Why,  indeed,  I  did  urge  you  to  pay  off  that  moiety  of 
your  debts  left  unpaid,  with  your  allowance.  Had  you 
done  so,  all  had  been  well." 

"Yes  ;  but  poor  Borrowel  got  into  such  a  scrape  at 
Goodwood — I  could  not  resist  him  ;  a  debt  of  honor — that 
must  be  paid  ;  so  when  I  signed  another  bill  for  him,  he 
could  not  pay  it,  poor  fellow  !  Really*he  would  have  shot 
himself,  if  I  had  not  renewed  it.  And  now  it  is  swelled  to 
such  an  amount  with  that  cursed  interest,  that  he  never  can 
pay  it  ;  and  one  bill,  of  course,  begets  another — and  to  be 
renewed  every  three  months  ;  'tis  the  devil  and  all  !  So  lit- 
tle as  I  ever  got  for  all  I  have  borrowed,"  added  Frank,  with 
a  kind  of  rueful  amaze.  "  Not  ^1500  ready  money  ;  and 
the  interest  would  cost  me  almost  as  much  yearly — if  I  had 
it." 

"Only  ^1500!" 

"Well — besides  seven  large  chests  of  the  worst  cigars 
you  ever  smoked,  three  pipes  of  wine  that  no  one  would 
drink  ;  and  a  great  bear  that  had  been  imported  from  Green- 
land for  the  sake  of  its  grease." 

"  That  should,  at  least,  have  saved  you  a  bill  with  your 
hair-dresser." 

"I  paid  his  bill  with  it,"  said  Frank,  " and  very  good- 
natured  he  was  to  take  the  monster  off  my  hands — it  had 
already  hugged  two  soldiers  and  one  groom  into  the  shape 
of  a  flounder.  I  tell  you  what,"  resumed  Frank,  after  a 
short  pause,  "I  have  a  great  mind  even  now  to  tell  my 
father  honestly  all  my  embarrassments." 

RANDAL  (solemnly). — Hum  ! 

FRANK. — What  ?  don't  you  think  it  would  be  the  best 
way  ?  I  never  can  save  enough — never  can  pay  off  what  I 
owe  ;  and  it  rolls  like  a  snowball. 

RANDAL. — Judging  by  the  Squire's  talk,  I  think  that  with 
the  first  sight  of  your  affairs  you  would  forfeit  his  favor  for 
ever;  and  your  mother  would  be  so  shocked,  especially 


552  MY  NOVEL;    OR, 

after  supposing  that  the  sum  I  brought  you  so  lately  suf- 
ficed to  pay  off  every  claim  on  you.  If  you  had  not  assured 
her  of  that,  it  might  be  different ;  but  she  who  so  hates  an 
untruth,  and  who  said  to  the  Squire,  "  Frank  says  this  will 
clear  him  ;  and  with  all  his  faults,  Frank  never  yet  told 
a  lie ! " 

"  Oh,  my  dear  mother  ! — I  fancy  I  hear  her  !  "  cried  Frank, 
with  deep  emotion.  "  But  I  did  not  tell  a  lie,  Randal  ;  I 
did  not  say  that  that  sum  would  clear  me." 

"You  empowered  and  begged  me  to  say  so,"  replied 
Randal,  with  grave  coldness  ;  "and  don't  blame  me  if  I  be- 
lieved you." 

"  No,  no  !  I  only  said  it  would  clear  me  for  the  mo- 
ment.' 

"  I  misunderstood  you,  then,  sadly  ;  and  such  mistakes 
involve  my  own  honor.  Pardon  me,  Frank  ;  don't  ask  my 
aid  in  future.  You  see,  with  the  best  intentions,  I  only 
compromise  myself." 

"  If  you  forsake  me,  I  may  as  well  go  and  throw  myself 
into  the  river,"  said  Frank,  in  a  tone  of  despair;  "and 
sooner  or  later,  my  father  must  know  my  necessities.  Trie 
Jews  threaten  to  go  to  him  already  ;  and  the  longer  the 
delay,  the  more  terrible  the  explanation." 

"  I  don't  see  why  your  father  should  ever  learn  the  state 
of  your  affairs  ;  and  it  seems  to  me  that  you  could  pay  off 
these  usurers,  and  get  rid  of  these  bills,  by  raising  money 
on  comparatively  easy  terms." 

"  How  ?"  cried  Frank,  eagerly. 

"  Why,  the  Casino  property  is  entailed  on  you,  and  you 
might  obtain  a  sum  upon  that,  not  to  be  paid  till  the  prop- 
erty becomes  yours." 

"  At  my  poor  father's  death  ?  Oh,  no — no  !  I  cannot 
bear  the  idea  of  this  cold-blooded  calculation  on  a  father's 
death.  I  know  it  is  not  uncommon  ;  I  know  other  fellows 
who  have  done  it,  but  they  never  had  parents  so  kind  as 
mine  ;  and  even  in  them  it  shocked  and  revolted  me.  The 
contemplating  a  father's  death,  and  profiting  by  the  con- 
templation,— it  seems  a  kind  of  parricide  ;  it  is  not  natural, 
Randal.  Besides,  don't  you  remember  what  the  Governor 
said — he  actually  wept  while  he  said  it — '  Never  calculate 
on  my  death  ;  I  could  not  bear  that.'  Oh,  Randal,  don't 
speak  of  it !" 

"  I  respect  your  sentiments  ;  but  still,  all  the  post-obits 
you  could  raise  could  not  shorten  Mr.  Hazeldean's  life  by 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  553 

a  day.  However,  dismiss  that  idea ;  we  must  think  of  some 
other  device.  Ha,  Frank  !  you  are  a  handsome  fellow,  and 
your  expectations  are  great — why  don't  you  marry  some 
woman  with  money  ? " 

"  Pooh  !  "  exclaimed  Frank,  coloring.  "  You  know,  Ran- 
dal, that  there  is  but  one  woman  in  the  world  I  can  even 
think  of  ;  and  I  love  her  so  devotedly,  that,  though  I  was  as 
gay  as  most  men  before,  I  really  feel  as  if  the  rest  of  her 
sex  had  lost  every  charm.  I  was  passing  through  the  street 
now — merely  to  look  up  at  her  windows." 

"You  speak  of  Madame  di  Negra  ?  I  have  just  left  her. 
Certainly  she  is  two  or  three  years  older  than  you  ;  but  if 
you  can  get  over  that  misfortune,  why  not  marry  her?" 

"  Marry  her ! "  cried  Frank,  in  amaze,  and  all  his  color 
fled  from  his  cheeks.  "Marry  her  !  are  you  serious?" 

"  Why  not  ? " 

"  But  even  if  she,  who  is  so  accomplished,  so  admired — 
even  if  she  would  accept  me,  she  is,  you  know,  poorer  than 
myself.  She  has  told  me  so  frankly.  That  woman  has  such 
a  noble  heart!  and — and — my  father  would  never  consent, 
nor  my  mother  either.  I  know  they  would  not." 

"  Because  she  is  a  foreigner  ?  " 

"Yes — partly." 

"  Yet  the  Squire  suffered  his  cousin  to  marry  a  foreigner." 

"That  was  different.  He,  had  no  control  over  Jemima; 
and  a  daughter-in-law  is  so  different ;  and  my  father  is  so 
English  in  his  notions  ;  and  Madame  di  Negra,  you  see,  is 
altogether  so  foreign.  Her  very  graces  would  be  against 
her  in  his  eyes." 

"  I  think  you  do  both  your  parents  injustice.  A  for- 
eigner of  low  birth — an  actress  or  singer,  for  instance — of 
course  would  be  highly  objectionable  ;  but  a  woman  like 
Madame  di  Negra,  of  such  high  birth  and  connections — 

Frank  shook  his  head.  "  I  don't  think  the  Governor 
would  care  a  straw  about  her  connections,  if  she  were  a 
king's  daughter.  He  considers  all  foreigners  pretty  much 
alike.  And  then,  you  know  "  (Frank's  voice  sank  into  a 
whisper) — "  you  know  that  one  of  the  very  reasons  why  she 
is  so  dear  to  me,  would  be  an  insuperable  objection  to  the 
old-fashioned  folks  at  home." 

"I  don't  understand  you,  Frank." 

"I  love  her  the  more,"  said  young  Hazeldean,  raising 
his  front  with  a  noble  pride,  that  seemed  to  speak  of  his 
descent  from  a  race  of  cavaliers  and  gentlemen  —  "  I  love 


554  MY  NOV£L;    OR, 

her  the  more  because  the  world  has  slandered  her  name 
• — because  I  believe  her  to  be  pure  and  wronged.  But 
would  they  at  the  Hall — they  who  do  not  see  with  a  lover's 
eyes— they  who  have  all  the  stubborn  English  notions  about 
the  indecorum  and  license  of  Continental  manners,  and  will 
so  readily  credit  the  worst  ? — Oh,  no — I  love,  I  cannot  help 
it — but  I  have  no  hope." 

"  It  is  very  possible  that  you  may  be  right,"  exclaimed 
Randal,  as  if  struck  and  half  convinced  by  his  companion's 
argument — "  very  possible  ;  and  certainly  I  think  that  the 
homely  folks  at  the  Hall  would  fret  and  fume  at  first,  if  they 
heard  you  were  married  to  Madame  di  Negra.  Yet  still, 
when  your  father  learned  that  you  had  done  so,  not  from 
passion  alone,  but  to  save  him  from  all  pecuniary  sacrifice 
— to  clear  yourself  of  debt — to -" 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?"  exclaimed  Frank,  impatiently. 

"  I  have  reason  to  know  that  Madame  di  Negra  will  have 
as  large  a  portion  as  your  father  could  reasonably  expect 
you  to  receive  with  any  English  wife.  And  when  this  is 
properly  stated  to  the  Squire,  and  the  high  position  and 
rank  of  your  wife  fully  established  and  brought  home  to  him 
— for  I  must  think  that  these  would  tell,  despite  your  ex- 
aggerated notions  of  his  prejudices — and  then,  when  he 
really  sees  Madame  di  Negra,  and  can  judge  of  her  beauty 
and  rare  gifts,  upon  my  word,  I  think,  Frank,  that  there 
would  be  no  cause  for  fear.  After  all,  too,  you  are  his  only 
son.  He  will  have  no  option  but  to  forgive  you  ;  and  I 
know  how  anxiously  both  your  parents  wish  to  see  you  set- 
tled in  life." 

Frank's  whole  countenance  became  illuminated.  "  There 
is  no  one  Avho  understands  the  Squire  like  you,  certainly," 
said  he,  with  lively  joy.  "  He  has  the  highest  opinion  of 
your  judgment.  And  you  really  believe  you  could  smooth 
matters  ?  " 

"  I  believe  so  ;  but  I  should  be  sorry  to  induce  you  to. 
run  any  risk  ;  and  if,  on  cool  consideration,  you  think  that 
risk  is  incurred,  I  strongly  advise  you  to  avoid  all  occasion 
of  seeing  the  poor  Marchesa.  Ah,  you  wince  ;  but  I  say  it 
for  her  sake  as  well  as  your  own.  First,  you  must  be  aware, 
that  unless  you  have  serious  thoughts  of  marriage,  your  at- 
tentions can  but  add  to  the  very  rumors  that,  equally  ground- 
less, you  so  feelingly  resent  ;  and,  secondly,  because  I  don't 
think  any  man  has  a  right  to  win  the  affections  of  a  woman 
— especially  a  woman  who  seems  to  me  likely  to  love  with 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  555 

her  whole  heart  and  soul — merely  to  gratify  his  own  van- 
ity." 

"  Vanity  !  Good  heavens !  can  you  think  so  poorly  of 
me  ?  But  as  to  the  Marchesa's  affections,"  continued  Frank, 
with  a  faltering  voice,  "  do  you  really  and  honestly  believe 
that  they  are  to  be  won  by  me  ?" 

"  I  fear  lest  they  may  be  half  won  already,"  said  Randal, 
with  a  smile  and  a  shake  of  the  head  ;  "but  she  is  too 
proud  to  let  you  see  any  effect  you  may  produce  on  her, 
especially  when,  as  I  take  it  for  granted,  you  have  never 
hinted  at  the  hope  of  obtaining  her  hand." 

"  I  never  till  now  conceived  such  a  hope.  My  dear  Ran- 
dal, all  my  cares  have  vanished — I  tread  upon  air — I  have  a 
great  mind  to  call  on  her  at,  once."  '  ;'""' 

"  Stay,  stay,"  said  Randal.  "  Let  me  give  you  a  caution. 
I  have  just  informed  you  that  Madame  di  Negra  will  have, 
what  you  suspected  not  before,  a  fortune  suitable  to  her 
birth.  Any  abrupt  change  in  your  manner  at  present 
might  induce  her  to  believe  that  you  were  influenced  by 
that  intelligence." 

"Ah  !"  exclaimed  Frank,  stopping  short,  as  if  wounded 
to  the  quick.  "  And  I  feel  guilty — feel  as  if  I  was  influ- 
enced by  that  intelligence.  So  I  am,  too,  when  I  reflect," 
he  continued,  with  a  naivett  that  was  half  pathetic  ;  "  but  I 
hope  she  will  not  be  very  rich — if  so,  I'll  not  call." 

"  Make  your  mind  easy,  it  is  but  a  portion  of  some 
twenty  or  thirty  thousand  pounds,  that  would  just  suffice 
to  discharge  all  your  debts,  clear  away  all  obstacles  to  your 
union,  and  in  return  for  which  you  would  secure  a  more 
than  adequate  jointure  and  settlement  on  the  Casino  prop- 
erty. Now  I  am  on  that  head,  I  will  be  yet  more  commu- 
nicative. Madame  di  Negra  has  a  noble  heart,  as  you  say, 
and  told  me  herself,  that  until  her  brother  on  his  arrival 
had  assured  her  of  this  dowry,  she  would  never  have  con- 
sented to  marry  you — never  crippled  with  her  own  embar- 
rassments the  man  she  loves.  Ah  !  with  what  delight  she 
will  hail  the  thought  of  assisting  you  to  win  back  your 
father's  heart  !  But  be  guarded,  meanwhile.  And  now, 
Frank,  what  say  you — would  it  not  be  well  if  I  ran  down 
to  Hazeldean  to  sound  your  parents  ?  It  is  rather  incon- 
venient to  me,  to  be  sure,  to  leave  town  just  at  present ;  but 
I  would  do  more  than  that  to  render  you  a  smaller  service. 
Yes,  I'll  go  to  Rood  Hall  to-morrow,  and  thence  to  Hazel- 
dean,  J  am  sure  your  father  will  press  me  to  stay,  and  I 


556  MY  NOVEL;    URt 

shall  have  ample  opportunities  to  judge  of  the  manner  in 
which  he  would  be  likely  to  regard  your  marriage  with 
Madame  di  Negra — supposing  always  it  were  properly  put 
to  him.  We  can  then  act  accordingly." 

"  My  dear,  dear  Randal,  how  can  I  thank  you  ?  If  ever 
a  poor  fellow  like  me  can  serve  you  in  return — but  that's 
impossible." 

"  Why,  certainly,  I  will  never  ask  you  to  be  security  to 
a  bill  of  mine,"  said  Randal,  laughing.  "  I  practise  the 
economy  I  preach." 

"  Ah ! "  said  Frank,  with  a  groan,  "  that  is  because  your 
mind  is  cultivated — you  have  so  many  resources  ;  and  all 
my  faults  have  come  from  idleness.  If  I  had  had  anything 
to  do  on  a  rainy  day,  I  should  never  have  got  into  these 
scrapes." 

"  Oh  !  you  will  have  enough  to  do  some  day  managing 
your  property.  We  who  have  no  property  must  find  one 
in  knowledge.  Adieu,  my  dear  Frank — I  must  go  home 
now.  By  the  way,  you  have  never,  by  chance,  spoken  of 
the  Riccaboccas  to  Madame  di  Negra  ? " 

"The  Riccaboccas?  No.  That's  well  thought  of.  It 
may  interest  her  to  know  that  a  relation  of  mine  has  mar- 
ried her  countryman.  Very  odd  that  I  never  did  mention 
it ;  but  to  say  truth,  I  really  do  talk  so  little  to  her  ;  she  is 
so  superior,  and  I  feel  positively  shy  with  her." 

"  Do  me  the  favor,  Frank,"  said  Randal,  \vaiting  patient- 
ly till  this  reply  ended — for  he  was  devising  all  the  time 
what  reason  to  give  for  his  request — "  never  to  allude  to  the 
Riccaboccas,  either  to  her  or  to  her  brother  to  whom  you 
are  sure  to  be  presented." 

"Why  not  allude  to  them?" 

Randal  hesitated  a  moment.  His  invention  was  still 
at  fault,  and,  for  a  wonder,  he  thought  it  the  best  policy  .to 
go  pretty  near  the  truth. 

"  Why  I  will  tell  you.  The  Marchesa  conceals  nothing 
from  her  brother,  and  he  is  one  of  the  few  Italians  who  are 
in  high  favor  with  the  Austrian  court." 

"Well !  " 

"And  I  suspect  that  poor  Dr.  Riccabocca  fled  his  coun- 
try from  some  mad  experiment  at  revolution,  and  is  still 
hiding  from  the  Austrian  police." 

"  But  they  can't  hurt  him  here,"  said  Frank,  with  an 
Englishman's  dogged  inborn  conviction  of'  the  sanctity 
of  his  native  island.  "  I  should  like  to  see  an  Austrian 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  557 

pretend  to  dictate  to  us  whom  to  receive  and  whom  to  re- 
ject." 

"Hum— that's  true  and  constitutional,  no  doubt;  but 
Riccabocca  may  have  excellent  reasons — and,  to  speak 
plainly,  I  know  he  has  (perhaps  as  affecting  the  safety  of 
friends  in  Italy) — for  preserving  his  incognito,  and  we 
are  bound  to  respect  those  reasons  without  inquiring  fur- 
ther." 

"Still  I  cannot  think  so  meanly  of  Madame  di  Negra," 
persisted  Frank  (shrewd  here,  though  credulous  elsewhere, 
and  both,  from  his  sense  of  honor),  ''as  to  suppose  that  she 
would  descend  to  be  a  spy,  and  injure  a  poor  countryman 
of  her  own,  who  trusts  to  the  same  hospitality  she  receives 
herself  at  our  English  hands.  Oh  !  if  I  thought  that  I  could 
not  love  her  !  "  added  Frank,  with  energy. 

"  Certainly  you  are  right.  But  see  in  what  a  false 
position  you  would  place  both  her  brother  and  herself.  If 
they  knew  Riccabocca's  secret,  and  proclaimed  it  to  the 
Austrian  government,  as  you  say,  it  would  be  cruel  and 
mean  ;  but,  if  they  knew  it  and  concealed,  it  might  involve 
them  both  in  the  most  serious  consequences.  You  know 
the  Austrian  policy  is  proverbially  so  jealous  and  tyran- 
nical ! " 

"  Well,  the  newspapers  say  so,  certainly." 

"  And,  in  short,  your  discretion  can  do  no  harm,  and 
your  indiscretion  may.  Therefore,  give  me  your  word, 
Frank.  I  can't  stay  to  argue  now." 

"  I'll  not  allude  to  the  Riccaboccas,  upon  my  honor," 
answered  Frank  ;  "still,  I  am  sure  that  they  would  be  as  safe 
with  the  Marchesa  as  with— — " 

"  I  rely  on  your  honor,"  interrupted  Randal  hastily,  and 
hurried  off. 


CHAPTER  V. 

TOWARD  the  evening  of  the  following  day,  Randal  Les- 
lie walked  slowly  from  a  village  in  the  main  road  (about 
two  miles  from  Rood  Hall),  at  which  he  had  got  out  of  the 
coach.  He  passed  through  meads  and  corn-fields,  and  by 
the  skirts  of  woods  which  had  formerly  belonged  to  his  an- 
cestors, but  had  been  long  since  alienated.  He  was  alone 
amidst  the  haunts  of  his  boyhood,  the  scenes  in  which  he 


558  MY  NOVEL;    OR, 

had  first  invoked  the  grand  Spirit  of  Knowledge,  to  bid  the 
Celestial  Still  One  minister  to  the  commands  of  an  earthly 
and  turbulent  ambition.  He  paused  often  in  his  path,  es- 
pecially when  the  undulations  of  the  ground  gave  a  glimpse 
of  the  gray  church-tower,  or  the  gloomy  firs  that  rose  above 
the  desolate  wastes  of  Rood. 

"Here,"  thought  Randal,  with  a  softening  eye — "here, 
how  often,  comparing  the  fertility  of  the  lands  passed  away 
from  the  inheritance  of  my  fathers,  with  the  forlorn  wilds 
tiiut  are  left  to  their  mouldering  hall — here,  how  often  have 
I  said  to  myself — 'I  will  rebuild  the  fortunes  of  my  house.' 
And  straightway  Toil  lost  its  aspect  of  drudge,  and  grew 
kingly,  and  books  became  as  living  armies  to  serve  my 
thoughts.  Again — again — O  thou  haughty  Past,  brace  and 
strengthen  me  in  my  battle  with  the  Future."  His  pale  lips 
writhed  as  he  soliloquized,  for  his  conscience  spoke  to  him 
while  he  thus  addressed  his  will,  and  its  voice  was  heard 
more  audibly  in  the  quiet  of  the  rural  landscape,  than 
amidst  the  turmoil  and  din  of  that  armed  and  sleepless 
camp  which  we  call  a  city. 

Doubtless,  though  Ambition  have  objects  more  vast  and 
beneficent  than  the  restoration  of  a  name, — that  in  itself  is 
high  and  chivalrous,  and  appeals  to  a  strong  interest  in  the 
human  heart.  But  all  emotions,  and  ail  ends,  of  a  nobler 
character,  had  seemed  to  filter  themselves  free  from  every 
golden  grain  in  passing  through  the  mechanism  of  Randal's 
intellect,  and  came  forth  at  last  into  egotism  clear  and  un- 
alloyed. Nevertheless,  it  is  a  strange  truth  that,  to  a  man 
of  cultivated  mind,  however  perverted  and  vicious,  there 
are  vouchsafed  gleams  of  brighter  sentiments,  irregular  per- 
ceptions of  moral  beauty,  denied  to  the  brutal  unreasoning 
wickedness  of  uneducated  villany — which  perhaps  ultim- 
ately serve  as  his  punishment — according  to  the  old  thought 
of  the  satirist,  that  there  is  no  greater  curse  than  to  per- 
ceive virtue  yet  adopt  vice.  And  as  the  solitary  schemer 
walked  slowly  on,  and  his  childhood — innocent  at  least  in 
deed — came  distinct  before  him  through  the  halo  of  bygone 
dreams — dreams  far  purer  than  those  from  which  he  now 
rose  each  morning  to  the  active  world  of  Man — a  profound 
melancholy  crept  over  him,  and  suddenly  he  exclaimed 
aloud,  "  Then  I  aspired  to  be  renowned  and  great — now, 
how  is  it  that,  so  advanced  in  my  career,  all  that  seemed 
lofty  in  the  end  has  vanished  from  me,  and  the  only  means 
that  I  contemplate  are  those  which  my  childhood  would 


VARIETIES  Iff  ENGLISH  LIFE.  559.. 

have  called  poor  and  vile  ?  Ah  !  is  it  that  I  then  read  but 
books,  and  now  my  knowledge  has  passed  onward,  and 
men  contaminate  more  than  books  ?  But,"  he  continued, 
in  a  lower  voice,  as  if  arguing  with  himself, — "if  power  is 
only  so  to  be  won — and  of  what  use  is  knowledge  if  it  be 
not  power — does  not  success  in  life  justify  all  things  ? 
And  who  prizes  the  wise  man  if  he  fails  ? "  He  continued 
his  way,  but  still  the  soft  tranquillity  around  rebuked  him, 
and  still  his  reason  was  dissatisfied,  as  well  as  his  con- 
science. There  are  times  when  Nature,  like  a  bath  of 
youth,  seems  to  restore  to  the  jaded  soul  its  freshness — 
times  from  which  some  men  have  emerged,  as  if  reborn. 
The  crises  of  life  are  very  silent.  Suddenly  the  scene 
opened  on  Randal  Leslie's  eyes.  The  bare  desert  common 
— the  dilapidated  church — the  old  house,  partially  seen  in 
the  dank  dreary  hollow,  into  which  it  seemed  to  Randal  to 
have  sunken  deeper  and  lowlier  than  when  he  saw  it  last. 
And  on  the  common  were  some  young  men  playing  at 
hockey.  That  old-fashioned  game,  now  very  uncommon  in 
England,  except  at  schools,  was  still  preserved  in  the  prim- 
itive vicinity  of  Rood  by  the  young  yeomen  and  farmers. 
Randal  stood  by  the  stile  and  looked  on,  for  among  the 
players  he  recognized  his  brother  Oliver.  Presently  the 
ball  was  struck  toward  Oliver,  and  the  group  instantly 
gathered  round  that  young  gentleman  and  snatched  him 
from  Randal's  eye ;  but  the  elder  brother  heard  a  displeas- 
ing din,  a  derisive  laughter.  Oliver  had  shrunk  from  the 
danger  of  the  thick  clubbed  sticks  that  plied  around  him, 
and  received  some  strokes  across  the  legs,  for  his  voice 
rose  whining,  and  was  drowned  by  shouts  of,  '•  Go  to 
your  mammy.  That's  Noll  Leslie — all  over.  Butter- 
shins." 

Randal's  sallow  face  became  scarlet.  "  The  jest  of  boors 
— a  Leslie  !  "  he  muttered,  and  ground  his  teeth.  He  sprang 
over  the  stile,  and  walked  erect  and  haughtily  across  the 
ground.  The  players  cried  out  indignantly.  Randal  raised 
his  hat,  and  they  recognized  him,  and  stopped  the  game. 
For  him  at  least  a  certain  respect  was  felt.  Oliver  turned 
round  quickly,  and  ran  up  to  him.  Randal  caught  his  arm 
firmly,  and  without  saying  a  word  to  the  rest,  drew  him 
away  toward  the  house.  Oliver  cast  a  regretful,  lingering 
look  behind  him,  rubbed  his  shins,  and  then  stole  a  timid 
glance  toward  Randal's  severe  and  moody  countenance. 

"  You  are  not  angry  that  I  was  playing  at  hockey  with 


560  MY  NOVEL;    OR, 

our  neighbors?"  said  he,  deprecatingly,  observing  that 
Randal  would  not  break  the  silence. 

"No,"  replied  the  elder  brother;  "but,  in  associating 
with  his  inferiors,  a  gentleman  still  knows  how  to  maintain 
his  dignity.  There  is  no  harm  in  playing  with  inferiors,  but 
it  is  necessary  to  a  gentleman  to  play  so  that  he  is  not  the 
laughing-stock  of  clowns." 

Oliver  hung  his  head,  and  made  no  answer.  They  came 
into  the  slovenly  precincts  of  the  court,  and  the  pigs  stared 
at  them  from  the  palings,  as  their  progenitors  had  stared, 
years  before,  at  Frank  Hazeldean. 

Mr.  Leslie,  senior,  in  a  shabby  straw  hat,  was  engaged 
in  feeding  the  chickens  before  the  threshold,  and  he  per- 
formed even  that  occupation  with  a  maundering,  lack-a- 
daisical  slothfulness,  dropping  down  the  grains  almost  one 
by  one  from  his  inert  dreamy  fingers. 

Randal's  sister,  her  hair  still  and  for  ever  hanging  about 
her  ears,  was  seated  on  a  rush-bottom  chair,  reading  a  tat- 
tered novel  ;  and  from  the  parlor  window  was  heard  the 
querulous  voice  of  Mrs.  Leslie,  in  high  fidget  and  complaint. 

Somehow  or  other,  as  the  young  heir  to  all  this  helpless 
poverty  stood  in  the  court-yard,  with  his  sharp,  refined,  in- 
telligent features,  and  his  strange  elegance  of  dress  and 
aspect,  one  better  comprehended  how,  left  solely  to  the  egot- 
ism of  his  knowledge  and  his  ambition,  in  such  a  family, 
and  without  any  of  the  sweet  nameless  lessons  of  Home,  he 
had  grown  up  into  such  close  arid  secret  solitude  of  soul — 
how  the  mind  had  taken  so  little  nutriment  from  the  heart, 
and  how  that  affection  and  respect  which  the  warm  circle  of 
the  hearth  usually  calls  forth  had  passed  with  him  to  the 
graves  of  dead  fathers,  growing,  as  it  were,  bloodless  and 
ghoul-like  amidst  the  charnels  on  which  they  fed. 

"  Ha,  Randal,  boy,"  said  Mr.  Leslie,  looking  up  lazily, 
"  how  d'ye  do  ? — who  could  have  expected  you  ?  My  dear 
— my  dear,"  he  cried,  in  a  broken  voice,  and  as  if  in  helpless 
dismay,  "here's  Randal,  and  he'll  be  wanting  dinner,  or 
supper,  or  something."  But,  in  the  meanwhile,  Randal's 
sister  Juliet  had  sprung  up,  and  thrown  her  arms  round  her 
brother's  neck,  and  he  had  drawn  her  aside -caressingly,  for 
Randal's  strongest  human  affection  was  for  this  sister. 

"  You  are  growingvery  pretty,  Juliet,"  said  he,  smoothing 
back  her  hair  ;  "  why  do  yourself  such  injustice  ? — why  not 
pay  more  attention  to  your  appearance,  as  I  have  so  often 
begged  you  to  do  ? " 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  561 

"  I  did  not  expect  you,  dear  Randal ;  you  always  come 
so  suddenly,  and  catch  us  en  dish-a-bill." 

11  Dish-a-bill !  "  echoed  Randal,  with  a  groan.  "  Dis-ha- 
bille  ! — you  ought  never  to  be  so  caught  !  " 

"  No  one  else  does  so  catch  us — nobody  else  ever  comes. 
Heigho !  "  and  the  young  lady  sighed  very  heartily. 

"  Patience,  patience  ;  my  day  is  coming,  and  then  yours, 
my  sister,"  replied  Randal,  with  genuine  pity,  as  he  gazed 
upon  what  a  little  care  could  have  trained  into  so  fair  a 
ilower,  and  what  now  looked  so  like  a  weed. 

Here  Mrs.  Leslie,  in  a  state  of  intense  excitement — hav- 
ing rushed  through  the  parlor,  leaving  a  fragment  of  her 
gown  between  the  yawning  brass  of  the  never-mended 
Brummagem  work-table — tore  across  the  hall — whirled  out 
of  the  door,  scattering  the  chickens  to  the  right  and  left, 
and  clutched  hold  of  Randal  in  her  motherly  embrace. 
"  La,  how  you  do  shake  my  nerves,"  she  cried,  after  giving 
him  a  most  hasty  and  uncomfortable  kiss.  "And  you  are 
hungry,  too,  and  nothing  in  the  house  but  cold  mutton  ! 
Jenny,  Jenny  ! — I  say,  Jenny  !  Juliet,  have  you  seen  Jenny  ? 
Where's  Jenny?  Out  with  the  odd  man,  I'll  be  bound." 

"I  am  not  hungry,  mother,"  said  Randal;  "I  wish  for 
nothing  but  tea."  Juliet,  scrambling  up  her  hair,  darted 
into  the  house  to  prepare  the  tea,  and  also  to  "tidy  herself." 
She  dearly  loved  her  fine  brother,  but  she  was  greatly  in 
awe  of  him. 

Randal  seated  himself  on  the  broken  pales.  "  Take 
care  they  don't  come  down,"  said  Mr.  Leslie,  with  some 
anxiety. 

"  Oh,  sir,  I  am  very  light ;  nothing  comes  down  with 
me." 

The  pigs  stared  up,  and  grunted  in  amaze  at  the  stranger. 

"Mother,  "  said  the  young  man,  detaining  Mrs.  Leslie, 
who  wanted  to  set  off  in  chase  of  Jenny — "  mother,  you 
should  not  let  Qliver  associate  with  those  village  boors.  It 
is  time  to  think  of  a  profession  for  him." 

"  Oh,  he  eats  us  out  of  house  and  home — such  an  ap- 
petite !  But  as  to  a  profession — what  is  he  fit  for?  He  will 
never  be  a  scholar." 

Randal  nodded  a  moody  assent ;  for,  indeed,  Oliver  had 
been  sent  to  Cambridge,  and  supported  there  out  of  Ran- 
dal's income  from  his  official  pay ;  and  Oliver  had  been 
plucked  for  his  Little  Go. 

"There  is  the  army,"  said  the  elder  brother — '"a  gentle- 
24* 


562  MY  NOVEL;    OK, 

man's  calling.  How  handsome  Juliet  ought  to  be — but — I 
left  money  for  masters — and  she  pronounces  French  like  a 
chambermaid." 

"  Yet  she  is  fond  of  her  book,  too.  She's  always  read- 
ing, and  good  for  nothing  else." 

"  Reading  ! — those  trashy  novels  !  " 

"  So  like  you — you  always  come  to  scold,  and  make 
things  unpleasant,"  said  Mrs.  Leslie,  peevishly.  "You  are 
grown  too  fine  for  us  ;  and  I  am  sure  we  suffer  affronts 
enough  from  others,  not  to  want  a  little  respect  from  our 
own  children." 

"I  did  not  mean  to  affront  you,"  said  Randal,  sadly. 
"  Pardon  me  ;  but  who  else  has  done  so  ?" 

Then  Mrs.  Leslie  went  into  a  minute  and  most  irritating 
catalogue  of  all  the  mortifications  and  insults  she  had 
received  ;  the  grievances  of  a  petty  provincial  family,  with 
much  pretension  and  small  power  ;  of  all  people,  indeed, 
without  the  disposition  to  please — without  the  ability  to 
serve — who  exaggerate  every  offence,  and  are  thankful  for 
no  kindness.  Farmer  Jones  had  insolently  refused  to  send 
his  wagon  twenty  miles  for  coals.  Mr.  Giles,  the  butcher, 
requesting  the  payment  of  his  bill,  had  stated  that  the 
custom  at  Rood  was  too  small  for  him  to  allow  credit. 
Squire  Thornhill,  who  was  the  present  owner  of  the  fairest 
slice  of  the  old  Leslie  domains,  had  taken  the  liberty  to  ask 
permission  to  shoot  over  Mr.  Leslie's  land,  since  Mr.  Leslie 
did  not  preserve.  Lady  Spratt  (new  people  from  the  city, 
who  hired  a  neighboring  country-seat)  had  taken  a  dis- 
charged servant  of  Mrs.  Leslie's  without  applying  for  the 
character.  The  Lord-Lieutenant  had  given  a  ball,  and  had 
not  invited  the  Leslies.  Mr.  Leslie's  tenants  had  voted 
against  their  landlord's  wish  at  the  recent  election.  More 
than  all,  Squire  Hazeldean  and  his  Harry  had  called  at 
Rood  ;  and  though  Mrs.  Leslie  had  screamed  out  to  Jenny, 
"Not  at  home,"  she  had  been  seen  at  the  window,  and  the 
Squire  had  actually  forced  his  way  in,  and  caught  the  whole 
family  "  in  a  state  not  fit  to  be  seen."  That  was  a  trifle  ; 
but  the  Squire  had  presumed  to  instruct  Mr.  Leslie  how  to 
manage  his  property,  and  Mrs.  Hazeldean  had  actually  told 
Juliet  to  hold  up  her  head,  and  tie  up  her  hair,  "as  if  we 
were  her  cottagers  !"  said  Mrs.  Leslie,  with  the  pride  of  a 
Montfydget. 

All  these,  and  various  other  annoyances,  though  Randal 
was  too  sensible  not  to  perceive  their  insignificance,  still 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  563 

galled  and  mortified  the  listening  heir  of  Rood.  They 
showed,  at  least,  even  to  the  well-meant  officiousness  of  the 
Hazeldeans,  the  small  account  in  which  the  fallen  family 
was  held.  As  he  sat  still  on  the  moss-grown  pales,  gloomy 
and  taciturn,  his  mother  standing  beside  him,  with  her  cap 
awry,  Mr.  Leslie  shamblingly  sauntered  up  and  said,  in  a 
pensive,  dolorous  whine — 

"  I  wish  we  had  a  good  sum  of  money,  Randal  boy  ! " 

To  do  Mr.  Leslie  justice,  he  seldom  gave  vent  to  any 
wish  that  savored  of  avarice.  His  mind  must  be  singularly 
aroused,  to  wander  out  of  its  normal  limits  of  sluggish  dull 
content. 

So  Randal  looked  at  him  in  surprise,  and  said,  "  Do 
you,  sir  ? — why  ? " 

"The  manors  of  Rood  and  Dulmansberry,  and  all  the 
lands  therein,  which  my  great-grandfather  sold  away,  are 
to  be  sold  again  when  Squire  Thornhill's  eldest  son  comes 
of  age,  to  cut  off  the  entail.  Sir  John  Spratt  talks  of  buy- 
ing them.  I  should  like  to  have  them  back  again  !  'Tis  a 
shame  to  see  the  Leslie  estates  hawked  about,  and  bought 
by  Spratts  and  people.  I  wish  I  had  a  great — great  sum  of 
ready  money." 

The  poor  gentleman  extended  his  helpless  fingers  as  he 
spoke,  and  fell  into  a  dejected  reverie. 

Randal  sprang  from  the  paling,  a  movement  which 
frightened  the  contemplative  pigs,  and  set  them  off  squall- 
ing and  scampering.  "When  does  young  Thornhill  come 
of  age  ? " 

"  He  was  nineteen  last  August.  I  know  it,  because  the 
day  he  was  born  I  picked  up  my  fossil  of  the  sea-horse,  just 
by  Dulmansberry  church,  when  the  joy-bells  were  ringing. 
My  fossil  sea-horse!  It  will  be  an  heirloom,  Randal — 

"Two  years — nearly  two  years — yet — ah,  all!"  said 
Randal ;  and  his  sister  now  appearing,  to  announce  that 
tea  was  ready,  he  threw  his  arm  round  her  neck  and  kissed 
her.  Juliet  had  arranged  her  hair  and  trimmed  up  her 
dress.  She  looked  very  pretty,  and  she  had  now  the  air  of 
a  gentlewoman — something  of  Randal's  own  refinement  in 
her  slender  proportions  and  well-shaped  head. 

"  Be  patient,  patient  still,  my  dear  sister,"  whispered 
Randal,  "and  keep  your  heart  whole  for  two  years  longer." 

The  young  man  was  gay  and  good-humored  over  his 
simple  meal,  while  his  family  grouped  round  him.  When 
it  was  over,  Mr.  Leslie  lighted  his  pipe,  and  called  for  his 


•564  MY  NOVEL;    OR, 

brandy-and-water.  Mrs.  Leslie  began  to  question  about 
London  and  Court,  and  the  new  King  and  the  new  Queen, 
and  Mr.  Audley  Egerton,  and  hoped  Mr.  Egerton  would 
leave  Randal  all  his  money,  and  that  Randal  would  marry 
a  rich  woman,  and  that  the  King  would  make  him  a  prime- 
minister  one  of  these  days  ;  and  then  she  should  like  to  see 
if  Farmer  Jones  would  refuse  to  send  his  wagon  for  coals  ! 
And  every  now  and  then,  as  the  word  "  riches  "  or  "  money  " 
caught  Mr.  Leslie's  ears,  he  shook  his  head,  drew  his  pipe 
from  his  mouth,  "A  Spratt  should  not  have  what  belonged 
to  my  great -great-grandfather.  If  I  had  a  good  sum  of 
ready  money! — the  old  family  estates!"  Oliver  and  Juliet 
sat  silent,  and  on  their  good  behavior  ;  and  Randal,  indulg- 
ing his  own  reveries,  dreamily  heard  the  words'  "money," 
"Spratt,"  %< great-great-grandfather,"  ''rich  wife,"  "family 
estates  ;"  and  they  sounded  to  him  vague  and  afar  off,  like 
whispers  from  the  world  of  romance  and  legend — weird 
prophecies  of  things  to  be. 

Such  was  the  hearth  which  warmed  the  viper  that  nest- 
led and  gnawed  at  the  heart  of  Randal,  poisoning  all  the 
aspirations  that  youth  should  have  rendered  pure,  ambition 
lofty,  and  knowledge  beneficent  and  divine. 

-.uT 


CHAPTER  VI. 

WHEN  the  rest  of  the  household  were  in  deep  sleep, 
Randal  stood  long  at  his  open  window,  looking  over  the 
dreary,  comfortless  scene — the  moon  gleaming  from  skies 
half-autumnal,  half-wintry,  upon  squalid  decay,  through  the 
ragged  fissures  of  the  firs  ;  and  when  he  lay  down  to  rest 
his  sleep  was  feverish,  and  troubled  by  turbulent  dreams. 

However  he  was  up  early,  and  with  an  unwonted  color 
in  his  cheeks,  which  his  sister  ascribed  to  the  country  air. 
After  breakfast  he  took  his  way  toward  Hazeldean,  mounted 
xipon  a  tolerable  horse,  which  he  borrowed  of  a  neighbor- 
ing farmer  who  occasionally  hunted.  Before  noon  the  gar- 
den and  terrace  of  the  Casino  came  in  sight.  He  reined 
in  his  horse,  and  by  the  little  fountain  at  which  Leonard 
had  been  wont  to  eat  his  radishes  and  con  his  book,  he  saw 
Riccabocca  seated  under  the  shade  of  the  red  umbrella. 
And  by  the  Italian's  side  stood  a  form  that  a  Greek  of  old 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  565 

might  have  deemed  the  Naiad  of  the  Fount ;  for  in  its 
youthful  beauty  there  was  something  so  full  of  poetry — 
something  at  once  so  sweet  and  so  stately — that  it  spoke  to 
the  imagination  while  it  charmed  the  sense. 

Randal  dismounted,  tied  his  horse  to  the  gate,  and,  walk- 
ing down  a  trellised  alley,  came  suddenly  to  the  spot.  His 
dark  shadow  fell  over  the  clear  mirror  of  the  fountain  just 
as  Riccabocca  had  said,  "  All  here  is  so  secure  from  evil ! — 
the  waves  of  the  fountain  are  never  troubled  like  those  of 
the  river!"  and  Violante  had  answered  in  her  soft  native 
tongue,  and  lifting  her  dark  spiritual  eyes — "  But  the  foun- 
tain would  be  but  a  lifeless  pool,  oh,  my  father,  if  the  spray 
did  not  mount  toward  the  skies  !  " 


CHAPTER  VII. 

RANDAL  advanced — "  I  fear,  Signor  Riccabocca,  that  I 
am  guilty  of  some  want  of  ceremony." 

"  To  dispense  with  ceremony  is  the  most  delicate  mode 
of  conferring  a  compliment,"  replied  the  urbane  Italian,  as 
he  recovered  from  his  first  surprise  at  Randal's  sudden  ad- 
dress, and  extended  his  hand. 

Violante  bowed  her  graceful  head  to  the  young  man's 
respectful  salutation.  "  I  am  oh  my  way  to  Hazeldean," 
resumed  Randal,  "and,  seeing  you  in  the  garden,  could  not 
resist  this  intrusion." 

RICCABOCCA. — You  come  from  London  ?  Stirring  times 
for  you  English,  but  I  do  not  ask  you  the  news.  No  news 
can  affect  us. 

RANDAL  (softly). — Perhaps,  yes. 

RICCABOCCA  (startled). — How  ? 

VIOLANTE. — Surely  he  speaks  of  Italy,  and  news  from 
that  country  affects  you  still,  my  father. 

RICCABOCCA. — Nay,  nay,  nothing  affects  me  like  this 
country  ;  its  east  winds  might  affect  a  pyramid  !  Draw  your 
mantle  round  you,  child,  and  go  in  ;  the  air  has  suddenly 
grown  chill. 

Violante  smiled  on  her  father,  glanced  uneasily  toward 
Randal's  grave  brow,  and  went  slowly  toward  the  house. 

Riccabocca,  after  waiting  some  moments  in  silence,  as  if 
expecting  Randal  to  speak,  said  with  affected  carelessness, 


566  MY  NOVEL;    OR, 

"  So  you  think  that  you  have  news  that  might  affect  me  ? 
Corfto  di  Bacco  !  I  am  curious  to  learn  what !  " 

"  I  may  be  mistaken — that  depends  on  your  answer  to 
one  question.  Do  you  know  the  Count  of  Peschiera  ?  " 

Riccabocca  winced,  and  turned  pale.  He  could  not 
baffle  the  watchful  eye  of  the  questioner. 

"  Enough,"  said  Randal  ;  "  I  see  that  I  am  right.  Believe 
in  my  sincerity.  I  speak  but  to  warn  and  to  serve  you.  The 
Count  seeks  to  discover  the  retreat  of  a  countryman  and 
kinsman  of  his  own.  " 

"  And  for  what  end  ?  "  cried  Riccabocca,  thrown  off  his 
guard,  and  his  breast  dilated,  his  crest  rose,  and  his  eye 
flashed  ;  valor  and  defiance  broke  from  habitual  caution 
and  self-control.  "  But — pooh  !  "  he  added,  striving  to  re- 
gain his  ordinary  and  half-ironical  calm,  "  it  matters  not  to' 
me.  I  grant,  sir,  that  I  know  the  Count  di  Peschiera ;  but 
what  has  Dr.  Riccabocca  to  do  with  the  kinsman  of  so 
grand  a  personage  ?  " 

"  Dr.  Riccabocca — nothing.  But — "  here  Randal  put 
his  lip  close  to  the  Italian's  ear,  and  whispered  a  brief  sen- 
tence. Then  retreating  a  step,  but  laying  his  hand  on  the 
exile's  shoulder,  he  added — "  Need  I  say  that  your  secret  is 
safe  with  me  ?  " 

Riccabocca  made  no  answer.  His  eyes  rested  on  the 
ground  musingly. 

Randal  continued — "And  I  shall  esteem  it  the  highest 
honor  you  can  bestow  on  me,  to  be  permitted  to  assist  you 
in  forestalling  danger." 

RICCABOCCA  (slowly). — Sir,  I  thank  you  ;  you  have  my 
secret,  and  I  feel  assured  it  is  safe,  for  I  speak  to  an  English 
gentleman.  There  may  be  family  reasons  why  I  should 
avoid  the  Count  di  Peschiera  ;  and,  indeed,  he  is  safest  from 
shoals  who  steers  clearest  of  his — relations. 

The  poor  Italian  regained  his  caustic  smile  as  he  uttered 
that  wise  villanous  Italian  maxim. 

RANDAL. — I  know  little  of  the  Count  of  Peschiera  save 
from  the  current  talk  of  the  world.  He  is  said  to  hold  the 
estate  of  a  kinsman  who  took  part  in  a  conspiracy  against 
the  Austrian  power. 

RtcCABOCCA. — It  is  true.  Let  that  content  him;  what 
more  does  he  desire  ?  You  spoke  of  forestalling  danger ; 
what  danger  ?  I  am  on  the  soil  of  England,  and  protected 
by  its  laws. 

RANDAL. — Allow  me  to  inquire  if,  had  the  kinsman  no 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  567 

child,  the  Count  di  Peschiera  would  be  legitimate  and  nat- 
ural heir  to  the  estates  he  holds  ? 

RICCABOCCA. — He  would — What  then  ? 

RANDAL. — Does  that  thought  suggest  no  danger  to  the 
child  of  the  kinsman  ?  "''„-' 

Riccabocca  recoiled,  and  gasped  forth,  "  The  child  !  You 
do  not  mean  to  imply  that  this  man,  infamous  though  he  be, 
can  contemplate  the  crime  of  an  assassin  ?  " 

Randal  paused,  perplexed.  His  ground  was  delicate. 
He  knew  not  what  causes  of  resentment  the  exile  entertained 
against  the  Count.  He  knew  not  whether  Riccabocca  would 
not  assent  to  an  alliance  that  might  restore  him  to  his 
country — and  he  resolved  to  feel  his  way  with  precaution. 

"  I  did  not,"  said  he,  smiling  gravely,  "  mean  to  insinuate 
so  horrible  a  charge  against  a  man  whom  I  have  never  seen. 
He  seeks  you — that  is  all  I  know.  I  imagine,  from  his  gen- 
eral character,  that  in  this  search  he  consults  his  interests. 
Perhaps  all  matters  might  be  conciliated  by  an  interview  ! " 

"  An  interview  !  "  exclaimed  Riccabocca  ;  "  there  is  but 
one  way  we  should  meet — foot  to  foot,  and  hand  to  hand." 

Is  it  so  ?  Then  you  would  not  listen  to  the  Count  if  he 
proposed  some  amicable  compromise — if,  for  instance,  he 
was  a  candidate  for  the  hand  of  your  daughter  ?" 

The  poor  Italian,  so  wise  and  so  subtle  in  his  talk,  was 
as  rash  and  blind  when  it  came  to  action,  as  if  he  had  been 
born  in  Ireland,  and  nourished  on  potatoes  and  Repeal. 
He  bared  his  whole  soul  to  the  merciless  eye  of  Randal. 

"  My  daughter  !  "  he  exclaimed.  "  Sir,  your  very  ques- 
tion is  an  insult." 

Randal's  way  became  clear  at  once.  "  Forgive  me,"  he 
said,  mildly  ;  "  I  will  tell  you  frankly  all  that  I  know.  I  am 
acquainted  with  the  Count's  sister.  I  have  some  little  in- 
fluence over  her.  It  was  she  who  informed  me  that  the 
Count  had  come  here,  bent  upon  discovering  your  refuge, 
and  resolved  to  wed  your  daughter.  This  is  the  danger  of 
which  I  spoke.  And  when  I  asked  your  permission  to  aid 
in  forestalling  it,  I  only  intended  to  suggest  that  it  might 
be  wise  to  find  some  securer  home,  and  that  I,  if  permitted 
to  know  that  home,  and  to  visit  you,  could  apprise  you  from 
time  to  time  of  the  Count's  plans  and  movements." 

"  Sir,  I  thank  you  sincerely,"  said  Riccabocca,  with 
emotion  ;  "but  am  I  not  safe  here  ?" 

"  I  doubt  it.  Many  people  have  visited  the  Squire  in 
the  shooting  season,  who  will  have  heard  of  you — perhaps 


56S  MY  NOVEL;    OR, 

seen  you,  and  who  are  likely  to  meet  the  Count  in  London. 
And  Frank  Hazeldean,  too,  who  knows  the  Count's  sis- 
ter— 

"True,  true,"  interrupted  Riccabocca.  "I  see,  I  see. 
I  will  consider.  I  will  reflect.  Meanwhile  you  are  going 
to  Hazeldean.  Do  not  say  a  word  to  the  Squire.  He 
knows  not  the  secret  3'ou  have  discovered." 

With  those  words  Riccabocca  turned  slightly  away,  and 
Randal  took  the  hint  to  depart. 

"  At  all  times  command  and  rely  on  me,"  said  the  young 
traitor,  and  he  regained  the  pale  to  which  he  had  fastened 
his  horse. 

As  he  remounted,  he  cast  his  eyes  toward  the  place  where 
he  had  left  Riccabocca.  The  Italian  was  still  standing 
there.  Presently  the  form  of  Jackeymo  was  seen  emerging 
from  the  shrubs.  Riccabocca  turned  hastily  round,  recog- 
nized his  servant,  uttered  an  exclamation  loud  enough  to 
reach  Randal's  ear,  and  then,  catching  Jackeymo  by  the  arm, 
disappeared  with  him  amidst  the  deep  recesses  of  the  gar- 
den. 

"  It  will  be  indeed  in  my  favor,"  thought  Randal,  as  he 
rode  on,  "  if  I  can  get  them  into  the  neighborhood  of  Lon- 
don— an  occasion  there  to  woo,  and  if  expedient,  to  win — 
the  heiress." 


CHAPTER   VIII. 

"  BY  the  Lord  Harry ! "  cried  the  Squire,  as  he  stood 
with  his  wife  in  the  park,  on  a  visit  of  inspection  to  some 
first-rate  South-downs  just  added  to  his  stock — "  By  the 
Lord,  if  that  is  not  Randal  Leslie  trying  to  get  into  the  park 
at  the  back  gate  !  Hollo,  Randal  !  you  must  come  round  by 
the  lodge,  my  boy,"  said  he.  "You  see  this  gate  is  locked 
to  keep  out  trespassers." 

"  A  pity,"  said  Randal.  "  I  like  short  cuts,  and  you  have 
shut  up  a  very  short  one." 

"  So  the  trespassers  said,"  quoth  the  Squire  ;  "but  Stirn 
insisted  on  it ; — valuable  man,  Stirn.  But  ride  round  to  the 
lodge.  Put  up  your  horse,  and  you'll  join  us  before  we  can 
get  to  the  house." 

Randal  nodded  and  smiled,  and  rode  briskly  on. 

The  Squire  rejoined  his  Harry. 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  569 

"Ah,  William,"  said  she,  anxiously,  "though  certainly 
Randal  Leslie  means  well,  I  always  dread  his  visits." 

'•  So  do  I,  in  one  sense,"  quoth  the  Squire,  "for  he  always 
carries  away  a  bank-note  for  Frank." 

"  I  hope  he  is  really  Frank's  friend,"  said  Mrs.  Hazeldean. 

"  Who's  else  can  he  be  ?  Not  his  own,  poor  fellow,  for 
he  will  never  accept  a  shilling'  from  me,  though  his  grand- 
mother was  as  good  a  Hazeldean  as  I  am.  But,  zounds,  I 
like  his  pride,  and  his  economy  too.  As  for  Frank " 

"Hush,  William  !"  cried  Mrs.  Hazeldean,  arid  put  her 
fair  hand  before  the  Squire's  mouth.  The  Squire  was 
softened,  and  kissed  the  fair  hand  gallantly — perhaps  he 
kissed  the  lips  too  ;  at  all  events,  the  worthy  pair  were 
walking  lovingly  arm-in-arm  when  Randal  joined  them. 

He  did  not  affect  to  perceive  a  certain  coldness  in  the 
manner  of  Mrs.  Hazeldean,  but  began  immediately  to  talk 
to  her  about  Frank  ;  praise  that  young  gentleman's  appear- 
ance ;  expatiate  on  his  health, "his  popularity,  and  his  good 
gifts,  personal  and  mental — and  this  with  so  much  warmth, 
that  any  dim  and  undeveloped  suspicions  Mrs.  Hazeldean 
might  have  formed  soon  melted  away. 

Randal  continued  to  make  himself  thus  agreeable  until 
the  Squire,  persuaded  that  his  young  kinsman  was  a  first- 
rate  agriculturist,  insisted  upon  carrying  him  off  to  the 
home  farm  ;  and  Harry  turned  toward  the  house1-  to  order 
Randal's  room  to  be  got  ready;  "For,"  said  Randal, 
"knowing  that  you  will  excuse  my  morning  dress,  I  venture 
to  invite  myself  to  dine  and  sleep  at  the  Hall." 

On  approaching  the  farm-buildings,  Randal  was  seized 
with  the  terror  of  an  impostor  ;  for,  despite  all  the  theor- 
etical learning  on  Bucolics  and  Georgics  with  which  he  had 
dazzled  the  Squire,  poor  Frank,  so  despised,  would  have 
beat  him  hollow  when  it  came  to  the  judging  of  the  points 
of  an  ox,  or  the  show  of  a  crop. 

"  Ha,  ha  !  "  cried  the  Squire,  chuckling.  "  I  long  to  see 
how  you'll  astonish  Stirn.  Why,  you'll  guess  in  a  moment 
where  we  put  the  top-dressing ;  and  when  you  have  come 
to  handle  my  short-horns,  I  dare  swear  you'll  know  to  a 
pound  how  much  oil-cake  has  gone  into  their  sides." 

"  Oh,  you  do  me  too  much  honor — indeed  you  do.  I 
only  know  the  general  principles  of  agriculture  ;  the  details 
are  eminently  interesting,  but  I  have  not  had  the  oppor- 
tunity to  acquire  them." 

"  Stuff  !  "  cried  the  Squire.    "  How  can  a  man  know  gen- 


570  MY  NOVEL;    OR, 

eral  principles  unless  he  has  first  studied  the  details  ?  You 
are  too  modest,  my  boy.  Ho  !  there's  Stirn  looking  out  for 
us  !" 

Randal  saw  the  grim  visage  of  Stirn  peering  out  of  a 
cattle-shed,  and  felt  undone.  He  made  a  desperate  rush 
toward  changing  the  Squire's  humor. 

"Well,  sir,  perhaps  Frank  may  soon  gratify  your  wish, 
and  turn  farmer  himself." 

"  Eh  !"  quoth  the  Squire,  stopping  short — "what  now?" 

"  Suppose  he  were  to  marry  ?  " 

"  I'd  give  him  the  two  best  farms  on  the  property  rent 
free.  Ha,  ha  !  Has  he  seen  the  girl  yet  ?  I'd  leave  him 
free  to  choose  ;  sir,  I  chose  for  myself — every  man  should. 
Not  but  Miss  Sticktorights  is  an  heiress,  and,  I  hear,  a  very 
decent  girl,  and  that  would  join  the  two  properties,  and  put 
an  end  to  that  lawsuit  about  the  right  of  way,  which  began 
in  the  reign  of  King  Charles  the  Second,  and  is  likely  other- 
wise to  last  till  the  day  of  judgment.  But  never  mind  her ; 
let  Frank  choose  to  please  himself." 

"  I'll  not  fail  to  tell  him  so,  sir.  I  did  fear  you  might 
have  some  prejudices.  But  here  we  are  at  the  farm-yard." 

"  Burn  the  farm-yard  !  How  can  I  think  of  farm-yards 
when  you  talk  of  Frank's  marriage  ?  Come  on — this  way. 
What  were  you  saying  about  prejudices  ?" 

"  Why,  you  might  wish  him  to  marry  an  Englishwoman, 
for  instance." 

"  English  !  Good  heavens,  sir,  does  he  mean  to  marry  a 
Hindoo  ?" 

"  Nay,  I  don't  know  that  he  means  to  marry  at  all  ;  I 
am  only  surmising  ;  but  if  he  did  fall  in  love  with  a 
foreigner " 

"  A  foreigner  !  Ah,  then  Harry  was —  The  Squire 
stopped  short. 

"Who  might,  perhaps,"   observed  Randal — not  truly  if 
he  referred   to   Madame  di  Negra — "who   might,  perhaps, 
speak  very  little  English  ?  " 
:       "  Lord  ha'  mercy  !  " 

"And  a  Roman  Catholic " 

"  Worshipping  idols,  and  roasting  people  who  don't  wor- 
ship them." 

"  Signor  Riccabocca  is  not  so  bad  as  that." 

"  Rickeybockey  !  Well,  if  it  was  his  daughter  !  But  not 
speak  English !  and  not  go  to  the  parish  church  !  By  George, 
if  Frank  thought  of  such  a  thing,  I'd  cut  him  off  with  a 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  571 

shilling.  Don't  talk  to  me,  sir  ;  I  would.  I'm  a  mild  man, 
and  an  easy  man  ;  but  when  I  say  a  thing,  I  say  it,  Mr.  Leslie. 
Oh,  but  it  is  a  jest — you  are  laughing  at  me.  There's  no  such 
painted  good-for-nothing  creature  in  Frank's  eye — eh  ? " 

"  Indeed,  sir,  if  ever  I  find  there  is,  I  will  give  you  notice 
in  time.  At  present,  I  was  only  trying  to  ascertain  what 
you  wished  for  a  daughter-in-law.  You  said  you  had  no 
prejudice." 

'  No  more  I  have — not  a  bit  of  it." 

'  You  don't  like  a  foreigner  and  a  Catholic  ?  " 
'  Who  the  devil  would  ? " 
'  But  if  she  had  rank  and  title  ? " 

'Rank  and  title  !  Bubble  and  squeak  !  No,  not  half  so 
good  as  bubble  and  squeak.  English  beef  and  good  cab- 
bage. But  foreign  rank  and  title  ! — foreign  cabbage  and 
beef ! — foreign  bubble  and  foreign  squeak  !"  And  the  Squire 
made  a  wry  face,  and  spat  forth  his  disgust  and  indignation, 

"You  must  have  an  Englishwoman  ?" 

"  Of  course." 

"  Money  ?  " 

"  Don't  care,  provided  she  is  a  tidy,  sensible,  active  lass, 
with  a  good  character  for  her  dower." 

"Character — ah,  that  is  indispensable?" 

"  I  should  think  so,  indeed.  A  Mrs.  Hazeldean  of 
Hazeldean — You  frighten  me.  He's  not  going  to  run  off 
with  a  divorced  woman,  or  a " 

The  Squire  stopped,  and  looked  so  red  in  the  face  that 
Randal  feared  he  might  be  seized  with  apoplexy  before 
Frank's  crimes  had  made  him  alter  his  will. 

Therefore  he  hastened  to  relieve  Mr.  Hazeldean's  mind, 
and  assured  him  that  he  had  only  been  talking  at  random  ; 
that  Frank  was  in  the  habit,  indeed,  of  seeing  foreign  ladies 
occasionally,  as  all  persons  in  the  London  world  were  ;  but 
that  he  was  sure  Frank  would  never  marry  without  the  full 
consent  and  approval  of  his  parents.  He  ended  by  repeat- 
ing his  assurance,  that  he  would  warn  the  Squire  if  ever  it 
became  necessary.  Still,  however,  he  left  Mr.  Hazeldean  so 
disturbed  and  uneasy  that  that  gentleman  forgot  all  about 
the  farm,  and  went  moodily  on  in  the  opposite  direction, 
re-entering  the  park  at  its  farther  extremity.  As  soon  as 
they  approached  the  house,  the  Squire  hastened  to  shut  him- 
self with  his  wife  in  full  paternal  consultation  ;  and  Randal, 
seated  upon  a  bench  on  the  terrace,  revolved  the  mischief 
he  had  done,  and  its  chances  of  success. 


572  MY  NOVEL;    OR, 

While  thus  seated,  and  thus  thinking,  a  footstep  ap- 
proached cautiously,  and  in  a  low  voice  said,  in  broken  Eng- 
lish, "  Sare,  sare,  let  me  speak  vid  you." 

Randal  turned  in  surprise,  and  beheld  a  swarthy  satur- 
nine face,  with  grizzled  hair  and  marked  features.  He  re- 
cognized the  figure  that  had  joined  Riccaboccain  the  Italian's 
garden. 

"Speak-a  you  Italian  ?"  resumed  Jackeymo. 

Randal,  who  had  made  himself  an  excellent  linguist, 
nodded  assent ;  and  Jackeymo,  rejoiced,  begged  him  to  with- 
draw into  a  more  private  part  of  the  grounds. 

Randal  obeyed,  and  the  two  gained  the  shade  of  a  stately 
chestnut  avenue. 

"  Sir,"  then  said  Jackeymo,  speaking  in  his  native  tongue, 
and  expressing  himself  with  a  certain  simple  pathos,  "  I  am 
but  a  paor  man  ;  my  name  is  Giacomo.  You  have  heard 
of  me  ;  servant  to  the  Signore  whom  you  saw  to-day — only 
a  servant  ;  but  he  honors  me  with  his  confidence.  We  have 
known  danger  together,  and  of  all  his  friends  and  follow- 
ers, I  alone  came  with  him  to  the  stranger's  land." 

"Good  faithful  fellow,"  said  Randal,  examining  the 
man's  face,  "  say  on.  Your  master  confides  in  you  ?  He 
has  confided  that  which  I  told  him  this  day  ?  " 

"He  did.  Ah,  sir!  the  Padrone  was  too  proud  to  ask 
you  to  explain  more — too  proud  to  show  fear  of  another. 
But  he  does  fear — he  ought  to  fear — he  shall  fear"  (con- 
tinued Jackeymo,  working  himself  up  to  passion), — "for the 
Padrone  has  a  daughter,  and  his  enemy  is  a  villain.  Oh, 
sir,  tell  me  all  that  you  did  not  tell  to  the  Padrone.  You 
hinted  that  this  man  might  wish  to  marry  the  Signora. 
Marry  her ! — I  could  cut  his  throat  at  the  altar !  " 

"  Indeed,"  said  Randal  ; — "I  believe  that  such  is  his  ob- 
ject." 

"  But  why  ?  He  is  rich — she  is  penniless  ; — no,  not  quite 
that,  for  we  have  saved — but  penniless,  compared  to  him." 

"  My  good  friend,  I  know  not  yet  his  motives,  but  I  can 
easily  learn  them.  If,  however,  this  Count  be  your  master's 
enemy,  it  is  surely  well  to  guard  against  him,  whatever  his 
designs  ;  and,  to  do  so,  you  should  move  into  London  or  its 
neighborhood.  I  fear  that,  while  we  speak,  the  Count  may 
get  upon  his  track." 

"He  had  better  not  come  here! "cried  the  servant, 
menacingly,  and  putting  his  hand  where  the  knife  was  not, 

"  Beware  of  your  own  anger,  Giacomo.     One  act  of  vio- 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  573 

lence,  and  you  would  be  transported  from  England,  and 
your  master  would  lose  a  friend." 

Jackeymo  seemed  struck  by  this  caution. 

"  And  if  the  Padrone  were  to  meet  him,  do  you  think 
the  Padrone  would  meekly  say,  '  Come  sta  sa  Signoria  ?  '  The 
Padrone  would  strike  him  dead  ! " 

"  Hush — hush  !  You  speak  of  what  in  England  is  called 
murder,  and  is  punished  by  the  gallows.  If  you  really  love 
your  master,  for  Heaven's  sake  get  him  from  this  place — 
get  him  from  all  chance  of  such  passion  and  peril.  I  go  to 
town  to-morrow  ;  I  will  find  him  a  house  that  shall  be  safe 
from  all  spies — all  discovery.  And  there,  too,  my  friend,  I 
can  do — what  I  cannot  at  this  distance — watch  over  him, 
and  keep  watch  also  on  his  enemy." 

Jackeymo  seized  Randal's  hand,  and  lifted  it  toward  his 
lip  ;  then,  as  if  struck  by  a  sudden  suspicion,  dropped  the 
hand,  and  said  bluntly,  "  Signore,  I  think  you  have  seen  the 
Padrone  twice.  Why  do  you  take  this  interest  in  him  ?" 

''  Is  it  so  uncommon  to  take  interest  even  in  a  stranger 
who  is  menaced  by  some  peril  ?  " 

Jackeymo,  who  believed  little  in  general  philanthropy, 
shook  his  head  sceptically. 

"Besides,"  continued  Randal,  suddenly  bethinking  him- 
self of  a  more  plausible  reason — "besides,  I  am  a  friend  and 
connection  of  Mr.  Egerton  ;  and  Mr.  Egerton's  most  inti- 
mate friend  is  Lord  L'Estrange  ;  and  I  have  heard  that 
Lord  L'Estrange — 

"The  good  Lord  !  Oh,  now  I  understand,"  interrupted 
Jackeymo,  and  his  brow  cleared.  Ah,  if  he  were  in  England  ! 
But  you  will  let  us  know  when  he  comes  ?" 

"  Certainly.  Now,  tell  me,  Giacomo,  is  this  Count  really 
unprincipled  and  dangerous  ?  Remember,  I  know  him  not 
personally." 

"  He  has  neither  heart  nor  conscience." 

"That  defect  makes  him  dangerous  to  men;  perhaps 
not  less  to  women.  Could  it  be  possible,  if  he  obtained  any 
interview  with  the  Signora,  that  he  could  win  her  affec- 
tions ?  " 

Jackeymo  crossed  himself  rapidly  and  made  no  answer. 

"  I  have  heard  that  he  is  still  very  handsome." 

Jackeymo  groaned. 

Randal  resumed — "  Enough  ;  persuade  the  Padrone  to 
come  to  town." 

"  But  if  the  Count  is  in  town  ?" 


574  '1/r  -VOt'EL;    OK, 

"  That  makes  no  difference  ;  the  safest  place  is  always 
the  largest  city.  Evei-ywhere  else,  a  foreigner  is  in  himself 
an  object  of  attention  and  curiosity." 

"True." 

"  Let  your  master,  then,  come  to  London,  or  rather,  into 
its  neighborhood.  He  can  reside  in  one  of  the  suburbs 
most  remote  from  the  Count's  haunts.  In  two  days  I  will 
have  found  him  a  lodging  and  write  to  him.  You  trust  to 
me  now  ? " 

"I  do  indeed — I  do,  excellency.  Ah,  if  the  Signorina 
were  married,  we  would  not  care  !" 

"  Married  ?     But  she  looks  so  high  !  " 

''Alas  !  not  now — not  here  !  " 

Randal  sighed  heavily.  Jackeymo's  eyes  sparkled.  He 
thought  he  had  detected  a  new  motive  for  Randal's  interest 
— a  motive  to  an  Italian  the  most  natural,  the  most  laudable 
of  all. 

"  Find  the  house,  Signore — write  to  the  Padrone.  He 
shall  come.  I'll  talk  to  him.  I  can  manage  him.  Holy 
San  Giacomo,  bestir  thyself  now — 'tis  long  since  I  troubled 
thee  ! " 

Jackeymo  strode  off  through  the  fading  trees,  smiling 
and  muttering  as  he  went. 

The  first  dinner-bell  rang,  and  on  entering  the  drawing- 
room,  Randal  found  Parson  Dale  and  his  wife,  who  had 
been  invited  in  haste  to  meet  the  unexpected  visitor. 

The  preliminary  greetings  over,  Mr.  Dale  took  the  op- 
portunity afforded  by  the  Squire's  absence  to  inquire  after 
the  health  of  Mr.  Egerton. 

"  He  is  always  well,"  said  Randal.  "  I  believe  he  is 
made  of  iron." 

"  His  heart  is  of  gold,"  said  the  Parson. 

"Ah,"  said  Randal,  inquisitively,  "you  told  me  you  had 
come  in  contact  with  him  once,  respecting,  I  think,  some  of 
-your  old  parishioners  at  Lansmere  ?" 

The  Parson  nodded,  and  there  was  a  moment's  silence. 

"  Do  you  remember  your  battle  by  the  Stocks,  Mr.  Les- 
lie ?"  said  Mr.  Dale,  with  a  good-humored  laugh. 

"  Indeed,  yes.  By  the  way,  now  you  speak  of  it,  I  met 
my  old  opponent  in  London  the  first  year  I  went  up  to  it." 

"You  did  ! — where  ?" 

"At  a  literary  scamp's — a  cleverish  man  called  Burley." 

"  Burley  !  I  have  seen  some  burlesque  verses  in  Greek 
by  a  Mr.  Burley." 


VARIETIES     IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  575 

"  No  doubt,  the  same  person.  He  has  disappeared — 
gone  to  the  dogs,  I  dare  say.  Burlesque  Greek  is  not  a 
knowledge  very  much  in  power  at  present." 

"  Well,  but  Leonard  Fairfield  ? — you  have  seen  him  since? " 

"  No." 

"  Nor  heard  of  him  ?  " 

"No! — have  you  ?" 

"  Strange  to  say,  not  for  a  long  time.  But  I  have  reason 
to  believe  that  he  must  be  doing  well." 

"You  surprise  me  !     Why?" 

''Because,  two  years  ago  he  sent  for  his  mother.  She 
went  to  him." 

"Is  that  all?" 

"  It  is  enough  ;  for  he  would  not  have  sent  for  her  if  he 
could  not  maintain  her." 

Here  the  Hazeldeans  entered,  arm-in-arm,  and  the  fat 
butler  announced  dinner. 

The  Squire  was  unusually  taciturn — Mrs.  Hazeldean 
thoughtful — Mrs.  Dale  languid  and  headachy.  The  Parson, 
who  seldom  enjoyed  the  luxury  of  converse  with  a  scholar, 
save  when  he  quarrelled  with  Dr.  Riccabocca,  was  animated 
by  Randal's  repute  for  ability,  into  a  great  desire  for 
argument. 

"A  glass  of  wine,  Mr.  Leslie.  You  were  saying,  before 
dinner,  that  burlesque  Greek  is  not  a  knowledge  very 
much  in  power  at  present.  Pray,  sir,  what  knowledge  is  in 
power  ? " 

RANDAL  (laconically). — Practical  knowledge. 

PARSON. — What  of  ? 

RANDAL. — Men. 

PARSON  (candidly). — Well,  I  suppose  that  is  the  most 
available  sort  of  knowledge,  in  a  worldly  point  of  view. 
How  does  one  learn  it  ?  Do  books  help  ? 

RANDAL. — According  as  they  are  read,  they  help  or 
injure. 

PARSON. — How  should  they  be  read  in  order  to  help  ? 

RANDAL. — Read  specially  to  apply  to  purposes  that  lead 
to  power. 

PARSON  (very  much  struck  with  Randal's  pithy  and  Spar- 
tan logic). — Upon  my  word,  sir,  you  express  yourself  very 
well.  I  must  own  that  I  began  these  questions  in  the  hope 
of  differing  from  you  ;  for  I  like  an  argument. 

"That  he  does,"  growled  the  Squire  ;  '-the  most  contra- 
dictory creature  ! " 


576  MY  NOVEL;    OR, 

PARSON. — Argument  is  the  salt  of  talk.  But  now  I  am 
afraid  I  must  agree  with  you,  which  I  was  not  at  all  pre- 
pared for. 

Randal  bowed  and  answered — "No  two  men  of  our  edu- 
cation can  dispute  upon  the  application  of  knowledge." 

PARSON  (pricking  up  his  ears). — Eh? — what  to? 

RANDAL. — Power,  of  course. 

PARSON  (overjoyed). — Power  ! — the  vulgarest  application 
of  it,  or  the  loftiest  ?  But  you  mean  the  loftiest  ? 

RANDAL  (in  his  turn  interested  and  interrogative). — What 
do  you  call  the  loftiest,  and  what  the  vulgarest  ? 

PARSON. — The  vulgarest,  self-interest;  the  loftiest,  benefi- 
cence. 

Randal  suppressed  the  half-disdainful  smile  that  rose  to 
his  lip. 

"You  speak,  sir,  as  a  clergyman  should  do.  I  admire 
your  sentiment,  and  adopt  it  ;but  I  fear  that  the  knowledge 
which  aims  only  at  beneficence  very  rarely  in  this  world 
gets  any  power  at  all." 

SQUIRE  (seriously). — That's  true  ;  I  never  get  my  own 
way  when  I  want  to  do  a  kindness,  and  Stirn  always  gets 
his  when  he  insists  on  something  diabolically  brutal  and 
harsh. 

PARSON. — Pray,  Mr.  Leslie,  what  does  intellectual  power 
refined  to  the  utmost,  but  entirely  stripped'of  beneficence, 
most  resemble  ? 

RANDAL. — Resemble?— I  can  hardly  say.  Some  very 
great  men — almost  any  very  great  man — who  has  baffled 
all  his  foes,  and  attained  all  his  ends. 

PARSON. — I  doubt  if  any  man  has  ever  become  very 
great  who  has  not  meant  to  be  beneficent,  though  he  might 
err  in  the  means.  Caesar  was  naturally  beneficent,  and  so 
was  Alexander.  But  intellectual  power  refined  to  the  ut- 
most, and  wholly  void  of  beneficence,  resembles  only  one 
being,  and  that,  sir,  is  the  Principle  of  Evil. 

RANDAL  (startled). — Do  you  mean  the  Devil  ? 

PARSON. — Yes,  sir — the  Devil ;  and  even  he,  ?ir,  did  not 
succeed  !  Even  he,  sir,  is  what  your  great  men  would  call 
a  most  decided  failure. 

MRS.  DALE. — My  dear — my  dear  ! 

PARSON. — Our  religion  proves  it,  my  love  ;  he  was  an 
angel,  and  he  fell. 

There  was  a  solemn  pause.  Randal  was  more  impressed 
than  he  liked  to  own  to  himself.  By  this  time  the  dinner 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  577 

was  over,  and  the  servants  had  retired.  Harry  glanced  at 
Carry.  Carry  smoothed  her  gown  and  rose.  The  gentle- 
men remained  over  their  wine  ;  and  the  Parson,  satisfied 
with  what  he  deemed  a  clencher  upon  his  favorite  subject 
of  discussion,  changed  the  subject  to  lighter  topics,  till, 
happening  to  fall  upon  tithes,  the  Squire  struck  in,  and  by 
dint  of  loudness  of  voice,  and  truculence  of  brow,  fairly 
overwhelmed  both  his  guests,  and  proved  to  his  own  satis- 
faction that  tithes  were  an  unjust  and  unchristianlike  usur- 
pation on  the  part  of  the  Church  generally,  and  a  most 
especial  and  iniquitous  infliction  upon  the  Hazeldean  estates 
in  particular. 


CHAPTER  IX. 

ON  entering  the  drawing-room,  Randal  found  the  two 
ladies  seated  close  together,  in  a  position  much  more  ap- 
propriate to  the  familiarity  of  their  school-days,  than  to 
the  politeness  of  the  friendship  now  existing  between  them. 
Mrs.  Hazeldean's  hand  hung  affectionately  over  Carry's 
shoulder,  and  both  those  fair  English  faces  were  bent  over 
the  same  book.  It  was  pretty  to  see  these  sober  matrons, 
so  different  from  each  other  in  character  and  aspect,  thus 
unconsciously  restored  to  the  intimacy  of  happy  maiden 
youth  by  the  golden  link  of  some  Magician  from  the  still 
land  of  Truth  or  Fancy — brought  together  in  heart,  as  each 
eye  rested  on  the  same  thought  ;  closer  and  closer,  as  sym- 
pathy, lost  in  the  actual  world,  grew  out  of  that  world 
which  unites  in  one  bond  of  feeling  the  readers  of  some 
gentle  book. 

"And  what  work  interests  you  so  much?"  asked  Ran- 
dal, pausing  by  the  table. 

"  One  you  have  read,  of  course,"  replied  Mrs.  Dale,  put- 
ting a  book-mark  embroidered  by  herself  into  the  page, 
and  handing  the  volume  to  Randal.  "  It  has  made  a  great 
sensation,  I  believe." 

Randal  glanced  at  the  title  of  the  work.  "  True,"  said 
he,  "  I  have  heard  much  of  it  in  London,  but  I  have  not 
yet  had  time  to  read  it." 

MRS.  DALE. — I  can  lend  it  to  you,  if  you  like  to  look 
over  it  to-night,  and  you  can  leave  it  for  me  with  Mrs. 
Hazeldean. 

25 


S?8  MY  NOVEL  ;    OR, 

PARSON  (approaching). — Oh  !  that  book  ! — yes,  you  must 
read  it.  I  do  not  know  a  work  more  instructive. 

RANDAL. — Instructive  !  Certainly,  I  will  read  it  then. 
But  I  thought  it  was  a  mere  work  of  amusement — of  fancy. 
It  seems  so,  as  I  look  over  it. 

PARSON. — So  is  the  Vicar  of  Wakcfield  ;  yet  what  book 
more  instructive  ? 

RANDAL. — I  should  not  have  said  that  of  the  Vicar  of 
Wakefield.  A  pretty  book  enough,  though  the  story  is  most 
improbable.  But  how  is  it  instructive  ? 

PARSON. — By  its  results  ;  it  leaves  us  happier  and  better. 
What  can  any  instruction  do  more  ?  Some  works  instruct 
through  the  head,  some  through  the  heart.  The  last  reach 
the  widest  circle,  and  often  produce  the  most  genial  influ- 
ence on  the  character.  This  book  belongs  to  the  last.  You 
will  grant  my  proposition  when  you  have  read  it. 

Randal  smiled,  and  took  the  volume. 

MRS.  DALE. — Is  the  author  known  yet  ? 

RANDAL.  —  I  have  heard  it  ascribed  to  many  writers,  but 
I  believe  no  one  has  claimed  it. 

PARSON. — I  think  it  must  have  been  written  by  my  old 
college-friend,  Professor  Moss,  the  naturalist — its  descrip- 
tions of  scenery  are  so  accurate. 

MRS.  DALE. —  La, Charles, dear!  thatsnuffy, tiresome,  prosy 
professor  !  How  can  you  talk  such  nonsense  ?  I  am  sure  the 
author  must  be  young, — there  is  so  much  freshnessof  feeling. 

MRS.  HAZELDEAN  (positively). — Yes,  certai'nly  young. 

PARSON  (no  less  positively). — I  should  say  just  the  con- 
trary. Its  tone  is  too  serene,  and  its  style  too  simple,  for  a 
young  man.  Besides,  I  don't  know  any  young  man  who 
would  send  me  his  book,  and  this  book  has  been  sent  me 
— very  handsomely  bound  too,  you  see.  Depend  upon  it, 
Moss  is  the  man — quite  his  turn  of  mind. 

MRS.  DALE. — You  are  too  provoking,  Charles,  dear  ! 
Mr.  Moss  is  so  remarkably  plain,  too. 

RANDAL. — Must  an  author  be  handsome  ? 

PARSON. — Ha  !  ha  !     Answer  that  if  you  can,  Carry. 

Carry  remained  mute  and  disdainful. 

SQUIRE  (with  great  naivete). — Well,  I  don't  think  there's 
much  in  the  book,  whoever  wrote  it  ;  for  I've  read  it  my- 
self, and  understand  every  word  of  it. 

MRS.  DALE. — I  don't  see  why  you  should  suppose  it  was 
written  by  a  man  at  all.  For  my  part,  I  think  it  must  be 
a  woman. 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  579 

MRS.  HAZELDEAN. — Yes,  there's  a  passage  about  maternal 
affection,  which  only  a  woman  could  have  written. 

PARSON. — Pooh  !  pooh  !  I  should  like  to  see  a  woman 
who  could  have  written  that  description  of  an  August 
evening  before  a  thunder-storm  ;  every  wild-flower  in  the 
hedge-row  exactly  the  flowers  of  August — every  sign  in 
the  air  exactly  those  of  the  month.  Bless  you  !  a  woman 
would  have  filled  the  hedge  with  violets  and  cowslips. 
Nobody  else  but  my  friend  Moss  could  have  written  that 
description. 

SQUIRE. — I  don't  know  ;  there's  a  simile  about  the  waste 
of  corn-seed  in  hand-sowing,  which  makes  me  think  he  must 
be  a  farmer. 

MRS.  DALE  (scornfully). — A  farmer !  In  hobnailed  shoes, 
I  suppose  !  I  say  it  is  a  woman  ! 

MRS.  HAZELDEAN. — A  WOMAN,  and  a  MOTHER! 

PARSON. — A  middle-aged  man,  and  a  naturalist. 

SQUIRE. — No,  no,  Parson — certainly  a  young  man  ;  for 
that  love-scene  puts  me  in  mind  of  my  own  young  days, 
when  I  would  have  given  my  ears  to  tell  Harry  how  hand- 
some I  thought  her  ;  and  all  I  could  say  was,  "  Fine  weather 
for  the  crops,  miss."  Yes,  a  young  man  and  a  farmer.  I 
should  not  wonder  if  he  had  held  the  plough  himself. 

RANDAL  (who  had  been  turning  over  the  pages). — This 
sketch  of  Night  in  London  comes  from  a  man  who  has  lived 
the  life  of  cities  and  looked  at  wealth  with  the  eyes  of  pov- 
erty. Not  bad !  I  will  read  the  book. 

"  Strange,"  said  the  parson,  smiling,  "  that  this  little  work 
should  so  have  entered  into  our  minds,  suggested  to  all  of 
us  different  ideas,  yet  equally  charmed  all — given  a  new  and 
fresh  current  to  our  dull  country  life — animated  us  as  with 
the  sight  of  a  world  in  our  breasts  we  had  never  seen  before, 
save  in  dreams  ;  a  little  work  like  this,  by  a  man  we  don't 
know,  and  never  may  !  Well,  that  knowledge  is  power,  and 
a  noble  one  !  " 

"A  sort  of  power,  certainly,  sir,"  said  Randal,  candidly  ; 
and  that  night,  when  Randal  retired  to  his  own  room,  he 
suspended  his  schemes  and  projects,  and  read,  as  he  rarely 
did,  without  an  object  to  gain  by  the  reading. 

The  work  surprised  him  by  the  pleasure  it  gave.  Its 
charm  lay  in  the  writer's  calm  enjoyment  of  the  beautiful. 
It  seemed  like  sqme  happy  soul  sunning  itself  in  the  light  of 
its  own  thoughts.  Its  power  was  so  tranquil  and  even,  that 
n  was  only  a  critic  who.  could  perceive  how  much  force  and 


580  MY  NOVEL;    OK, 

vigor  were  necessary  to  sustain  the  wing  that  floated  aloft 
with  so  imperceptible  an  effort.  There  was  no  one  faculty 
predominating  tyrannically  over  the  others  ;  all  seemed  pro- 
portioned in  the  felicitous  symmetry  of  a  nature  rounded,  in- 
tegral, and  complete.  And  when  the  work  was  closed,  it 
left  behind  it  a  tender  warmth,  that  played  round  the  heart 
of  the  reader,  and  vivified  feelings  which  seemed  unknown 
before.  Randal  laid  down  the  book  softly  ;  and  for  five 
minutes  the  ignoble  and  base  purposes  to  which  his  own 
knowledge  was  applied,  stood  before  him,  naked  and  un- 
masked. 

"Tut !  "  said  he,  wrenching  himself  violently  away  from 
the  benign  influence,  "it  was  not  to  sympathize  with  Hec- 
tor, but  to  conquer  with  Achilles,  that  Alexander  of  Mace- 
don  kept  Homer  under  his  pillow.  Such  should  be  the  true 
use  of  books  to  him  who  has  the  practical  world  to  subdue  ; 
let  parsons  and  women  construe  it  otherwise,  as  they  may  !  " 

And  the  Principle  of  Evil  descended  again  upon  the  in- 
tellect, from  which  the  guide  of  Beneficence  was  gone. 


CHAPTER  X. 

RANDAL  rose  at  the  sound  of  the  first  breakfast-bell,  and 
on  the  staircase  met  Mrs.  Hazeldean.  He  gave  her  back 
the  book  ;  and  as  he  was  about  to  speak,  she  beckoned  to 
him  to  follow  her  into  a  little  morning-room  appropriated 
to  herself.  No  boudoir  of  white  and  gold,  with  pictures  by 
Watteau,  but  lined  with  large  walnut-tree  presses,  that  held 
the  old  heir-loom  linen,  strewed  with  lavender — stores  for 
the  housekeeper,  and  medicines  for  the  poor. 

Seating  herself  on  a  large  chair  in  this  sanctum,  Mrs. 
Hazeldean  looked  formidably  at  home. 

"  Pray,"  said  the  lady,  coming  at  once  to  the  point,  with 
her  usual  straightforward  candor,  "  what  is  all  this  you  have 
been  saying  to  my  husband  as  to  the  possibility  of  Frank's 
marrying  a  foreigner  ?  " 

RANDAL. — Would  you  be  as  averse  to  such  a  notion  as 
Mr.  Hazeldean  is  ? 

MRS.  HAZELDEAN. — You  ask  me  a  question,  instead  of 
answering  mine. 

Randal  was  greatly  put  out  in  his  fence  by  these  rude 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  581 

thrusts.  For  indeed  he  had  a  double  purpose  to  serve — first, 
thoroughly  to  know  if  Frank's  marriage  with  a  woman  like 
Madame  di  Negra  would  irritate  the  Squire  sufficiently  to 
endanger  the  son's  inheritance  ;  and,  secondly,  to  prevent 
Mr.  and  Mrs.  Hazeldean  believing  seriously  that  such  a  mar- 
riage was  to  be  apprehended,  lest  they  should  prematurely 
address  Frank  on  the  subject,  and  frustrate  the  marriage 
itself.  Yet,  withal,  he  must  so  express  himself,  that  he 
could  not  be  afterward  accused  by  the  parents  of  disguis- 
ing matters.  In  his  talk  to  the  Squire  the  preceding  day, 
he  had  gone  a  little  too  far— farther  than  he  would  have 
done  but  for  his  desire  of  escaping  the  cattle-shed  and  short- 
horns. While  he  mused,  Mrs.  Hazeldean  observed  him 
with  her  honest  sensible  eyes,  and  finally  exclaimed — 

"  Out  with  it,  Mr.  Leslie  !  " 

"  Out  with  what,  my  dear  madam  ?  The  Squire  has  sadly 
exaggerated  the  importance  of  what  was  said  mainly  in  jest. 
But  I  will  own  to  you  plainly,  that  Frank  has  appeared  to 
rne  a  little  smitten  with  a  certain  fair  Italian." 

"Italian!"  cried  Mrs.  Hazeldean.  "  Well,  I  said  so 
from  the  first.  Italian  ! — that's  all,  is  it  ?  "  and  she  smiled. 

Randal  was  more  and  more  perplexed.  The  pupil  of  his 
eye  contracted,  as  it  does  when  we  retreat  into  ourselves, 
and  think,  watch,  and  keep  guard. 

"  And  perhaps,"  resumed  Mrs.  Hazeldean,  with  a  very 
sunny  expression  of  countenance,  "you  have  noticed  this 
in  Frank  since  he  was  here  ? " 

"  It  is  true,"  murmured  Randal;  "but  I  think  his  heart 
or  his  fancy  was  touched  even  before." 

"Very  natural,"  said  Mrs.  Hazeldean;  "how  could  he 
help  it  ? — such  a  beautiful  creature  !  Well,  I  must  not  ask 
you  to  tell  Frank's  secrets  ;  but  I  guess  the  object  of  attrac- 
tion ;  and  though  she  will  have  no  fortune  to  speak  of — and 
it  is  not  such  a  match  as  he  might  form — still  she  is  so 
amiable,  and  has  been  so  well  brought  up,  and  is  so  little 
like  one's  general  notions  of  a  Roman  Catholic,  that  I  think 
I  could  persuade  Hazeldean  into  giving  his  consent." 

"Ah,"  said  Randal,  drawing  a  long  breath,  and  begin- 
ning with  his  practised  acuteness  to  detect  Mrs.  Hazel- 
dean's  error,  "  I  am  very  much  relieved  and  rejoiced  to  hear 
this;  and  I  may  venture  to  give  Frank  some  hope,  if  I  find 
him  disheartened  and  desponding,  poor  fellow !  " 

"I  think  you  may,"  replied  Mrs.  Hazeldean,  laughing 
pleasantly.  "  But  you  should  not  have  frightened  poor 


5-S2  MY  NOVEL;    OR, 

William  so,  hinting  that  the  lady  knew  very  little  English. 
She  has  an  accent,  to  be  sure  ;  but  she  speaks  our  tongue 
very  prettily.  I  always  forget  that  she's  not  English  born  ! 
Ha,  ha,  poor  William !  " 

RANDAL. — Ha,  ha  ! 

MRS.  HAZELDEAN. — We  had  once  thought  of  another 
match  for  Frank — a  girl  of  good  English  family. 

RANDAL. — Miss  Sticktorights  ? 

MRS.  HAZELDEAN. —  No  ;  that's  an  old  whim  of  Hazel- 
dean's.  But  I  doubt  if  the  Sticktorights  would  ever  merge 
their  property  in  ours.  Bless  you,  it  would  be  all  off,  the 
moment  they  came  to  settlements,  and  had  to  give  up  the 
right  of  way.  We  thought  of  a  very  different  match  ;  but 
there's  no  dictating  to  young  hearts,  Mr.  Leslie. 

RANDAL. — Indeed,  no,  Mrs.  Hazeldean.  But  since  we 
now  understand  each  other  so  well,  excuse  me  if  I  suggest 
that  you  had  better  leave  things  to  themselves,  and  not  write 
to  Frank  on  the  subject.  Young  hearts,  you  know,  are  often 
stimulated  by  apparent  difficulties,  and  grow  cool  when  the 
obstacle  vanishes. 

MRS.  HAZELDEAN. — Very  possibly;  it  was  not  so  with 
Hazeldean  and  me.  But  I  shall  not  write  to  Frank  on  the 
subject,  for  a  different  reason — though  I  would  consent  to 
the  match,  and  so  would  William  ;  yet  we  both  would  rather, 
after  all,  that  Frank  married  an  Englishwoman,  and  a 
Protestant.  We  will  not,  therefore,  do  anything  to  en- 
courage the  idea.  But  if  Frank's  happiness  becomes  really 
at  stake,  then  we  will  step  in.  In  short,  we  would  neither 
encourage  nor  oppose.  You  understand? 

"  Perfectly." 

"And  in  the  meanwhile,  it  is  quite  right  that  Frank 
should  see  the  world,  and  try  to  distract  his  mind,  or  at 
least  to  know  it.  And  I  dare  say  it  has  been  some  thought 
of  that  kind  which  has  prevented  his  coming  here." 

Randal,  dreading  a  farther  and  plainer  e'claircissement, 
now  rose,  and  saying  "  Pardon  me,  but  I  must  hurry  over 
breakfast,  and  be  back  in  time  to  catch  the  coach  " — offered 
his  arm  to  his  hostess,  and  led  her  into  the  breakfast-parlor. 
Devouring  his  meal,  as  if  in  great  haste,  he  then  mounted 
his  horse,  and,  taking  cordial  leave  of  his  entertainers, 
trotted  briskly  away. 

All  things  favored  his  project — even  chance  had  be- 
friended him  in  Mrs.  Hazeldean's  mistake.  She  had,  not 
unnaturally,  supposed  Violante  to  have  captivated  Frank 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  583 

on  his  last  visit  to  the  Hall.  Thus,  while  Randal  had  certi- 
fied his  own  mind  that  nothing  could  more  exasperate  the 
Squire  than  an  alliance  with  Madame  di  Negra,  he  could 
yet  assure  Frank  that  Mrs.  Hazeldean  was  all  on  his  side. 
And  when  the  error  was  discovered,  Mrs.  Hazeldean  would 
only  have  to  blame  herself  for  it.  Still  more  successful  had 
his  diplomacy  proved  with  the  Riccaboccas  ;  he  had  ascer- 
tained the  secret  he  had  come  to  discover  ;  he  should  in- 
duce the  Italian  to  remove  to  the  neighborhood  of  London  ; 
and  if  Violante  were  the  great  heiress  he  suspected  her  to 
prove,  whom  else  of  her  own  age  would  she  see  but  him  ? 
And  the  old  Leslie  domains,  to  be  sold  in  two  years — a  por- 
tion of  the  dowry  might  purchase  them  !  Flushed  by  the 
triumph  of  his  craft,  all  former  vacillations  of  conscience 
ceased.  In  high  and  fervent  spirits  he  passed  the  Casino, 
the  garden  of  which  was  solitary  and  deserted,  reached  his 
home,  and,  telling  Oliver  to  be  studious,  and  Juliet  to  be 
patient,  walked  thence  to  meet  the  coach  and  regain  the 
capital. 


CHAPTER  XL 

VIOLANTE  was  seated  in  her  own  little  room,  and  looking 
from  the  window  on  the  terrace  that  stretched  below.  The 
day  was  warm  for  the  time  of  year.  The  orange-trees  had 
been  removed  under  shelter  for  the  approach  of  winter  ; 
but  where  they  had  stood  sat  Mrs.  Riccabocca  at  work.  In 
the  belvidere,  Riccabocca  himself  was  conversing  with  his 
favorite  servant.  But  the  casements  and  the  door  of  the 
belvidere  were  open  ;  and  where  they  sat,  both  wife  and 
daughter  could  see  the  Padrone  leaning  against  the  wall, 
with  his  arms  folded,  and  his  eyes  fixed  on  the  floor;  while 
Jackeymo,  with  one  finger  on  his  master's  arm,  was  talking 
to  him  with  visible  earnestness.  And  the  daughter  from 
the  window,  and  the  wife  from  her  work,  directed  tender 
anxious  eyes  toward  the  still  thoughtful  form  so  dear  to 
both.  For  the  last  day  or  two,  Riccabocca  had  been  peculiarly 
abstracted,  even  to  gloom.  Each  felt  there  was  something 
stirring  at  his  heart — neither,  as  yet,  knew  what. 

Violante's  room  silently  revealed  the  nature  of  the  edu- 
cation by  which  her  character  had  been  formed.  Save  a 
sketch-book,  which  lay  open  on  a  desk  at  hand,  and  which 


584  MY  NOVEL  ;    OR, 

showed  talent  exquisitely  taught  (for  in  this  Riccabocca  had 
been  her  teacher),  there  was  nothing  that  spoke  of  the  ordi- 
nary female  accomplishments.  No  piano  stood  open,  no 
harp  occupied  yon  nook,  which  seemed  made  for  one  ;  no 
broidery-frame,  nor  implements  of  work,  betrayed  the  usual 
and  graceful  resources  of  a  girl ;  but  ranged  on  shelves 
against  the  wall  were  the  best  writers  in  English,  Italian, 
and  French  ;  and  these  betokened  an  extent  of  reading,  that 
he  who  wishes  for  a  companion  to  his  mind  in  the  sweet 
commune  of  woman,  which  softens  and  refines  all  it  gives 
and  takes  in  interchange,  will  never  condemn  as  masculine. 
You  had  but  to  look  into  Violante's  face  to  see  how  noble 
was  the  intelligence  that  brought  soul  to  those  lovely 
features.  Nothing  hard,  nothing  dry  and  stern,  was  there. 
Even  as  you  detected  knowledge,  it  was  lost  in  the  gentle- 
ness of  grace.  In  fact,  whatever  she  gained  in  the  graver 
kinds  of  information,  became  transmuted,  through  her  heart 
and  her  fancy,  into  spiritual  golden  stores.  Give  her  some 
tedious  and  arid  history,  her  imagination  seized  upon  beauties 
other  readers  had  passed  by  and,  like  the  eye  of  the  artist, 
detected  everywhere  the  Picturesque.  Something  in  her 
mind  seemed  to  reject  all  that  was  mean  and  commonplace, 
and  to  bring  out  all  that  was  rare  and  elevated  in  whatever 
it  received.  Living  so  apart  from  all  companions  of  her 
age,  she  scarcely  belonged  to  the  Present  time.  She  dwelt 
in  the  Past,  as  Sabrina  in  her  crystal  well.  Images  of 
chivalry — of  the  Beautiful  and  the  Heroic — such  as,  in  read- 
ing the  silvery  line  of  Tasso,  rise  before  us,  softening  force 
and  valor  into  love  and  song — haunted  the  reveries  of  the 
fair  Italian  maid. 

Teil  us  not  that  the  Past,  examined  by  cold  Philosophy, 
was  no  better  and  no  loftier  than  the  Present  ;  it  is  not  thus 
seen  by  pure  and  generous  eyes.  Let  the  Past  perish,  when 
it  ceases  to  reflect  on  its  magic  mirror  the  beautiful  Romance 
which  is  its  noblest  Reality,  though  perchance  but  the  sha- 
dow of  Delusion. 

Yet  Violante  was  not  merely  the  dreamer.  In  her,  life 
was  so  puissant  and  rich,  that  action  seemed  necessary  to 
its  glorious  development — action,  but  still  in  the  woman's 
sphere — action  to  bless,  and  to  refine,  and  to  exalt  all  around 
her,  and  to  pour  whatever  else  of  ambition  was  left  unsatis- 
fied into  sympathy  with  the  aspirations  of  man.  Despite 
her  father's  fears  of  the  bleak  air  of  England,  in  that  air  she 
had  strengthened  the  delicate  health  of  her  childhood.  Her 


VARIETIES  IN   ENGLISH  LIFE.  585 

clastic  step — her  eyes  full  of  sweetness  and  light — her  bloom, 
at  once  soft  and  luxuriant — all  spoke  of  the  vital  powers  fit 
to  sustain  a  mind  of  such  exquisite  mould,  and  the  emotions 
of  a  heart  that,  once  aroused,  could  ennoble  the  passions  of 
the  South  with  the  purity  and  devotion  of  the  North. 

Solitude  makes  some  natures  more  timid,  some  more 
bold.  Violante  was  fearless.  When  she  spoke,  her  eyes 
frankly  met  your  own  ;  and  she  was  so  ignorant  of  evil,  that 
as  yet  she  seemed  nearly  unacquainted  with  shame.  From 
this  courage,  combined  with  affluence  of  idea,  came  a  de- 
lightful flow  of  happy  converse.  Though  possessing  so 
imperfectly  the  accomplishments  ordinarily  taught  to  young 
women,  and  which  may  be  cultured  to  the  utmost,  and  yet 
leave  the  thoughts  so  barren,  and  the  talk  so  vapid — she  had 
that  accomplishment  which  most  pleases  the  taste,  and 
commands  the  love,  of  the  man  of  talent,  especially  if  his 
talent  be  not  so  actively  employed  as  to  make  him  desire 
only  relaxation  where  he  seeks  companionship — the  accom- 
plishment of  facility  in  intellectual  interchange — the  charm 
that  clothes-in  musical  words  beautiful  womanly  ideas. 

"  I  hear  him  sigh  at  this  distance,"  said  Violante,  softly, 
as  she  still  watched  her  father  ;  "  and  methinks  this  is  a 
new  grief ;  and  not  for  his  country.  He  spoke  twice 
yesterday  of  that  dear  English  friend,  and  wished  that  he 
were  here." 

As  she  said  this,  unconsciously  the  virgin  blushed,  her 
hand  drooped  on  her  knee,  and  she  fell  herself  into  thought 
as  profound  as  her  father's,  but  less  gloomy.  From  her 
arrival  in  England,  Violante  had  been  taught  a  grateful 
interest  in  the  name  of  Harley  L'Estrange.  Her  father, 
preserving  a  silence  that  seemed  disdain  of  all  his  old  Italian 
intimates,  had  been  pleased  to  converse  with  open  heart  of 
the  Englishman  who  had  saved  where  countrymen  had  be- 
trayed. He  spoke  of  the  soldier,  then  in  the  full  bloom  of 
youth,  who,  unconsoled  by  fame,  had  nursed  the  memory 
of  some  hidden  sorroAV  amidst  the  pine-trees  that  cast  their 
shadow  over  the  sunny  Italian  lake  ;  how  Riccabocca,  then 
honored  and  happy,  had  courted  from  his  seclusion  the 
English  Signore,  then  the  mourner  and  the  voluntary  exile  ; 
how  they  had  grown  friends  amidst  the  landscapes  in  which 
her  eyes  had  opened  to  the  day  ;  how  Harley  had  vainly 
warned  him  from  the  rash  schemes  in  which  he  had  sought 
to  reconstruct  in  an  hour  the  ruins  of  weary  ages;  how. 
when  abandoned,  deserted,  proscribed,  pursued,  he  had  fled 

25* 


586  MY  NOVEL;    OR, 

for  life — the  infant  Violante  clasped  to  his  bosom — the 
English  soldier  had  given  him  refuge,  baffled  the  pursuers, 
armed  his  servants,  accompanied  the  fugitive  at  night 
toward  the  defile  in  the  Apennines,  and,  when  the  emis- 
saries of  a  perfidious  enemy,  hot  in  the  chase,  came  near, 
had  said,  "  You  have  your  child  to  save  !  Fly  on  !  Another 
league,  and1  you  are  beyond  the  borders.  We  will  delay  the 
foes  with  parley  ;  they  will  not  harm  us."  And  not  till  escape 
was  gained  did  the  father  know  that  the  English  friend 
had  delayed  the  foe,  not  by  parley,  but  by  the  sword,  hold- 
ing the  pass  against  numbers,  with  a  breast  as  dauntless  as 
Bayard's  on  the  glorious  bridge. 

And  since  then,  the  same  Englishman  had  never  ceased 
to  vindicate  his  name,  to  urge  his  cause  ;  and  if  hope  yet 
remained  of  restoration  to  land  and  honors,  it  Avas  in  that 
untiring  zeal. 

Hence,  naturally  and  insensibly,  this  secluded  and  mus- 
ing girl  had  associated  all  that  she  read  in  tales  of  romance 
and  chivalry  with  the  image  of  the  brave  and  loyal  stranger. 
He  it  was  who  animated  her  dreams  of  the  Past^and  seemed 
born  to  be,  in  the  destined  hour,  the  deliverer  of"  the  Future. 
Around  this  image  grouped  all  the  charms  that  the  fancy  of 
virgin  woman  can  raise  from  the  enchanted  lore  of  old 
Heroic  Fable.  Once  in  her  early  girlhood,  her  father  (to 
satisfy  her  curiosity,  eager  for  general  description)  had 
drawn  from  memory  a  sketch  of  the  features  of  the  English- 
man— drawn  Harley  as  he  was  in  that  first  youth,  flattered 
and  idealized,  no  doubt,  by  art,  and  by  partial  gratitude — 
but  still  resembling  him  as  he  was  then  ;  while  the  deep 
mournfulness  of  recent  sorrow  yet  shadowed  and  concen- 
trated all  the  varying  expressions  of  his  countenance  ;  and 
to  look  on  him  was  to  say — "So  sad,  yet  so  young!" 
Never  did  Violante  pause  to  remember  that  the  same  years 
which  ripened  herself  from  infancy  into  woman,  were  pass- 
ing less  gently  over  that  smooth  cheek  and  dreamy  brow — 
that  the  world  might  be  altering  the  nature  as  time  the 
aspect.  To  her  the  hero  of  the  Ideal  remained  immortal  in 
bloom  and  youth.  Bright  illusion,  common  to  us  all,  where 
Poetry  once  hallows  the  human  form  !  Who  ever  thinks  of 
Petrarch  as  the  old  time-worn  man  ?  Who  does  not  see  him 
as  when  he  first  gazed  on  Laura? — 

"  Ogni  altra  cosa.  ogni  pensier  va  fore  ; 
E  fol  ivi  con  voi  rimansi  Amore  ! " 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  587 


CHAPTER  XII. 

AND  Violante,  thus  absorbed  in  reverie,  forgot  to  keep 
watch  on  the  belvidere.  And  the  belvidere  was  not 
deserted.  The  wife,  who  had  no  other  ideal  to  distract  her 
thoughts,  saw  Riccabocca  pass  into  the  house. 

The  exile  entered  his  daughter's  room,  and  she  started 
to  feel  his  hand  upon  her  locks  and  his  kiss  upon  her  brow. 

"  My  child ! "  cried  Riccabocca,  seating  himself,  "  I 
have  resolved  to  leave  for  a  time  this  retreat,  and  to  seek 
the  neighborhood  of  London." 

"  Ah,  dear  father,  that,  then,  was  your  thought !  But 
what  can  be  your  reason  ?  Do  not  turn  away  ;  you  know 
how  carefully  I  have  obeyed  your  command,  and  kept  your 
secret.  Ah,  you  will  confide  in  me." 

"I  do,  indeed,"  returned  Riccabocca,  with  emotion. 
"  I  leave  this  place,  in  the  fear  lest  my  enemies  discover 
me.  I  shall  say  to  others  that  you  are  of  an  age  to  require 
teachers,  not  to  be  obtained  here.  But  I  should  like  none 
to  know  where  we  go." 

The  Italian  said  these  last  words  through  his  teeth,  and 
hanging  his  head.  He  said  them  in  shame. 

"  My  mother  " — (so  Violante  always  called  Jemima) — 
"my  mother — you  have  spoken  to  her  ?  " 

"  Not  yet.      There  is  the  difficulty." 

"  No  difficulty,  for  she  loves  you  so  well,"  replied 
Violante,  with  soft  reproach.  "  Ah,  why  not  also  confide 
in  her  ?  Who  so  true  ?  so  good  ?  " 

"  Good — I  grant  it,"  exclaimed  Riccabocca.  "  What 
then  ?  '  Da  cattiva  Donna  guardati,  ed  alia  buona  non  fidar 
nienle '  (from  the  bad  woman,  guard  thyself  ;  to  the  good 
woman  trust  nothing).  And  if  you  must  trust,"  added  the 
abominable  man,  "  trust  her  with  anything  but  a  secret !  " 

"  Fie,"  said  Violante,  with  arch  reproach,  for  she  knew 
her  father's  humors  too  well  to  interpret  his  horrible  senti- 
ments literally — "  fie  on  your  consistency,  Padre  carissimo. 
Do  you  not  trust  your  secret  to  me  ? " 

"  You  !  A  kitten  is  not  a  cat,  and  a  girl  is  not  a  woman. 
Besides,  the  secret  was  already  known  to  you,  and  I  had  no 
choice.  Peace,  Jemima  will  stay  here  for  the  present.  See 


588  MY  NOVEL;    Off, 

to  what  you  wish  to  take  with  you  ;  we  shall  leave  to- 
night." 

Not  waiting  for  an  answer,  Riccabocca  hurried  away, 
and  with  firm  step  strode  the  terrace,  and  approached  his 
wife. 

"  Anima  mia"  said  the  pupil  of  Machiavelli,  disguising 
in  the  tenderest  words  the  cruellest  intentions — for  one  of 
his  most  cherished  Italian  proverbs  was  to  the  effect,  that 
there  is  no  getting  on  with  a  mule  or  a  woman  unless  you 
coax  them. — "Anima  mia,  soul  of  my  being,  you  have  already 
seen  that  Violante  mopes  herself  to  death  here." 

"  She,  poor  child  !  Oh  no  !  " 

"  She  does,  core  of  my  heart — she  does — and  is  as  ignor- 
ant of  music  as  I  am  of  tent-stitch." 

"  She  sings  beautifully." 

"  Just  as  birds  do,  against  all  the  rules,  and  in  defiance 
of  gamut.  Therefore,  to  come  to  the  point,  O  treasure  of 
my  soul !  I  am  going  to  take  her  with  me  for  a  short  time, 
perhaps  to  Cheltenham  or  Brighton.  We  shall  see." 

"All  places  with  you  are  the  same  to  me,  Alphonso. 
When  shall  we  go  ?" 

"  We  shall  go  to-night  ;  but  terrible  as  it  is  to  part  from 
you — you " 

"  Ah  !  "  interrupted  his  wife,  and  covered  her  face  with 
her  hands. 

Riccabocca,  the  wiliest  and  most  relentless  of  men  in 
his  maxims,  melted  into  absolute  uxorial  imbecility  at  the 
sight  of  that  mute  distress.  He  put  his  arm  round  his 
wife's  waist,  with  genuine  affection,  and  without  a  single 
proverb  at  his  heart — "  Can'sstma,  do  not  grieve  so  ;  we 
shall  be  back  soon,  and  travelling  is  expensive  ;  rolling 
stones  gather  no  moss,  and  there  is  so  much  to  see  to  at 
home." 

Mrs.  Riccabocca  gently  escaped  from  her  husband's 
arm.  She  withdrew  her  hands  from  her  face  and  brushed 
away  the  tears  that  stood  in  her  eyes. 

"  Alphonso,"  she  said  touchingly,  "hear  me !  What 
you  think  good,  that  shall  ever  be  good  to  me.  But  do  not 
think  that  I  grieve  solely  because  of  our  parting.  No  ;  I 
grieve  to  think  that,  despite  all  these  years  in  which  I  have 
been  the  partner  of  your  hearth,  and  slept  on  your  breast — 
all  these  years  in  which  I  have  had  no  thought  but,  how- 
ever humbly,  to  do  my  duty  to  you  and  yours,  and  could 
have  wished  that  you  had  read  my  heart,  and  seen  there  but 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  589 

yourself  and  your  child — I  grieve  to  think  that  you  still 
deem  me  as  unworthy  your  trust  as  when  you  stood  by  my 
side  at  the  altar." 

"Trust !"  repeated  Riccabocca,  startled  and  conscience- 
stricken  ;  "  why  do  you  say  '  trust  ? '  In  what  have  I  dis- 
trusted you  ?  I  am  sure,"  he  continued,  with  the  artful 
volubility  of  guilt,  "  that  I  never  doubted  your  fidelity — 
hook-nosed,  long-visaged  foreigner  though  I  be ;  never 
pryed  into  your  letters  ;  never  inquired  into  your  solitary 
walks  ;  never  heeded  your  flirtations  with  that  good-look- 
ing Parson  Dale  ;  never  kept  the  money  ;  and  never  looked 
into  the  account-books  ! "  Mrs.  Riccabocca  refused  even  a 
smile  of  contempt  at  these  revolting  evasions  ;  nay,  she 
seemed  scarcely  to  hear  them. 

"Can  you  think,"  she  resumed,  pressing  her  hand  on 
her  heart  to  still  its  struggles  for  relief  in  sobs — "  can  you 
think  that  I  could  have  watched,  and  thought,  and  taxed 
my  poor  mind  so  constantly,  to  conjecture  what  might  best 
soothe  or  please  you,  and  not  seen,  long  since,  that  you 
have  secrets  known  to  your  daughter — your  servant — not  to 
me  ?  Fear  not — the  secrets  cannot  be  evil,  or  you  would 
not  tell  them  to  your  innocent  child.  Besides,  do  I  not 
know  your  nature  ?  and  do  I  not  love  you  because  I  know 
it? — it  is  for  something  connected  with  those  secrets  that 
you  leave  your  home.  You  think  that  I  should  be  incau- 
tious— imprudent.  You  will  not  take  me  with  you.  Be  it 
so.  I  go  to  prepare  for  your  departure.  Forgive  me  if  I 
have  displeased  you,  husband." 

Mrs.  Riccabocca  turned  away  ;  but  a  soft  hand  touched 
the  Italian's  arm.  "  O  father,  can  you  resist  this  ?  Trust 
her  !  trust  her ! — I  am  a  woman  like  her  !  I  answer  for  her 
woman's  faith.  Be  yourself — ever  nobler  than  all  others, 
my  own  father." 

"  Diavolo  !  Never  one  door  shuts  but  another  opens," 
groaned  Riccabocca.  "  Are  you  a  fool,  child  ?  Don't  you 
see  that  it  was  for  your  sake  only  I  feared — and  would  be 
cautious  ? " 

"  For  mine  !  O  then  do  not  make  me  deem  myself 
mean,  and  the  cause  of  meanness.  For  mine  !  Am  I  not 
your  daughter — the  descendant  of  men  who  never  feared  ?" 

Violante  looked  sublime  while  she  spoke  ;  and  as  she 
ended  she  led  her  father  gently  on  toward  the  door,  which 
his  wife  had  now  gained. 

"Jemima — wife     mine! — pardon,    pardon,"    cried    the 


590  MY  NOVEL;   OR, 

Italian,  whose  heart  had  been  yearning  to  repay  such  ten- 
derness and  devotion, — -"come  back  to  my  breast — it  has 
been  long  closed — it  shall  be  open  to  you  now  and  for 
ever." 

In  another  moment  the  wife  was  in  her  right  place — on 
her  husband's  bosom  ;  and  Violante,  beautiful  peace-maker, 
stood  smiling  awhile  at  both,  and  then  lifted  her  eyes  grate- 
fully to  Heaven,  and  stole  away. 


CHAPTER    XIII. 

ON  Randal's  return  to  town,  he  heard  mixed  and  contra- 
dictory rumors  in  the  streets,  and  at  the  clubs,  of  the  prob- 
able downfall  of  the  government  at  the  approaching  session 
of  Parliament.  These  rumors  had  sprung  up  suddenly,  as 
if  in  an  hour.  True  that,  for  some  time,  the  sagacious  had 
shaken  their  heads  and  said  "  Ministers  could  not  last." 
True,  that  certain  changes  in  policy,  a  year  or  two  before, 
had  divided  the  party  on  which  the  government  depended, 
and  strengthened  that  which  opposed  it.  But  still  the  more 
important  members  of  that  government  had  been  so  long 
identified  with  official  station,  and  there  seemed  so  little 
power  in  the  Opposition  to  form  a  cabinet  of  names  fami- 
liar to  official  ears,  that  the  general  public  had  anticipated, 
at  most,  a  few  partial  changes.  Rumor  now  went  far  be- 
yond this.  Randal,  whose  whole  prospects  at  present  were 
but  reflections  from  the  greatness  of  his  patron,  was  alarmed. 
He  sought  Egerton,  but  the  minister  was  impenetrable,  and 
seemed  calm,  confident,  and  imperturbed.  Somewhat  re- 
lieved, Randal  then  set  himself  to  work  to  find  a  safe  home 
for  Riccabocca  ;  for  the  greater  need  to  succeed  in  obtain- 
ing fortune  there,  if  he  failed  in  getting  it  through  Eger- 
ton. He  found  a  quiet  house,  detached  and  secluded,  in 
the  neighborhood,  of  Norwood.  No  vicinity  more  secure 
from  espionage  and  remark.  He  wrote  to  Riccabocca,  and 
communicated  the  address,  adding  fresh  assurances  of  his 
own  power  to  be  of  use.  The  next  morning  he  was  seated 
in  his  office,  thinking  very  little  of  the  details,  that  he  mas- 
tered, however,  with  mechanical  precision,  when  the  minis- 
ter who  presided  over  that  department  of  the  public  service, 
sent  for  him  into  his  private  room,  and  begged  him  to  take 


VARIETIES   IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  591 

a  letter  to  Egerton,  with  whom  he  wished  to  consult  rela- 
tive to  a  very  important  point  to  be  decided  in  the  Cabinet 
that  day.  "  I  want  you  to  take  it,"  said  the  minister  smil- 
ing (the  minister  was  a  frank  homely  man),  "  because  you 
are  in  Mr.  Egerton's  confidence,  and  he  may  give  you  some 
verbal  message  besides  a  written  reply.  Egerton  is  often 
over  cautious  and  brief  in  the  litera  scripta." 

Randal  went  first  to  Egerton's  neighboring  office — Eger- 
ton had  not  been  there  that  day.  He  then  took  a  cabriolet 
and  drove  to  Grosvenor  Square.  A  quiet-looking  chariot 
was  at  the  door,  Mr.  Egerton  was  at  home  ;  but  the  servant 
said,  "  Dr.  F.  is  with  him,  sir  ;  and  perhaps  he  may  not  like 
to  be  disturbed." 

"  What — is  your  master  ill  ? " 

"  Not  that  I  know  of,  sir.  He  never  says  he  is  ill.  But 
he  has  looked  poorly  the  last  day  or  two." 

Randal  hesitated  a  moment ;  but  his  commission  might 
be  important,  and  Egerton  was  a  man  who  so  held  the  max- 
im, that  health  and  all  else  must  give  way  to  business,  that 
he  resolved  to  enter  ;  and  unannounced  and  unceremoni- 
ously, as  was  his  \vont,  he  opened  the  door  of  the  library. 
He  started  as  he  did  so.  Audley  Egerton  was  leaning  back 
on  the  sofa,  and  the  doctor,  on  his  knees  before  him, 
was  applying  the  stethoscope  to  his  breast.  Egerton's 
eyes  were  partially  closed  as  the  door  opened.  But  at  the 
noise  he  sprang  up,  nearly  oversetting  the  doctor.  "  Who's 
that? — how  dare  you!  "he  exclaimed,  in  a  voice  of  great 
anger.  Then  recognizing  Randal,  he  changed  color,  bit 
his  lip,  and  muttered  dryly,  "  I  beg  pardon  for  my  abrupt- 
ness ;  what  do  you  want,  Mr.  Leslie?" 

"This  letter  from  Lord—  -;  I  was  told  to  deliver  it 
immediately  into  your  own  hands.  I  beg  pardon " 

"There  is  no  cause,"  said  Egerton,  coldly.  "  I  have  had 
a  slight  attack  of  bronchitis  ;  and  as  Parliament  meets  so 
soon,  I  must  take  advice  from  my  doctor,  if  I  would  be 
heard  by  the  reporters.  Lay  the  letter  on  the  table,  and  be 
kind  enough  to  wait  for  my  reply." 

Randal  withdrew.  He  had  never  seen  a  physician  in 
that  house  before,  and  it  seemed  surprising  that  Egerton 
should  even  take  a  medical  opinion  upon  a  slight  attack. 
While  waiting  in  the  ante-room  there  was  a  knock  at  the 
street  door,  and  presently  a  gentleman,  exceedingly  well 
dressed,  was  shown  in,  and  honored  Randal  with  an  easy 
and  half-familiar  bow.  Randal  remembered  to  have  met 


592  My  NOVEL;    OR, 

this  personage  at  dinner,  and  at  the  house  of  a  young  noble- 
man of  high  fashion,  but  had  not  been  introduced  to  him, 
and  did  not  even  know  him  by  name.  The  visitor  was 
better  informed. 

"Our  friend  Egerton  is  busy,  I  hear,  Mr.  Leslie,"  said 
he,  arranging  the  camelia  in  his  button-hole. 

"  Our  friend  Egerton  !  "  It  must  be  a  very  great  man 
to  say,  "Our  friend  Egerton." 

"  He  will  not  be  engaged  long,  I  dare  say,"  returned 
Randal,  glancing  his  shrewd  inquiring  eye  over  the  stranger's 
person. 

"  I  trust  not  ;  my  time  is  almost  as  precious  as  his  own. 
I  was  not  so  fortunate  as  to  be  presented  to  you  when  we 
met  at  Lord  Spendquick's.  Good  fellow,  Spendquick  ;  and 
decidedly  clever." 

Lord  Spendquick  was  usually  esteemed  a  gentleman  with- 
out three  ideas. 

Randal  smiled. 

In  the  meanwhile  the  visitor  had  taken  out  a  card  from 
an  embossed  morocco  case,  and  now  presented  it  to  Randal, 
who  read  thereon,  "  Baron  Levy,  No.  — ,  Bruton  St." 

The  name  was  not  unknown  to  Randal.  It  was  a  name 
too  often  on  the  lips  of  men  of  fashion  not  to  have  reached 
the  ears  of  an  habitue  of  good  society. 

Mr.  Levy  had  been  a  solicitor  by  profession.  He  had  of 
late  years  relinquished  his  ostensible  calling  ;  and  not  long 
since,  in  consequence  of  some  services  toward  the  negotia- 
tion of  a  loan,  had  been  created  a  baron  by  one  of  the  Ger- 
man kings.  The  wealth  of  Mr.  Levy  was  said  to  be  only 
equalled  by  his  good-nature  to  all  who  were  in  want  of  a 
temporary  loan,  and  with  sound  expectations  of  repaying  it 
some  day  or  other. 

You  seldom  saw  a  finer-looking  man  than  Baron  Levy — 
about  the  same  age  as  Egerton,  but  looking  younger ;  so 
well  preserved — such  magnificent  black  whiskers — such 
superb  teeth  !  Despite  his  name  and  his  dark  complexion, 
he  did  not,  however,  resemble  a  Jew — at  least  externally  ; 
and,  in  fact,  he  was  not  a  Jew  on  the  father's  side,  but  the 
natural  son  of  a  rich  English  grand  seigneur,  by  a  Hebrew 
lady  of  distinction — in  the  opera.  After  his  birth,  this  lady 
had  married  a  German  trader  of  her  own  persuasion,  and 
her  husband  had  been  prevailed  upon,  for  the  convenience 
of  all  parties,  to  adopt  his  wife's  son,  and  accord  to  him  his 
own  Hebrew  name.  Mr.  Levy,  senior,  was  soon  left  a 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  593 

widower,  and  then  the  real  father,  though  never  actually 
owning  the  boy,  had  shown  him  great  attention — had  him 
frequently  at  his  house — initiated  him  betimes  into  his  own 
high-born  society,  for  which  the  boy  showed  great  taste. 
But  when  my  Lord  died,  and  left  but  a  moderate  legacy  to 
the  younger  Levy,  who  was  then  about  eighteen,  that  am- 
biguous person  was  articled  to  an  attorney  by  his  putative 
sire,  who  shortly  afterward  returned  to  his  native  land,  and 
was  buried  at  Prague,  where  his  tombstone  may  yet  be  seen. 
Young  Levy,  however,  contrived  to  do  very  well  without 
him.  His  real  birth  was  generally  known,  and  rather  advan- 
tageous to  him  in  a  social  point  of  view.  His  legacy  en- 
abled him  to  become  a  partner  where  he  had  been  a  clerk, 
and  his  practice  became  great  amongst  the  fashionable 
classes  of  society.  Indeed  he  was  so  useful,  so  pleasant,  so 
much  a  man  of  the  world,  that  he  grew  intimate  with  his 
clients — chiefly  young  men  of  rank  ;  was  on  good  terms  with 
both  Jew  and  Christian  ;  and  being  neither  one  nor  the 
other,  resembled  (to  use  Sheridan's  incomparable  simile)  the 
blank  page  between  the  Old  and  the  New  Testament. 

Vulgar,  some  might  call  Mr.  Levy,  from  his  assurance, 
but  it  was  not  the  vulgarity  of  a  man  accustomed  to  low  and 
coarse  society — rather  the  mauvais  ton  of  a  person  not  sure 
of  his  own  position,  but  who  has  resolved  to  swagger  into 
the  best  one  he  can  get.  When  it  is  remembered  that  he 
had  made  his  way  in  the  world,  and  gleaned  together  an 
immense  fortune,  it  is  needless  to  add  that  he  was  as  sharp 
as  a  needle,  and  as  hard  as  a  flint.  No  man  had  had  more 
friends,  and  no  man  had  stuck  by  them  more  firmly — so  long 
as  there  was  a  pound  in  their  pockets  ! 

Something  of  this  character  had  Randal  heard  of  the 
Baron,  and  he  now  gazed,  first  at  his  card,  and  then  at  him, 
with — admiration. 

"  I  met  a  friend  of  yours  at  Borrowell's  the  other  day," 
resumed  the  Baron — "  Young  Hazeldean.  Careful  fellow — 
quite  a  man  of  the  world." 

As  this  was  the  last  praise  poor  Frank  deserved,  Randal 
again  smiled. 

The  Baron  then  went  on — "  I  hear,  Mr.  Leslie,  that  you 
have  much  influence  over  this  same  Hazeldean.  His  affairs 
are  in  a  sad  state.  I  should  be  very  happy  to  be  of  use  to 
him,  as  a  relation  of  my  friend  Egerton's  ;  but  he  under- 
stands business  so  well,  that  he  despises  my  advice." 

"  I  am  sure  you  do  him  injustice." 


594  MY  NOVEL;    Off, 

"Injustice!  I  honor  his  caution.  I  say  to  every  man, 
'  Don't  come  to  me — I  can  get  you  money  on  much  easier 
terms  than  any  one  else  ;  and  what's  the  result  !  You  come 
so  often  that  you  ruin  yourself  ;  whereas  a  regular  usurer 
without  conscience  frightens  you.  "  Cent,  per  cent,"  '  you 
say;  "oh,  I  must  pull  in."'  If  you  have  influence  over 
your  friend,  tell  him  to  stick  to  his  bill-brokers,  and  have 
nothing  to  do  with  Baron  Levy." 

Here  the  minister's  bell  rang,  and  Randal,  looking 
through  the  window,  saw  Dr.  F.  walking  to  his  carriage, 
which  had  made  way  for  Baron  Levy's  splendid  cabriolet — 
a  cabriolet  in  the  most  perfect  taste — Baron's  coronet  on  the 
dark  brown  panels — horse  black,  with  such  action  ! — harness 
just  relieved  with  plating.  The  servant  now  entered,  and 
requested  Randal  to  step  in  ;  and  addressing  the  Baron,  as- 
sured him  that  he  would  not  be  detained  a  minute. 

"Leslie,"  said  the  minister,  sealing  a  note,  "take  this 

back  to  Lord  ,  and  say  that  I  shall  be  with  him  in 

an  hour." 

"No  other  message  ? — he  seemed  to  expect  one." 

"  I  dare  say  he  did.  Well,  my  letter  is  official,  my  mes- 
sage is  not  ;  beg  him  to  see  Mr. before  we  meet — he  will 

understand — all  rests  upon  that  interview." 

Egerton  then,  extending  the  letter,  resumed  gravely— 
"  Of  course,  you  will  not  mention  to  any  one  that  Dr.  F. 
was  with  me  ;  the  health  of  public  men  is  not  to  be  sus- 
pected. Hum — were  you  in  your  own  room  or  the  ante- 
room ? " 

"  The  ante-room,  sir." 

Egerton's  brow  contracted  slightly.  "  And  Mr.  Levy 
was  there,  eh  ? " 

"  Yes — the  Baron." 

"  Baron  !  true.  Come  to  plague  me  about  the  Mexican 
loan,  I  suppose.  I  will  keep  you  no  longer." 

Randal,  much  meditating,  left  the  house,  and  re-entered 
,his  hack  cab.  The  Baron  was  admitted  to  the  statesman's 
presence. 


VARIETIES   IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  595 


CHAPTER  XIV. 

EGERTON  had  thrown  himself  at  full  length  on  the  sofa, 
a  position  exceedingly  rare  with  him  ;  and  about  his  whole 
air  and  manner,  as  Levy  entered,  there  was  something  singu- 
larly different  from  that  stateliness  of  port  common  to  the 
austere  legislator.  The  very  tone  of  his  voice  was  different. 
It  was  as  if  the  statesman — the  man  of  business — had  van- 
ished ;  it  was  rather  the  man  of  fashion  and  the  idler,  who, 
nodding  languidly  to  his  visitor,  said,  "  Levy,  what  money 
can  I  have  for  a  year  ?  " 

"The  estate  will  bear  very  little  more.  My  dear  fellow, 
that  last  election  was  the  very  devil.  You  cannot  .go  on 
thus  much  longer." 

"  My  dear  fellow  ! "  Baron  Levy  hailed  Audley  Eger- 
ton  as  "  my  dear  fellow."  And  Audley  Egerton,  perhaps, 
saw  nothing  strange  in  the  words,  though  his  lip  curled. 

"  I  shall  not  want  to  go  on  thus  much  longer,"  answered 
Egerton,  as  the  curl  on  his  lip  changed  to  a  gloomy  smile. 
"  The  estate  must,  meanwhile,  bear  ^5000  more." 

"  A  hard  pull  on  it.     You  had  really  better  sell." 

"  1  cannot  afford  to  sell  at  present.  I  cannot  afford  men 
to  say  '  Audley  Egerton  is  done  up — his  property  is  for 
sale.'  " 

"  It  is  very  sad  when  one  thinks  what  a  rich  man  you 
have  been — and  may  be  yet !  " 

"Be  yet  !     How?" 

Baron  Levy  glanced  toward  the  thick  mahogany  doors — 
thick  and  impervious  as  should  be  the  doors  of  statesmen. 
"  Why,  you  know  that,  with  three  words  from  you,  I  could 
produce  an  effect  upon  the  stocks  of  three  nations,  that 
might  give  us  each  a  hundred  thousand  pounds.  We  would 
go  shares." 

"  Levy,"  said  Egerton,  coldly,  though  a  deep  blush  over- 
spread his  face,  "  you  are  a  scoundrel  ;  that  is  your  lookout. 
I  interfere  with  no  man's  tastes  and  conscience.  I  don't  in- 
tend to  be  a  scoundrel  myself.  I  have  told  you  that  long 
ago." 

The  usurer's  brows  darkened,  but  he  dispelled  the 
cloud  with  an  easy  laugh. 


j$q6  MY  NOVEL;    OR, 

"Well,"  said  he,  "you  are  neither  wise  nor  complimen- 
tary, but  you  shall  have  the  money.  But  yet,  would  it  not 
be  better,"  added  Levy,  with  emphasis,  "  to  borrow  it  with- 
out interest,  of  your  friend  L'Estrange  ?  " 

Egerton  started  as  if  stung. 

"You  mean  to  taunt  me,  sir!"  he   exclaimed,  passion- 
ately.    "  I  accept  pecuniary 'favors  from  Lord  L'Estrange  ! 
—I  !  " 

"  Tut,  my  dear  Egerton,  I  dare  say  my  Lord  would  not 
think  so  ill  now  of  that  act  in  your  life  which " 

"  Hold  !  "  exclaimed  Egerton,  writhing.     "  Hold  !  " 

He  stopped  and  paced  the  room,  muttering  in  broken 
sentences,  "  To  blush  before  this  man !  Chastisement, 
chastisement !" 

Levy  gazed  on  him  with  hard  and  sinister  eyes.  The 
minister  turned  abruptly. 

"  Look  you,  Levy,"  said  he,  with  forced  composure — 
"  you  hate  me — why,  I  know  not." 

"  Hate  you  !  How  have  I  shown  hatred  ?  Would  you 
ever  have  lived  in  this  palace,  and  ruled  this  country  as 
one  of  the  most  influential  of  its  ministers,  but  for  my  man- 
agement— my  whispers  to  the  wealthy  Miss  Leslie  ?  Come, 
but  for  me  what  would  you  have  been — perhaps  a  beggar  ?" 

"  What  shall  I  be  now,  if  I  live  ?  And  this  fortune 
which  my  marriage  brought  to  me — it  has  passed  for  the 
main  part  into  your  hands.  Be  patient,  you  will  have  it  all 
ere  long.  But  there  is  one  man  in  the  world  who  has  loved 
me  from  a  boy,  and  woe  to  you  if  ever  he  learn  that  he 
has  a  right  to  despise  me  !  " 

"  Egerton,  my  good  fellow,"  said  Levy,  with  great  com- 
posure, "  you  need  not  threaten  me,  for  what  interest  can  I 
possibly  have  in  tale-telling  to  Lord  L'Estrange  ?  Again, 
dismiss  from  your  mind  the  absurd  thought  that  I  hate  you. 
True,  you  snub  me  in  private,  you  cut  me  in  public,  you 
refuse  to  come  to  my  dinners,  you'll  not  ask  me  to  your 
own  ;  still  there  is  no  man  I  like  better,  nor  would  more 
willingly  serve.  When  do  you  want  the  ^£5000  ?" 

"  Perhaps  in  one  month,  perhaps  not  for  three  or  four. 
Let  it  be  ready  when  required." 

"  Enough  ;  depend  on  it.  Have  you  any  other  com- 
mands ?  " 

"  None." 

"  I  will  take  my  leave,  then.  By-the-bye,  what  do  you 
suppose  the  Hazeldean  rental  is  worth — net  ? " 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  597 

"  I  don't  know,  nor  care.  You  have  no  designs  upon 
that  too  ? " 

"  Well,  I  like  keeping  up  family  connections.  Mr. 
Frank  seems  a  liberal  young  gentleman. " 

Before  Egerton  could  answer,  the  Baron  had  glided  to 
the  door,  and,  nodding  pleasantly,  vanished  with  that  nod. 

Egerton  remained  standing  on  his  solitary  hearth.  A 
drear,  single  man's  room  it  was,  from  wall  to  wall,  despite 
its  fretted  ceilings  and  official  pomp  of  Bramah  escritoires 
and  red  boxes.  Drear  and  cheerless — no  trace  of  woman's 
habitation — no  vestige  of  intruding,  happy  children.  There 
stood  the  austere  man  alone.  And  then,  with  a  deep  sigh, 
he  muttered,  "  Thank  Heaven,  not  for  long — it  will  not  last 
long." 

Repeating  those  words,  he  mechanically  locked  up  his 
papers,  and  pressed  his  hand  to  his  heart  for  an  instant,  as 
if  a  spasm  had  shot  through  it. 

"So — I  must  shun  all  emotion  !"  said  he,  shaking  his 
head  gently. 

In  five  minutes  more,  Audley  Egerton  was  in  the  streets, 
his  mien  erect,  and  his  step  firm  as  ever. 

"That  man  is  made  of  bronze,"  said  a  leader  of  the 
Opposition  to  a  friend,  as  they  rode  past  the  minister; 
"  what  would  I  not  give  for  his  nerves  !  " 


595  AM'  NOVEL;    OR, 


BOOK    NINTH. 


INITIAL   CHAPTER. 

ON    PUBLIC    LIFE. 

Now  that  I  am  fairly  in  the  heart  of  my  story,  these  pre- 
liminary chapters  must  shrink  into  comparatively  small  di- 
mensions, and  not  encroach  upon  the  space  required  by  the 
various  personages  whose  acquaintance  I  have  picked  up 
here  and  there,  and  who  are  now  all  crowding  upon  me  like 
poor  relations  to  whom  one  has  unadvisedly  given  a  general 
invitation,  and  who  descend  upon  one  simultaneously  about 
Christmas  time.  Where  they  are  to  be  stowed,  and  what  is 
to  become  of  them  all,  Heaven  knows  ;  in  the  meanwhile, 
the  reader  will  have  already  observed  that  the  Caxton  Fam- 
ily themselves  are  turned  out  of  their  own  rooms,  sent 
a-packing,  in  order  to  make  way  for  the  new  comers. 

But  to  proceed. — Note  the  heading  to  the  present  chap- 
ter, "on  PUBLIC  LIFE," — a  thesis  pertinent  to  this  portion  of 
my  narrative,  and  if  somewhat  trite  in  itself,  the  greater 
is  the  stimulus  to  suggest  thereon  some  original  hints  for 
reflection. 

Were  you  ever  in  public  life,  my  dear  reader  ?  I  don't 
mean,  by  that  question,  to  ask  whether  you  were  ever  Lord 
Chancellor,  Prime  Minister,  Leader  of  the  Opposition,  or 
even  a  member  of  the  House  of  Commons.  An  author 
hopes  to  find  readers  far  beyond  that  very  egregious  but 
very  limited  segment  of  the  Great  Circle.  Were  you  ever 
a  busy  man  in  your  vestry,  active  in  a  municipal  corpora- 
tion, one  of  a  committee  for  furthering  the  interests  of  an 
enlightened  candidate  for  your  native  burgh,  town,  or 
shire  ? — in  a  word,  did  you  ever  resign  your  private  com- 
forts as  men  in  order  to  share  the  public  troubles  of  man- 
kind ?  If  ever  you  have  so  far  departed  from  the  Lucretian 
philosophy,  just  look  back — was  it  life  at  all  that  you  lived  ? 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  599 

— were  you  an  individual  distinct  existence — a  passenger  in 
the  railway  ? — or  were  you  merely  an  indistinct  portion  of 
that  common  flame  which  heated  the  boiler  and  generated 
the  steam  that  set  off  the  monster  train  ? — very  hot,  very 
active,  very  useful,  no  doubt ;  but  all  your  identity  fused  in 
flame  and  all  your  forces  vanishing  in  gas. 

And  do  you  think  the  people  in  the  railway  carriages 
care  for  you  ? — do  you  think  that  the  gentleman  in  the 
worsted  wrapper  is  saying  to  his  neighbor  with  the  striped 
rug  on  his  comfortable  knees,  "  How  grateful  we  ought  to 
bs  for  that  fiery  particle  which  is  cracking  and  hissing 
under  the  boiler !  It  helps  us  on  a  fraction  of  an  inch  from 
Vauxhall  to  Putney  ! "  Not  a  bit  of  it.  Ten  to  one  but  he 
is  saying — "  Not  sixteen  miles  an  hour  !  What  the  deuce 
is  the  matter  with  the  stoker?" 

Look  at  our  friend,  Audley  Egerton.  You  have  just  had 
a  glimpse  of  the  real  being  that  struggles  under  the  huge 
copper  ;  you  have  heard  the  hollow  sound  of  the  rich  man's 
coffers  under  the  tap  of  Baron  Levy's  friendly  knuckle — 
heard  the  strong  man's  heart  give  out  its  dull  warning  sound 

to  the  scientific  ear  of  Dr.  F .  And  away  once  more 

vanishes  the  separate  existence,  lost  again  in  the  flame  that 
heats  the  boiler,  and  the  smoke  that  curls  into  air  from  the 
grimy  furnace. 

Look  to  it,  O  Public  Man,  whoever  thou  art,  and  what- 
soever thy  degree — see  if  thou  canst  not  compound  matters, 
so  as  to  keep  a  little  nook  apart  for  thy  private  life ;  that 
is,  for  thyself !  Let  the  great  Popkins  Question  not  absorb 
wholly  the  individual  soul  of  thee,  as  Smith  or  Johnson. 
Don't  so  entirely  consume  thyself  under  that  insatiable 
boiler,  that  when  thy  poor  little  monad  rushes  out  from 
the  sooty  furnace,  and  arrives  at  the  stars,  thou  mayest  find 
no  vocation  for  thee  there,  and  feel  as  if  thou  hadst  nothing 
to  do  amidst  the  still  splendors  of  the  Infinite.  I  don't 
deny  to  thee  the  uses  of  "  Public  Life  ; "  I  grant  that  it  is 
much  to  have  helped  to  carry  that  great  Popkins  Question  ; 
but  Private  Life,  my  friend,  is  the  life  of  thy  private  soul ; 
and  there  may  be  matters  concerned  with  that  which,  on 
consideration,  thou  mayest  allow,  cannot  be  wholly  mixed 
up  with  the  great  Popkins  Question — and  were  not  finally 
settled  when  thou  didst  exclaim — "  I  have  not  lived  in  vain — 
the  Popkins  Question  is  carried  at  last!"  Oh,  immortal 
soul,  for  one  quarter  of  an  hour  per  diem — de-Popkinise 
thine  immortality! 


600  MY  NOVEL;    OK, 


CHAPTER  II. 

IT  had  not  been  without  much  persuasion  on  the  part  of 
Jackeymo,  that  Riccabocca  had  consented  to  settle  himself 
in  the  house  which  Randal  had  recommended  to  him.  Not 
that  the  exile  conceived  any  suspicion  of  the  young  man 
beyond  that  which  he  might  have  shared  with  Jackeymo,  viz., 
that  Randal's  interest  in  the  father  was  increased  by  a  very 
natural  and  excusable  admiration  of  the  daughter.  But  the 
Italian  had  the  pride  common  to  misfortune — he  did  not 
like  to  be  indebted  to  others,  and  he  shrank  from  the  pity 
of  those  to  whom  it  was  known  that  he  had  held  a  higher 
station  in  his  own  land.  These  scruples  gave  way  to  the 
strength  of  his  affection  for  his  daughter  and  his  dread  of 
his  foe.  Good  men,  however  able  and  brave,  who  have 
suffered  from  the  wicked,  are  apt  to  form  exaggerated  no- 
tions of  the  power  that  has  prevailed  against  them.  Jackey- 
mo had  conceived  a  superstitious  terror  of  Peschiera  ;  and 
Riccabocca,  though  by  no  means  addicted  to  superstition, 
still  had  a  certain  creep  of  the  flesh  whenever  he  thought 
of  his  foe. 

But  Riccabocca — than  whom  no  man  was  more  physi- 
cally brave,  and  no  man  in  some  respects  more  morally 
timid — feared  the  Count  less  as  a  foe  than  as  a  gallant.  He 
remembered  his  kinsman's  surpassing  beauty — the  power 
he  had  obtained  over  women.  He  knew  him  versed  in 
every  art  that  corrupts,  and  wholly  void  of  the  conscience 
that  deters.  And  Riccabocca  had  unhappily  nursed  him- 
self into  so  poor  an  estimate  of  the  female  character,  that 
even  the  pure  and  lofty  nature  of  Violante  did  not  seem  to 
him  a  sufficient  safeguard  against  the  craft  and  determina- 
tion of  a  practised  and  remorseless  intriguer.  But  of  all 
the  precautions  he  could  take,  none  appeared  more  likely 
to  conduce  to  safety,  than  his  establishing  a  friendly  com- 
munication with  one  who  professed  to  be  able  to  get  at  all 
the  Count's  plans  and  movements,  and  who  could  apprise 
Riccabocca  at  once  should  his  retreat  be  discovered. 
"  Forewarned  is  forearmed,"  said  he  to  himself,  in  one  of 
the  proverbs  common  to  all  nations.  However,  as  with  his 
usual  sagacity,  he  came  to  reflect  upon  the  alarming  intel- 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  6oi 

ligence  conveyed  to  him  by  Randal,  viz.,  that  the  Count 
sought  his  daughter's  hand,  he  divined  that  there  was  some 
strong  personal  interest  under  such  ambition  ;  and  what 
could  be  that  interest  save  the  probability  of  Riccabocca's 
ultimate  admission  to  the  Imperial  grace,  and  the  Count's 
desire  to  assure  himself  of  the  heritage  to  an  estate  that  he 
might  be  permitted  to  retain  no  more  ?  Riccabocca  was 
not  indeed  aware  of  the  condition  (not  according  to  usual 
customs  in  Austria)  on  which  the  Count  held  the  forfeited 
domains.  He  knew  not  that  they  had  been  granted  merely 
on  pleasure ;  but  he  was  too  well  aware  of  Peschiera's  na- 
ture to  suppose  that  he  would  woo  a  bride  without  a  dower, 
or  be  moved  by  remorse  in  any  overture  of  reconciliation. 
He  felt  assured  too — and  this  increased  all  his  fears — that 
Peschiera  would  never  venture  to  seek  an  interview  with 
himself  ;  all  the  Count's  designs  on  Violante  would  be  dark, 
secret,  and  clandestine.  He  was  perplexed  and  tormented 
by  the  doubt,  whether  or  not  to  express  openly  to  Violante 
his  apprehensions  of  the  nature  of  the  danger  to  be  appre- 
hended. He  had  told  her  vaguely  that  it  was  for  her  sake 
that  he  desired  secrecy  and  concealment.  But  that  might 
mean  anything  ;  what  danger  to  himself  would  not  menace 
her?  Yet  to  say  more  was  so  contrary  to  a  man  of  his 
Italian  notions  and  Machiavellian  maxims  !  To  say  to  a 
young  girl,  "  There  is  a  man  come  over  to  England  on  pur- 
pose to  woo  and  win  you.  For  Heaven's  sake  take  care  of 
him  ;  he  is  diabolically  handsome  ;  he  never  fails  where  he 
sets  his  heart." — "  Cospetto  !  "  cried  the  Doctor,  aloud,  as 
these  admonitions  shaped  themselves  to  speech  in  the 
camera-obscura  of  his  brain  ;  "such  a  warning  would  have 
undone  a  Cornelia  while  she  was  yet  an  innocent  spinster." 
No,  he  resolved  to  say  nothing  to  Violante  of  the  Count's 
intention,  only  to  keep  guard,  and  make  himself  and  Jackey- 
mo  all  eyes  and  all  ears. 

The  house  Randal  had  selected  pleased  Riccabocca  at 
first  glance.  It  stood  alone,  upon  a  little  eminence  ;  its 
upper  windows  commanded  the  high  road.  It  had  been  a 
school,  and  was  surrounded  by  high  walls,  which  contained 
a  garden  and  lawn  sufficiently  large  for  exercise.  The 
garden  doors  were  thick,  fortified  by  strong  bolts,  and  had  a 
little  wicket  lattice,  shut  and  opened  at  pleasure,  from  which 
Jackeymo  could  inspect  all  visitors  before  he  permitted 
them  to  enter. 

An  old  family  servant  from  the  neighborhood  was  cau- 
26 


602  MY  NOVEL;    OR, 

tiously  hired  ;  Riccabocca  renounced  his  Italian  name,  and 
abjured  his  origin.  He  spoke  English  sufficiently  well  to 
think  he  could  pass  as  an  Englishman.  He  called  himself 
Mr.  Richmouth  (a  liberal  translation  of  Riccabocca).  He 
bought  a  blunderbuss,  two  pairs  of  pistols,  and  a  huge 
house-dog.  Thus  provided  for,  he  allowed  Jackeymo  to 
write  a  line  to  Randal  and  communicate  his  arrival. 

Randal  lost  no  time  in  calling.  With  his  usual  adapta- 
bility, and  his  power  of  dissimulation,  he  contrived  easily 
to  please  Mrs.  Riccabocca,  and  to  increase  the  good  opinion 
the  exile  was  disposed  to  form  of  him.  He  engaged  Vio- 
lante  in  conversation  on  Italy  and  its  poets.  He  promised 
to  bring  her  books.  He  began,  though  more  distantly  than 
he  could  have  desired — for  her  sweet  stateliness  awed  him 
— the  preliminaries  of  courtship.  He  established  himself 
at  once  as  a  familiar  guest,  riding  down  daily  in  the  dusk 
of  evening  after  the  toils  of  office,  and  retiring  at  night.  In 
four  or  five  days  he  thought  he  had  made  great  progress 
with  all.  Riccabocca  watched  him  narrowly,  and  grew  ab- 
sorbed in  thought  after  every  visit.  At  length  one  night, 
when  he  and  Mrs.  Riccabocca  were  alone  in  the  drawing- 
room,  Violante  having  retired  to  rest,  he  thus  spoke  as  he 
filled  his  pipe  : — 

"  Happy  is  the  man  who  has  no  children  !  Thrice 
happy  he  who  has  no  girls  !  " 

'•My  dear  Alphonso  !  "  said  the  wife,  looking  up  from 
the  wrist-band  to  which  she  was  attaching  a  neat  mother- 
o'-pearl  button.  She  said  no  more ;  it  was  the  sharpest 
rebuke  she  was  in  the  custom  of  administering  to  her 
husband's  cynical  and  odious  observations.  Riccabocca 
lighted  his  pipe  with  a  thread-paper,  gave  three  great 
puffs,  and  resumed,— 

"  One  blunderbuss,  four  pistols,  and  a  house-dog  called 
Pompey,  who  would  have  made  mincemeat  of  Julius 
Csesar  ! " 

"  He  certainly  eats  a  great  deal,  does  Pompey ! "  said 
Mrs.  Riccabocca,  simply.  "  But  if  he  relieves  your 
mind  ! " 

"  He  does  not  relieve  it  in  the  least,  ma'am,"  groaned 
Riccabocca ;  "  and  that  is  the  point  I  was  coming  to. 
This  is  a  most  harassing  life,  and  a  most  undignified  life. 
And  I  who  have  only  asked  from  Heaven  dignity  and 
repose  !  But,  if  Violante  were  once  married,  I  should 
want  neither  blunderbuss,  pistol,  nor  Pompey.  And  it  is 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  603 

that  which  would  relieve  my  mind,  cara  mia. — Pompey 
only  relieves  my  larder !  " 

Now  Riccabocca  had  been  more  communicative  to  Je- 
mima than  he  had  been  to  Violante.  Having  once  trusted 
her  with  one  secret,  he  had  every  motive  to  trust  her  with 
another  ;  and  he  had  accordingly  spoken  out  his  fears  of 
the  Count  di  Peschiera.  Therefore  she  answered,  laying 
down  the  work,  and  taking  her  husband's  hand  tenderly — 

"  Indeed,  my  love,  since  you  dread  so  much  (though  I 
own  that  I  must  think  unreasonably)  this  wicked,  danger- 
ous man,  it  would  be  the  happiest  thing  in  the  world  to  see 
dear  Violante  well  married  ;  because,  you  see,  if  she  is 
married  to  one  person  she  cannot  be  married  to  another  ; 
and  all  fear  of  this  Count,  as  you  say,  would  be  at  an  end." 

"  You  cannot  express  yourself  better.  It  is  a  great 
comfort  to  unbosom  one's-self  to  a  wife,  after  all ! "  quoth 
Riccabocca. 

"But,"  said  the  wife,  after  a  grateful  kiss — "but,  where 
and  how  can  we  find  a  husband  suitable  to  the  rank  of 
your  daughter  ?  " 

"  There — there — there,"  cried  Riccabocca,  pushing  back 
his  chair  to  the  farther  end  of  the  room — "  that  comes  of 
unbosoming  one's-self !  Out  flies  one's  secret  ;  it  is  open- 
ing the  lid  of  Pandora's  box ;  one  is  betrayed,  ruined, 
undone !  " 

''Why,  there's  not  a  soul  that  can  hear  us!"  said 
Mrs.  Riccabocca,  soothingly. 

"  That's  chance,  ma'am  !  If  you  once  contract  the  habit 
of  blabbing  out  a  secret  when  nobody's  by,  how  on  earth 
can  you  resist  it  when  you  have  the  pleasurable  excitement 
of  telling  it  to  all  the  world  ?  Vanity,  vanity — woman's 
vanity !  Woman  never  could  withstand  rank — never  !  " 
The  doctor  went  on  railing  for  a  quarter  eof  an  hour,  and 
was  very  reluctantly  appeased  by  Mrs.  Riccabocca's  re- 
peated and  tearful  assurances,  that  she  would  never  even 
whisper  to  herself  that  her  husband  had  ever  held  any 
other  rank  than  that  of  Doctor.  Riccabocca,  with  a 
dubious  shake  of  the  head,  renewed — 

"  I  have  done  with  all  pomp  and  pretension.  Besides, 
the  young  man  is  a  born  gentleman  ;  lie  seems  in  good 
circumstances  ;  he  has  energy  and  latent  ambition  ;  he  is 
akin  to  L'Estrange's  intimate  friend  ;  he  seems  attached 
to  Violante.  I  don't  think  it  probable  that  we  could  do 
better.  Nay,  if  Peschiera  fears  that  I  shall  be  restored 


604  MY  NOVEL;    OR, 

to  my  country,  and  I  learn  the  wherefore,  and  the  ground 
to  take,  through  this  young  man— why,  gratitude  is  the 
first  virtue  of  the  noble  !  " 

"You  speak,  then,  of  Mr.  Leslie?" 

"  To  be  sure — of  whom  else  ?" 

Mrs.  Riccabocca  leaned  her  cheek  on  her  hand  thought- 
fully. "  Now  you  have  told  me  that,  I  will  observe  him 
with  different  eyes." 

"  Anima  mia,  I  don't  see  how  the  difference  of  your  eyes 
will  alter  the  object  they  look  upon  ! "  grumbled  Ricca- 
bocca, shaking  the  ashes  out  of  his  pipe. 

"  The  object  alters  when  we  see  it  in  a  different  point 
of  view  !  "  replied  Jemima,  modestly.  "  This  thread  does 
very  well  when  I  look  at  it  in  order  to  sew  on  a  button, 
but  I  should  say  it  would  never  do  to  tie  up  Pompey  in  his 
kennel." 

"  Reasoning  by  illustration,  upon  my  soul  !  "  ejaculated 
Riccabocca,  amazed. 

"And,"  continued  Jemima,  "when  I  am  to  regard  one 
who  is  to  constitute  the  happiness  of  that  dear  child,  and 
for  life,  can  I  regard  him  as  I  would  the  pleasant  guest 
of  an  evening  ?  Ah,  trust  me,  Alphonso  ;  I  don't  pre- 
tend to  be  wise  like  you  ;  but  when  a  woman  considers 
what  a  man  is  likely  to  prove  to  woman — his  sincerity— his 
honor — his  heart — oh,  trust  me,  she  is  wiser  than  the 
wisest  man  !  " 

Riccabocca  continued  to  gaze  on  Jemima  with  un- 
affected admiration  and  surprise.  And,  certainly,  to  use 
his  phrase,  since  he  had  unbosomed  himself  to  his  better 
half — since  he  had  confided  in  her,  consulted  with  her,  her 
sense  had  seemed  to  quicken,  her  whole  mind  to  expand. 

"  My  dear,"  said  the  sage,  "  I  vow  and  declare  that 
Machiavelli  was  a  fool  to  you.  And  I  have  been  as  dull  as 
the  chair  I  sit  upon,  to  deny  myself  so  many  years  the 

comfort  and  counsel  of  such  a but,  corpo  di  Bacco ! 

forget  all  about  rank  ;  and  so  now  to  bed. — One  must 
not  holloa  till  one's  out  of  the  wood,"  muttered  the  un- 
grateful, suspicious  villain,  as  he  lighted  the  chamber- 
candle. 


VARIETIES  IN   ENGLISH  LIFE.  605 


CHAPTER  III. 

RICCABOCCA  could  not  confine  himself  to  the  precincts 
within  the  walls  to  which  he  condemned  Violante.  Re- 
suming his  spectacles,  and  wrapped  in  his  cloak,  he  occa- 
sionally sallied  forth  upon  a  kind  of  out-watch  or  recon- 
noitring expedition, — restricting  himself,  however,  to  the 
immediate  neighborhood,  and  never  going  quite  out  of 
sight  of  his  house.  His  favorite  walk  was  to  the  summit  of 
a  hillock  overgrown  with  stunted  brushwood.  Here  he 
would  sit  himself  musingly,  often  till  the  hoofs  of  Randal's 
horse  rang  on  the  winding  road,  as  the  sun  set  over  fading 
herbage,  red  and  vaporous,  in  autumnal  skies.  Just  below 
the  hillock,  and  not  two  hundred  yards  from  his  own 
house,  was  the  only  other  habitation  in  view — a  charming, 
thoroughly  English  cottage,  though  somewhat  imitated 
from  the  Swiss, — with  gable-ends,  thatched  roof,  and 
pretty  projecting  casements,  opening  through  creepers 
and  climbing  roses.  From  his  height  he  commanded  the 
gardens  of  this  cottage,  and  his  eye  of  artist  was  pleased, 
from  the  first  sight,  with  the  beauty  which  some  exquisite 
taste  had  given  to  the  ground.  Even  in  that  cheerless 
season  of  the  year,  the  garden  wore  a  summer  smile  ;  the 
evergreens  were  so  bright  and  various,  and  the  few  flowers 
still  left,  so  hardy  and  so  healthful.  Facing  the  south,  a 
colonnade,  or  covered  gallery,  of  rustic  wood-work  had 
been  formed,  and  creeping  plants,  lately  set,  were  already 
beginning  to  clothe  its  columns.  Opposite  to  this  colon- 
nade there  was  a  fountain,  which  reminded  Riccabocca 
of  his  own  at  the  deserted  Casino.  It  was  indeed  singu- 
larly like  it ;  the  same  circular  shape,  the  same  girdle  of 
flowers  around  it.  But  the  jet  from  it  varied  every  day 
— fantastic  and  multiform,  like  the  sports  of  a  Naiad, — 
sometimes  shooting  up  like  a  tree,  sometimes  shaped  as  a 
convolvulus,  sometimes  tossing  from  its  silver  spray  a 
flower  of  vermilion,  or  a  fruit  of  gold,  as  if  at  play  with 
its  toy,  like  a  happy  child.  And  near  the  fountain  was  a 
large  aviary,  large  enough  to  enclose  a  tree.  The  Italian 
could  just  eaten  a  gleam  of  rich  color  from  the  wings  of 
the  birds,  as  they  glanced  to  and  fro  within  the  network, 


606  My  NOVEL;    OR, 

and  could  hear  their  songs,  contrasting  the  silence  of  the 
freer  populace  of  air,  whom  the  coming  winter  had  already 
stilled. 

Riccabocca's  eye,  so  alive  to  all  aspects  of  beauty, 
luxuriated  in  the  view  of  this  garden.  Its  pleasantness  had 
a  charm  that  stole  him  from  his  anxious  fear  and  melan- 
choly memories. 

He  never  saw  but  two  forms  within  the  demesnes,  and 
he  could  not  distinguish  their  features.  One  was  a  woman, 
who  seemed  to  him  of  staid  manner  and  homely  appear- 
ance ;  she  was  seen  but  rarely.  The  other  a  man,  often 
pacing  to  and  fro  the  colonnade,  with  frequent  pauses  be- 
fore the  playful  fountain,  or  the  birds  that  sang  louder  as 
he  approached.  This  latter  form  would  then  disappear 
within  a  room,  the  glass  door  of  which  was  at  the  extreme 
end  of  the  colonnade  ;  and  if  the  door  were  left  open, 
Riccabocca  could  catch  a  glimpse  of  the  figure  bending 
over  a  table  covered  with  books. 

Always,  however,  before  the  sun  set,  the  man  would 
step  forth  more  briskly,  and  occupy  himself  with  the  gar- 
den, often  working  at  it  with  good  heart,  as  if  at  a  task  of 
delight ;  and  then,  too,  the  woman  would  come  out,  and 
stand  by,  as  if  talking  to  her  companion.  Riccabocca's 
curiosity  grew  aroused.  He  bade  Jemima  inquire  of  the 
old  maid-servant  who  lived  at  the  cottage,  and  heard  that 
its  owner  was  a  Mr.  Oran — a  quiet  gentleman,  and  fond  of 
his  book. 

While  Riccabocca  thus  amused  himself,  Randal  had  not 
been  prevented,  either  by  his  official  cares  or  his  schemes 
on  Violante's  heart  and  fortune,  from  furthering  the  project 
that  was  to  unite  Frank  Hazeldean  and  Beatrice  di  Negra. 
Indeed,  as  to  the  first,  a  ray  of  hope  was  sufficient  to  fire 
the  ardent  and  unsuspecting  lover.  And  Randal's  artful 
misrepresentation  of  his  conference  with  Mrs.  Hazeldean, 
removed  all  fear  of  parental  displeasure  from  a  mind  always 
too  disposed  to  give  itself  up  to  the  temptation  of  the  mo- 
ment. Beatrice,  though  her  feelings  for  Frank  were  not 
those  of  love,  became  more  and  more  influenced  by  Ran- 
dal's arguments  and  representations,  the  more  especially  as 
her  brother  grew  morose,  and  even  menacing,  as  days 
slipped  on,  and  she  could  give  no  clue  to  the  retreat  of 
those  whom  he  sought  for.  Her  debts,  too,  were  really 
urgent.  As  Randal's  profound  knowledge  of  human  in- 
firmity had  shrewdly  conjectured,  the  scruples  of  honor  and 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  607 

pride,  that  had  made  her  declare  she  would  not  bring  to  a 
husband  her  own  encumbrances,  began  to  yield  to  the 
pressure  of  necessity.  She  listened  already,  with  but  faint 
objections,  when  Randal  urged  her  not  to  wait  for  the  un- 
certain discovery  that  was  to  secure  her  dowry,  but  by  a 
private  marriage  with  Frank  escape  at  once  into  freedom 
and  security.  While,  though  he  had  first  held  out  to  young 
Hazeldean  the  inducement  of  Beatrice's  dowry  as  a  reason 
of  self-justification  in  the  eyes  of  the  Squire,  it  was  still 
easier  to  drop  that  inducement,  which  had  always  rather 
damped  than  fired  the  high  spirit  and  generous  heart  of 
the  poor  Guardsman.  And  Randal  could  conscientiously 
say,  that  when  he  had  asked  the  Squire  if  he  expected  for- 
tune with  Frank's  bride,  the  Squire  had  replied, — "  I  don't 
care."  Thus  encouraged  by  his  friend  and  his  own  heart,' 
and  the  softening  manner  of  a  woman  who  might  have 
charmed  many  a  colder,  and  fooled  many  a  wiser  man, 
Frank  rapidly  yielded  to  the  snares  held  out  for  his  perdi- 
tion. And  though,  as  yet,  he  honestly  shrank  from  propos- 
ing to  Beatrice  or  himself  a  marriage  without  the  consent, 
and  even  the  knowledge,  of  his  parents,  yet  Randal  was 
quite  content  to  leave  a  nature,  however  good,  so  thoroughly 
impulsive  and  undisciplined,  to  the  influences  of  the  first 
strong  passion  it  had  ever  known.  Meanwhile,  it  was  so 
easy  to  dissuade  Frank  from  even  giving  a  hint  to  the  folks 
at  home.  "For,"  said  the  wily  and  able  traitor,  "though 
we  may  be  sure  of  Mrs.  Hazeldean's  consent,  and  her  power 
over  your  father,  when  the  step  is  once  taken,  yet  we  can- 
not count  for  certain  on  the  Squire,  he  is  so  choleric  and 
hasty.  He  might  hurry  to  town,  see  Madame  di  Negra, 
blurt  out  some  passionate,  rude  expressions  which  would 
wake  her  resentment,  and  cause  her  instant  rejection  ;  and 
it  might  be  too  late  if  he  repented  afterward, — as  he  would 
be  sure  to  do." 

Meanwhile,  Randal  Leslie  gave  a  dinner  at  the  Claren- 
don Hotel  (an  extravagance  most  contrary  to  his  habits) 
and  invited  Frank,  Mr.  Borrowell,  and  Baron  Levy. 

But  this  house-spider,  which  glided  with  so  much  ease 
after  its  flies,  through  webs  so  numerous  and  mazy,  had  yet 
to  amuse  Madame  di  Negra  with  assurances  that  the  fugi- 
tives sought  for  would  sooner  or  later  be  discovered. 
Though  Randal  baffled  and  eluded  her  suspicion  that  he 
was  already  acquainted  with  the  exiles  ("  the  persons  he  had 
thought  of  were,"  he  said,  "  quite  different  from  her  descrip- 


608  MY  NOVEL;    OR, 

tion  ; "  and  he  even  presented  to  her  an  old  singing-master, 
and  a  sallow-faced  daughter,  as  the  Italians  who  had  caused 
his  mistake),  it  was  necessary  for  Beatrice  to  prove  the  sin- 
cerity of  the  aid  she  had  promised  to  her  brother,  and  to 
introduce  Randal  to  the  Count.  It  was  no  less  desirable  to 
Randal  to  know,  and  even  win  the  confidence  of,  this  man 
— his  rival. 

The  two  met  at  Madame  di  Negra's  house.  There  is 
something  very  strange,  and  almost  mesmerical,  in  the  rap- 
port between  two  evil  natures.  Bring  two  honest  men  to- 
gether, and  it  is  ten  to  one  if  they  recognize  each  other  as 
honest  ;  differences  in  temper,  manner,  even  politics,  may 
make  each  misjudge  the  other.  But  bring  together  two 
men,  unprincipled  and  perverted — men  who,  if  born  in  a 
cellar,  wpuld  have  been  food  for  the  hulks  or  gallows — and 
they  understand  each  other  by  instant  sympathy.  The  eyes 
of  Franzini,  Count  di  Peschiera,  and  Randal  Leslie  no  sooner 
met,  than  a  gleam  of  intelligence  shot  from  both.  They 
talked  on  indifferent  subjects — weather,  gossip,  politics — 
what  not.  They  bowed  and  they  smiled  ;  but,  all  the  while, 
each  was  watching,  plumbing  the  other's  heart,  each  meas- 
uring his  strength  with  his  companion  ;  each  inly  saying, 
"  This  is  a  very  remarkable  rascal ;  am  I  a  match  for  him  ?  " 
It  was  at  dinner  they  met  ;  and  following  the  English  fashion, 
Madame  di  Negra  left  them  alone  with  their  wine. 

Then,  for  the  first  time,  Count  di  Peschiera  cautiously 
and  adroitly  made  a  covered  push  toward  the  object  of 
the  meeting. 

"  You  have  never  been  abroad,  my  dear  sir  ?  You  must 
contrive  to  visit  me  at  Vienna.  I  grant  the  splendor  of  your 
London  world  ;  but,  honestly  speaking,  it  wants  the  freedom 
of  ours — a  freedom  which  unites  gaiety  with  polish.  For 
as  your  society  is  mixed,  there  are  pretension  and  effort 
with  those  who  have  no  right  to  be  in  it,  and  artificial  con- 
descension and  chilling  arrogance  with  those  who  have  to 
keep  their  inferiors  at  a  certain  distance.  With  us,  all  be- 
ing of  fixed  rank  and  acknowledged  birth,  familiarity  is  at 
once  established.  Hence,"  added  the  Count,  with  his  French 
lively  smile—"  hence  there  is  no  place  like  Vienna  for  a 
young  man — no  place  like  Vienna  for  bonnes  fortunes." 

"Those  make  the  paradise  of  the  idle,"  replied  Randal, 
"  but  the  purgatory  of  the  busy.  I  confess  frankly  to  you,  my 
dear  Count,  that  I  have  as  little  of  the  leisure  which  becomes 
the  aspirer  to  bonnes  fortunes  as  I  have  the  personal  graces 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  609 

which  obtain  them  without  an  effort ;  "  and  he  inclined  his 
head  as  in  compliment. 

"  So,"  thought  the  Count,  "  woman  is  not  his  weak  side. 
What  is?" 

"  Morbleu  !  my  dear  Mr.  Leslie — had  I  thought  as  you  do 
some  years  since,  I  had  saved  myself  from  many  a  trouble. 
After  all,  Ambition  is  the  best  mistress  to  woo  ;  for  with 
her  there  is  always  the  hope,  and  never  the  possession." 

"Ambition,  Count,"  replied  Randal,  still  guarding  him- 
self in  dry  sententiousness,  "  is  the  luxury  of  the  rich,  and 
the  necessity  of  the  poor." 

"Aha,"  thought  the  Count,  "it  comes  as  I  anticipated 
from  the  first — comes  to  the  bribe."  He  passed  the  wine  to 
Randal,  filling  his  own  glass,  and  draining  it  carelessly  ; 
"  Sur  mon  dme,  man  cher,"  said  the  Count,  luxury  is  ever 
pleasanter  than  necessity ;  and  I  am  resolved  at  least  to 
give  ambition  a  trial — -je  vais  me  refugier  dans  le  sein  du  bonheur 
domestique — a  married  life  and  a  settled  home.  Peste  !  If  it 
were  not  for  ambition,  one  would  die  of  ennui.  Apropos, 
my  dear  sir,  I  have  to  thank  you  for  promising  my  sister 
your  aid  in  finding  a  near  and  dear  kinsman  of  mine,  who 
has  taken  refuge  in  your  country,  and  hides  himself  even 
from  me." 

"  I  should  be  most  happy  to  assist  in  your  search.  As 
yet,  however,  I  have  only  to  regret  that  all  my  good  wishes 
are  fruitless.  I  should  have  thought,  however,  that  a  man 
of  such  rank  had  been  easily  found,  even  through  the  med- 
ium of  your  own  ambassador." 

"  Our  own  ambassador  is  no  very  warm  friend  of  mine  ; 
and  the  rank  would  be  no  clue,  for  it  is  clear  that  my  kins- 
man has  never  assumed  it  since  he  quitted  his  country." 

"  He  quitted  it,  I  understand,  not  exactly  from  choice," 
said  Randal,  smiling.  "  Pardon  my  freedom  and  curiosity, 
but  will  you  explain  to  me  a  little  more  than  I  learn  from 
English  rumor  (which  never  accurately  reports  upon  for- 
eign matters  still  more  notorious),  how  a  person  who  had  so 
much  to  lose,  and  so  little  to  win,  by  revolution,  C4Otild  put 
himself  into  the  same  crazy  boat  with  a  crew  of  hare-brained 
adventurers  and  visionary  professors  ?  " 

"  Professors  ! "  repeated  the  Count  ;  "  I  think  you  have 
hit  on  the  very  answer  to  your  question  ;  not  but  what  men 
of  high  birth  \\fere  as  mad  as  the  canaille.  I  am  the  more 
willing  to  gratify  your  curiosity,  since  it  will  perhaps  serve  to 
guide  your  kind  search  in  my  favor.  You  must  know,  then, 


610  MY  NOVEL;    OR, 

that  my  kinsman  was  not  born  the  heir  to  the  rank  he  ob- 
tained. He  was  but  a  distant  relation  to  the  head  of  the 
house  which  he  afterward  represented.  Brought  up  in  an 
Italian  university,  he  was  distinguished  for  his  learning  and 
his  eccentricities.  There  too,  I  suppose,  brooding  over  old 
wives'  tales  about  freedom,  and  so  forth,  he  contracted  his 
carbonaro,  chimerical  notions  for  the  independence  of  Italy. 
Suddenly,  by  three  deaths,  he  was  elevated,  while  yet  young, 
to  a  station  and  honors  which  might  have  satisfied  any  man 
in  his  senses.  Que  diablc  !  what  could  the  independence  of 
Italy  do  for  him!  He  and  I  were  cousins  ;  we  had  played 
together  as  boys  ;  but  our  lives  had  been  separated  till  his 
succession  to  rank  brought  us  necessarily  together.  We 
became  exceedingly  intimate.  And  you  may  judge  how  I 
loved  him,"  said  the  Count,  averting  his  eyes  slightly  from 
Randal's  quiet,  watchful  gaze,  "  when  I  add  that  I  forgave 
him  for  enjoying  a  heritage  that,  but  for  him,  had  been 
mine." 

"  Ah,  you  were  next  heir  ? " 

"  And  it  is  a  hard  trial  to  be  very  near  a  great  fortune, 
and  yet  just  to  miss  it." 

"  True,"  cried  Randal,  almost  impetuously.  The  Count 
now  raised  his  eyes,  and  again  the  two  men  looked  into  each 
other's  souls. 

"  Harder  still,  perhaps,"  resumed  the  Count,  after  a  short 
pause — "  harder  still  might  it  have  been  to  some  men  to  for- 
give the  rival  as  well  as  the  heir." 

"Rival!  how?" 

"  A  lady,  who  had  been  destined  by  her  parents  to  my- 
self, though  we  had  never,  I  own,  been  formally  betrothed, 
became  the  wife  of  my  kinsman." 

"  Did  he  know  of  your  pretensions?  " 

"  I  do  him  the  justice  to  say  he  did  not.  He  saw  and  fell 
in  love  with  the  young  lady  I  speak  of.  Her  parents  were 
dazzled.  Her  father  sent  for  me.  He  apologized — he  ex- 
plained ;  he  set  before  me,  mildly  enough,  certain  youthful 
imprudences  or  errors  of  my  own,  as  an  excuse  for  his 
change  of  mind  ;  and  he  asked  me  not  only  to  resign  all 
hope  of  his  daughter,  but  to  conceal  from  her  new  suitor 
that  I  had  ever  ventured  to  hope." 

"  And  you  consented  ?  " 

"  I  consented." 

"  That  was  generous.  You  must,  indeed,  have  been  much 
attached  to  your  kinsman.  As  a  lover,  I  cannot  comprehend 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  6u 

it ;  perhaps,  my  dear  Count,  you  may  enable  me  to  under- 
stand it  better — as  a  man  of  the  world." 

"Well,"  said  the  Count,  with  his  most  rout air,  "  I  sup- 
pose we  are  both  men  of  the  world." 

"  Both  !  certainly,"  replied  Randal,  just  in  the  tone  which 
Peachum  might  have  used  in  courting  the  confidence  of 
Lockit. 

"  As  a  man  of  the  world,  then,  I  own,"  said  the  Count, 
playing  with  the  rings  on  his  fingers,  "  that  if  I  could  not 
marry  the  lady  myself  (and  that  seemed  to  me  clear),  it  was 
very  natural  that  I  should  wish  to  see  her  married  to  my 
wealthy  kinsman." 

"  Very  natural  ;  it  might  bring  your  wealthy  kinsman 
and  yourself  still  closer  together." 

"  This  is  really  a  very  clever  fellow  !  "  thought  the  Count, 
but  he  made  no  direct  reply. 

".En-fin,  to  cut  short  a  long  story,  my  cousin  afterward 
got  entangled  in  attempts,  the  failure  of  which  is  histori- 
cally known.  His  projects  were  detected— himself  de- 
nounced. He  fled,  and  the  Emperor,  in  sequestering  his 
estates,  was  pleased,  with  rare  and  singular  clemency,  to 
permit  me,  as  his  nearest  kinsman,  to  enjoy  the  revenues  of 
half  those  estates  during  the  royal  pleasure  ;  nor  was  the 
other  half  formally  confiscated.  It  was,  no  doubt,  his  Ma- 
jesty's desire  not  to  extinguish  a  great  Italian  name  ;  and  if 
my  cousin  and  his  child  died  in  exile,  why,  of  that  name,  I, 
a  loyal  subject  of  Austria — I,  Franzini,  Count  di  Peschiera, 
would  become  the  representative.  Such,  in  a  similar  case, 
has  been  sometimes  the  Russian  policy  toward  Polish  in- 
surgents." 

"  I  comprehend  perfectly  ;  and  I  can  also  conceive  that 
you,  in  profiting  so  largely,  though  so  justly,  by  the  fall  of 
your  kinsman,  may  have  been  exposed  to  much  unpopular- 
ity— even  to  painful  suspicion.*' 

"  Entre  nous,  mon  cher,  I  care  not  a  stiver  for  popularity  ; 
and  as  to  suspicion,  who  is  he  that  can  escape  from  the  cal- 
umny of  the  envious  ?  But,  unquestionably,  it  would  be 
most  desirable  to  unite  the  divided  members  of  our  house  ; 
and  this  union  I  can  now  effect,  by  the  consent  of  the  Em- 
peror to  my  marriage  with  my  kinsman's  daughter.  You 
see,  therefore,  why  I  have  so  great  an  interest  in  this  re- 
search ? " 

"  By  the  marriage-articles  you  could,  no  doubt,  secure 
the  retention  of  the  half  you  hold  ;  and  if  you  survive  your 


612  MY  NOVEL;    OR, 

kinsman,  you  would  enjoy  the  whole.  A  most  desirable 
marriage  ;  and,  if  made,  I  suppose  that  would  suffice  to  ob- 
tain your  cousin's  amnesty  and  grace  ? " 

"You  say  it." 

"  But  even  without  such  marriage,  since  the  Emperor's 
clemency  has  been  extended  to  so  many  of  the  proscribed, 
it  is,  perhaps,  probable  that  your  cousin  might  be  restored  ? " 

"  It  once  seemed  to  me  possible,"  said  the  Count,  reluc- 
tantly ;  "  but  since  I  have  been  in  England,  I  think  not. 
The  recent  revolution  in  France,  the  democratic  spirit  rising 
in  Europe,  tend  to  throw  back  the  cause  of  a  proscribed 
rebel.  England  swarms  with  revolutionists  ;  my  cousin's 
residence  in  this  country  is  in  itself  suspicious.  The  suspi- 
cion is  increased  by  his  strange  seclusion.  There  are  many 
Italians  here  who  would  aver  that  they  had  met  with  him, 
and  that  he  was  still  engaged  in  revolutionary  projects." 

"  Aver — untruly  ? " 

"  Ma  foi — it  comes  to  the  same  thing  ;  les  absents  out  tou- 
jours  tort.  I  speak  to  a  man  of  the  world.  No  ;  without 
some  such  guarantee  for  his  faith  as  his  daughter's  marriage 
with  myself  would  give,  his  recall  is  improbable.  By  the 
heaven  above  us,  it  shall  be  impossible  !  "  The  Count  rose 
as  he  said  this — rose  as  if  the  mask  of  simulation  had  fairly 
fallen  from  the  visage  of  crime — rose  tall  and  towering,  a 
very  image  of  masculine  power  and  strength,  beside  the 
slight,  bended  form,  and  sickly  face  of  the  intellectual 
schemer.  And  had  you  seen  them  thus  confronted  and  con- 
trasted, you  would  have  felt  that  if  ever  the  time  should 
come  when  the  interest  of  the  one  would  compel  him  openly 
to  denounce  or  boldly  to  expose  the  other,  the  odds  were 
that  the  brilliant  and  audacious  reprobate  would  master  the 
weaker  nerve  but  superior  wit  of  the  furtive  traitor.  Ran- 
dal was  startled  ;  but  rising  also,  he  said,  carelessly — 

"  What  if  this  guarantee  can  no  longer  be  given  ? — what 
if,  in  despair  of  return,  and  in  resignation  to  his  altered  for- 
tunes, your  cousin  has  already  married  his  daughter  to  some 
English  suitor  ?  " 

"Ah,  that  would  indeed  be,  next  to  my  own  marriage 
with  her,  the  most  fortunate  thing  that  could  happen  to  my- 
self." 

"  How  ?     I  don't  understand  !  " 

"Why,  if  my  cousin  has  so  abjured  his  birthright,  and 
forsworn  his  rank — if  this  heritage,  which  is  so  dangerous 
from  its  grandeur,  pass,  in  case  of  his  pardon,  to  some  ob- 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  613 

scure  Englishman — a  foreigner — a  native  of  a  country  that 
is  the  very  refuge  of  levellers  and  Carbonari — mort  tfe  ma 
vie  !  do  you  think  that  such  would  not  annihilate  all  chance 
of  my  cousin's  restoration,  and  be  an  excuse  even  in  the 
eyes  of  Italy  for  formally  conferring  the  sequestrated  es- 
tates on  an  Italian  ?  No  ;  unless,  indeed,  the  girl  were  to 
marry  an  Englishman  of  such  name  and  birth  and  connec- 
tion as  would  in  themselves  be  a  guarantee  (and  how  in 
poverty  is  this  likely  ?),  I  should  go  back  to  Vienna  with  a 
light  heart,  if  I  could  say,  '  My  kinswoman  is  an  English- 
man's wife — shall  her  children  be  the  heirs  to  a  house  so 
renowned  for  its  lineage,  and  so  formidable  for  its  wealth  ? ' 
Parbleu  !  if  my  cousin  were  but  an  adventurer,  or  merely  a 
professor,  he  had  been  pardoned  long  ago.  The  great  en- 
joy the  honor  not  to  be  pardoned  easily." 

Randal  fell  into  deep  but  brief  thought.  The  Count  ob- 
served him,  not  face  to  face,  but  by  the  reflection  of  an 
opposite  mirror.  "  This  man  knows  something ;  this  man 
is  deliberating ;  this  man  can  help  me,"  thought  the 
Count. 

But  Randal  said  nothing  to  confirm  these  hypotheses. 
Recovering  from  his  abstraction,  he  expressed  courteously 
his  satisfaction  at  the  Count's  prospects,  either  way.  "  And 
since,  after  all,"  he  added,  "you  mean  so  well  to  your  cousin, 
it  occurs  to  me  that  you  might  discover  him  by  a  very  sim- 
ple English  process." 

"How?" 

"  Advertise  that,  if  he  will  come  to  some  place  appointed, 
he  will  hear  of  something  to  his  advantage." 

The  Count  shook  his  head.  "  He  would  suspect  me, 
and  not  come." 

"  But  he  was  intimate  with  you.  He  joined  an  insur- 
rection ; — you  were  more  prudent.  You  did  not  injure  him, 
though  you  may  have  benefited  yourself.  Why  should  he 
shun  you?" 

"  The  conspirators  forgive  none  who  do  not  conspire  ; 
besides,  to  speak  frankly,  he  thought  I  injured  him." 

"Could  you  not  conciliate  him  through  his  wife — whom 
— you  resigned  to  him  ?  " 

"She  is  dead — died  before  he  left  the  country." 

"Oh,  that  is  unlucky!  Still  I  think  an  advertisement 
might  do  good.  Allow  me  to  reflect  on  that  subject.  Shall 
we  now  join  Madame  la  Marquise  ?  " 

On  re-entering  the  drawing-room,  the  gentlemen  found 


614  MY  NOVEL;    OR, 

Beatrice  in  full  dress,  seated  by  the  fire,  and  reading  so  in- 
tently that  she  did  not  remark  them  enter. 

''What  so  interests  you,  ma  sceur? — the  last  novel  by 
Balzac,  no  doubt  ?  " 

Beatrice  started,  and  looking  up,  showed  eyes  that  were 
full  of  tears.  "  Oh,  no  !  no  picture  of  miserable,  vicious 
Parisian  life.  This  is  beautiful  ;  there  is  soul  here." 

Randal  took  up  the  book  which  the  Marchesa  laid  down  ; 
it  was  the  same  which  had  charmed  the  circle  at  Hazeldean 
— charmed  the  innocent  and  fresh-hearted — charmed  now 
the  wearied  and  tempted  votaress  of  the  world. 

"Hum,"  murmured  Randal;  "the  Parson  was  right. 
This  is  power — a  sort  of  a  power."  • 

"  How  I  should  like  to  know  the  author !  Who  can  he 
be — can  you  guess  ?" 

"  Not  I.     Some  old  pedant  in  spectacles." 

"  I  think  not — I  am  sure  not. — Here  beats  a  heart  I  have 
ever  sighed  to  find,  and  never  found." 

"  Oh,  la  naive  enfant !  "  cried  the  Count ;  "  comme  son  ima- 
gination s'e'gare  en  reves  enchante's.  And  to  think  that,  while 
you  talk  like  an  Arcadian,  you  are  dressed  like  a  princess." 

"Ah,  I  forgot — the  Austrian  ambassador's.  I  shall  not 
go  to-night.  This  book  unfits  me  for  the  artificial  world." 

"  Just  as  you  will,  my  sister.  I  shall  go.  I  dislike  the 
man,  and  he  me  ;  but  ceremonies  before  men  ! " 

"You  are  going  to  the  Austrian  embassy ?"  said  Ran- 
dal ;  "I,  too,  shall  be  there.  We  shall  meet."  And  he  took 
his  leave. 

"  I  like  your  young  friend  prodigiously,"  said  the  Count, 
yawning.  "  I  am  sure  that  he  knows  of  the  lost  birds,  and 
will  stand  to  them  like  a  pointer,  if  I  can  but  make  it  his 
interest  to  do  so.  We  shall  see." 


CHAPTER  IV. 

RANDAL  arrived  at  the  ambassador's  before  the  Count, 
and  contrived  to  mix  with  the  young  noblemen  attached  to 
the  embassy,  and  to  whom  he  was  known.  Standing  among 
these  was  a  young  Austrian,  on  his  travels,  of  very,  high 
birth,  and  with  an  air  of  noble  grace  that  suited  the  ideal 
of  the  old  German  chivalry.  Randal  was  presented  to  him, 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  615 

and,  after  some  talk  on  general  topics,  observed,  "  By  the 
way,  Prince,  there  is  now  in  London  a  countryman  of  yours, 
with  whom  you  are,  doubtless,  familiarly  acquainted — the 
Count  di  Peschiera." 

"  He  is  no  countryman  of  mine.  He  is  an  Italian.  I 
know  him  but  by  sight  and  by  name,"  said  the  Prince, 
stiffly. 

"  He  is  of  very  ancient  birth,  I  believe." 

"  Unquestionably.     His  ancestors  were  gentlemen." 

"And  very  rich." 

"Indeed!  I  have  understood  the  contrary.  He  enjoys, 
it  is  true,  a  large  revenue." 

A  young  attach^  less  discreet  than  the  Prince,  here  ob- 
served, "Oh,  Peschiera! — poor  fellow,  he  is  too  fond  of 
play  to  be  rich." 

"And  there  is  some  chance  that  the  kinsman  whose 
revenue  he  holds  may  obtain  his  pardon,  and  re-enter  into 
possession  of  his  fortunes — so  I  hear,  at  least,"  said  Randal, 
artfully. 

"  I  shall  be  glad  if  it  be  true,"  said  the  Prince,  with  de- 
cision ;  "and  I  speak  the  common  sentiment  at  Vienna. 
That  kinsman  had  a  noble  spirit,  and  was,  I  believe,  equally 
duped  and  betrayed.  Pardon  me,  sir;  but  we  Austrians  are 
not  so  bad  as  we  are  painted.  Have  you  ever  met  in  Eng- 
land the  kinsman  you  speak  of  ?  " 

"  Never,  though  he  is  supposed  to  reside  here  ;  and  the 
Count  tells  me  that  he  has  a  daughter." 

"The  Count — ha!  I  heard  something  of  a  scheme — a 
wager  of  that — that  Count's  ; — a  daughter  !  Poor  girl !  I 
hope  she  will  escape  his  pursuit ;  for,  no  doubt,  he  pursues 
her." 

"  Possibly  she  may  already  have  married  an  English- 
man." 

"  I  trust  not,"  said  the  Prince,  seriously  ;  "that  might  at 
present  be  a  serious  obstacle  to  her  father's  return." 

"  You  think  so  ?  " 

"  There  can  be  no  doubt  of  it,"  interposed  the  attache\i\\\\ 
a  grand  and  positive  air  ;  "  unless,  indeed,  the  Englishman 
were  of  a  rank  equal  to  her  own." 

Here  there  was  a  slight,  well-bred  murmur  and  buzz  at 
the  door  ;  for  the  Count  di  Peschiera  himself  was  announced; 
and  as  he  entered,  his  presence  was  so  striking,  and  his 
beauty  so  dazzling,  that  whatever  there  might  be  to  the 
prejudice  of  his  character,  it  seemed  instantly  effaced  or 


616  MY  NOVEL;    OR, 

forgotten  in  that  irresistible  admiration  which  it  is  the  pre- 
rogative of  personal  attributes  alone  to  create. 

The  Prince,  with  a  slight  curve  of  his  lip  at  the  groups 
that  collected  round  the  Count,  turned  to  Randal,  and  said, 
"  Can  you  tell  me  if  a  distinguished  countryman  of  yours  is 
in  England — Lord  L'Estrange  ?  " 

"  No  Prince — he  is  not.     You  know  him  ? " 

"Well." 

"  He  is  acquainted  with  the  Count's  kinsman  ;  and  per- 
haps from  him  you  have  learned  to  think  so  highly  of  that 
kinsman  ?  " 

The  Prince  bowed,  and  answered  as  he  moved  away, 
"  When  one  man  of  high  honor  vouches  for  another,  he 
commands  the  belief  of  all." 

*'  Certainly,"  soliloquized  Randal,  "I  must  not  be  pre- 
cipitate. I  was  very  near  falling  into  a  terrible  trap.  If  I 
were  to  marry  the  girl,  and  only,  by  so  doing,  settle  away 
her  inheritance  on  Peschiera  ! — How  hard  it  is  to  be  suf- 
ficiently cautious  in  this  world  !  " 

While  thus  meditating,  a  member  of  Parliament  tapped 
him  on  the  shoulder. 

"  Melancholy,  Leslie !  I  lay  a  wager  I  guess  your 
thoughts." 

"  Guess,"  answered  Randal. 

"  You  were  thinking  of  the  place  you  are  so  soon  to 
lose." 

"Soon  to  lose  !  " 

"Why,  if  ministers  go  out,  you  could  hardly  keep  it,  I 
suppose." 

This  ominous  and  horrid  member  of  Parliament,  Squire 
Hazeldean's  favorite  county  member,  Sir  John,  was  one  of 
those  legislators  especially  odious  to  officials — an  indepen- 
dent "  large-acred  "  member,  who  would  no  more  take  office 
himself  than  he  would  cut  down  the  oaks  in  his  park,  and 
who  had  no  bowels  of  human  feeling  for  those  who  had  op- 
posite tastes  and  less  magnificent  means. 

"Hem!"  said  Randal,  rather  surlily.  "In  the  first 
place,  Sir  John,  ministers  are  not  going  out." 

"  Oh,  yes,  they  will  go.  You  know  I  vote  with  them 
generally,  and  would  willingly  keep  them  in  ;  but  they  are 
men  of  honor  and  spirit  ;  and  if  they  can't  carry  their 
measures,  they  must  resign  ;  otherwise,  by  Jove,  I  would 
turn  round  and  vote  them  out  myself  !  " 

"I  have  no  doubt  you  would,  Sir  John  ;  you   are  quite 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  617 

capable  of  it ;  that  rests  with  you  and  your  constituents. 
But  even  if  ministers  did  go  out,  I  am  but  a  poor  subaltern 
in  a  public  office.  I  am  no  minister — why  should  I  go  out 
too  ? " 

"  Why  ?  Hang  it,  Leslie,  you  are  laughing  at  me.  A 
young  fellow  like  you  could  never  be  mean  enough  to  stay 
in,  under  the  very  men  who  drove  out  your  friend  Egerton  !  " 

"  It  is  not  usual  for  those  in  the  public  offices  to  retire 
with  every  change  of  government." 

"  Certainly  not ;  but  always  those  who  are  the  relations 
of  a  retiring  minister — always  those  who  have  been  regarded 
as  politicians,  a.nd  who  mean  to  enter  Parliament,  as  of 
course  you  will  do  at  the  next  election.  But  you  know  that 
as  well  as  I  do — you  who  are  so  decided  a  politician — the 
writer  of  that  admirable  pamphlet !  I  should  not  like  to  tell 
my  friend  Hazeldean,  who  has  a  sincere  interest  in  you,  that 
you  ever  doubted  on  a  question  of  honor  as  plain  as  your 
A,  B,  C." 

"  Indeed,  Sir  John,"  said  Randal,  recovering  his  suavity, 
while  he  only  breathed  a  dire  anathema  on  his  county  mem- 
ber, "I  atn  so  new  to  these  things,  that  what  you  say  never 
struck  me  before.  No  doubt  you  must  be  right  ;  at  all 
events  I  cannot  have  a  better  guide  and  adviser  than  Mr. 
Egerton  himself." 

SIR  JOHN. — No,  certainly — perfect  gentleman,  Egerton  ! 
I  wish  we  could  make  it  up  with  him  and  Hazeldean. 

RANDAL  (sighing). — Ah,  I  wish  we  could! 

SIR  JOHN. — And  some  chance  of  it  now  ;  for  the  time  is 
coming  when  all  true  men  of  the  old  school  must  stick  to- 
gether. 

RANDAL. — Wisely,  admirably  said,  my  dear  Sir  John. 
But,  pardon  me,  I  must  pay  my  respects  to  the  ambassador. 

Randal  escaped,  and  passing  on,  saw  the  ambassador 
himself  in  the  next  room,  conferring  in  a  corner  with  Aud- 
ley  Egerton.  The  ambassador  seemed  very  grave — Egerton 
calm  and  impenetrable,  as  usual.  Presently  the  Count 
passed  by,  and  the  ambassador  bowed  to  him  very  stiffly. 

As  Randal,  some  time  later,  was  searching  for  his  cloak 
below,  Audley  Egerton  unexpectedly  joined  him. 

"  Ah,  Leslie,"  said  the  minister,  with  more  kindness  than 
usual,  "if  you  don't  think  the  night  air  too  cold  for  you, 
let  us  walk  home  together.  I  have  sent  away  the  carriage." 

This  condescension  in  his  patron  was  so  singular,  that  it 
quite  startled  Randal,  and  gave  him  a  presetftiment  of  some 


618  MY  NOVEL;    OR, 

evil.  When  they  were  in  the  street,  Egerton,  after  a  pause, 
began — 

"  My  dear  Mr.  Leslie,  it  was  my  hope  and  belief  that  I 
had  provided  for  you  at  least  a  competence  ;  and  that  I  might 
open  to  you,  later,  a  career  yet  more  brilliant.  Hush !  I 
don't  doubt  your  gratitude  ;  let  me  proceed.  There  is  a 
possible  chance,  after  certain  decisions  that  the  Government 
have  come  to,  that  we  may  be  beaten  in  the  House  of  Com- 
mons, and  of  course  resign.  I  tell  you  this  beforehand,  for 
I  wish  you  to  have  time  to  consider  what,  in  that  case, 
would  be  your  best  course.  My  power  of  serving  you  may 
then  probably  be  over.  It  would,  no  doubt  (seeing  our 
close  connection,  and  my  views  with  regard  to  your  future 
being  so  well  known) — no  doubt,  be  expected  that  you 
should  give  up  the  place  you  hold,  and  follow  my  fortunes 
for  good  or  ill.  But  as  I  have  no  personal  enemies  with  the 
opposite  party — and  as  I  have  sufficient  position  in  the 
world  to  uphold  and  sanction  your  choice,  whatever  it  may 
be,  if  you  think  it  more  prudent  to  retain  your  place,  tell 
me  so  openly,  and  I  think  I  can  contrive  that  you  may  do  it 
without  loss  of  character  and  credit.  In  that  case,  confine 
your  ambition  merely  to  rising  gradually  in  your  office, 
without  mixing  in  politics.  If,  on  the  other  hand,  you 
should  prefer  to  take  your  chance  of  my  return  to  office, 
and  so  resign  your  present  place  ;  and,  furthermore,  should 
commit  yourself  to  a  policy  that  may  then  be  not  only  in 
opposition,  but  unpopular,  I  will  do  my  best  to  introduce 
you  into  parliamentary  life.  I  cannot  say  that  I  advise  the 
latter." 

Randal  felt  as  a  man  feels  after  a  severe  fall — he  was 
literally  stunned.  At  length  he  faltered  out — 

"  Can  you  think,  sir,  that  I  should  ever  desert  your  for- 
tunes— your  party — your  cause  ?  " 

"  My  dear  Leslie,"  replied  the  minister,  "  you  are  too 
young  to  have  committed  yourself  to  any  men  or  to  any 
party,  except,  indeed,  in  that  unlucky  pamphlet.  This  must 
not  be  an  affair  of  sentiment,  but  of  sense  and  reflection. 
Let  us  say  no  more  on  the  point  now ;  but  by  considering 
the  pros  and  the  cons,  you  can  better  judge  what  to  do, 
should  the  time  for  option  suddenly  arrive." 

"  But  I  hope  that  time  may  not  come." 

"  I  hope  so  too,  and  most  sincerely,"  said  the  minister, 
with  deliberate  and  genuine  emphasis. 

"  What  comd  be  so  bad  for  the  country  ? "   ejaculated 


VARIETIES   IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  619 

Randal.     "  It  does  not  seem  to  me  possible,  in  the  nature 
of  things,  that  you  and  your  party  should  ever  go  out ! 

"  And  when  we  are  once  out,  there  will  be  plenty  of 
wiseacres  to  say  it  is  out  of  the  nature '  of  things  that  we 
should  ever  come  in  again.  Here  we  are  at  the  door." 


CHAPTER  V. 

RANDAL  passed  a  sleepless  night ;  but,  indeed,  he  was 
one  of  those  persons  who  neither  need,  nor  are  accustomed 
to,  much  sleep.  However,  toward  morning,  when  dreams 
are  said  to  be  prophetic,  he  fell  into  a  most  delightful 
slumber — a  slumber  peopled  by  visions  fitted  to  lure  on, 
through  labyrinths  of  law,  predestined  chancellors,  or  wreck 
upon  the  rocks  of  glory  the  inebriate  souls  of  youthful  en- 
signs— dreams  from  which  Rood  Hall  emerged  crowned 
with  the  towers  of  Belvoir  or  Raby,  and  looking  over  sub- 
ject lands  and  manors  wrestled  from  the  nefarious  usurpa- 
tion of  Thornhills  and  Hazeldeans — dreams  in  which  Audley 
Egerton's  gold  and  power — rooms  in  Downing  Street,  and 
saloons  in  Grosvenor  Square — had  passed  away  to  the  smil- 
ing dreamer,  as  the  empire  of  Chaldsea  passed  to  Darius  the 
Median.  Why  visions  so  belying  the  gloomy  and  anxious 
thoughts  that  preceded  them  should  visit  the  pillow  of 
Randal  Leslie,  surpasses  my  philosophy  to  conjecture.  He 
yielded,  however,  passively  to  their  spell,  and  was  startled 
to  hear  the  clock  strike  eleven  as  he  descended  the  stairs  to 
breakfast.  He  was  vexed  at  the  lateness  of  the  hour,  for 
he  had  meant  to  have  taken  advantage  of  the  unwonted 
softness  of  Egerton,  and  drawn  therefrom  some  promises 
or  proffers  to  cheer  the  prospects  which  the  minister  had  so 
chillingly  expanded  before  him  the  preceding  night ;  and  it 
was  only  at  breakfast  that  he  usually  found  the  opportunity 
of  private  conference  with  his  busy  patron.  But  Audley 
Egerton  would  be  sure  to  have  sallied  forth — and  so  he  had 
— only  Randal  was  surprised  to  hear  that  he  had  gone  out 
in  his  carriage,  instead  of  on  foot,  as  was  his  habit.  Randal 
soon  despatched  his  solitary  meal,  and  with  a  new  and  sud- 
den affection  for  his  office,  thitherward  bent  his  way.  As 
he  passed  through  Piccadilly,  he  heard  behind  a  voice  that 


620  MY  NOVEL;    OA\ 

had  lately  become  familiar  to  him,  and  turning  round,  saw 
Baron  Levy  walking  side  by  side,  though  not  arm-in-arm, 
with  a  gentleman  almost  as  smart  as  himself,  but  with  a 
jauntier  step  and  a  brisker  air — a  step  that,  like  Diomed's 
as  described  by  Shakspeare — 

"  Rises  on  the  toe  ; — that  spirit  of  his 
In  aspiration  lifts  him  from  the  earth." 

Indeed,  one  may  judge  of  the  spirits  and  disposition  of  a 
man  by  his  ordinary  gait  and  mien  in  walking.  He  who 
habitually  pursues  abstract  thought,  looks  down  on  the 
ground.  He  who  is  accustomed  to  sudden  impulses,  or  is 
trying  to  seize  upon  some  necessary  recollection,  looks  up 
with  a  kind  of  jerk.  He  who  is  a  steady,  cautious,  merely 
practical  man,  walks  on  deliberately,  his  eyes  straight  before 
him ;  and  even  in  his  most  musing  moods,  observes  things 
around  sufficiently  to  avoid  a  porter's  knot  or  a  butcher's 
tray.  But  the  man  with  strong  ganglions — of  pushing, 
lively  temperament,  who,  though  practical,  is  yet  speculative 
— the  man  who  is  emulous  and  active,  and  ever  trying  to  rise 
in  life — sanguine,  alert,  bold — walks  with  a  spring — looks 
rather  above  the  heads  of  his  felloAv-passengers — but  with  a 
quick,  easy  turn  of  his  own,  which  is  lightly  set  on  his 
shoulders  ;  his  mouth  is  a  little  open — his  eye  is  bright, 
rather  restless,  but  penetrative — his  port  has  something  of 
defiance — his  form  is  erect,  but  without  stiffness.  Such 
was  the  appearance  of  the  Baron's  companion.  And  as 
Randal  turned  round  at  Levy's  voice,  the  Baron  said  to  his 
companion,  "  A  young  man  in  the  first  circles — you  should 
book  him  for  your  fair  lady's  parties.  How  d'ye  do,  Mr. 
Leslie  ?  Let  me  introduce  you  to  Mr.  Richard  Avenel." 
Then,  as  he  hooked  his  arm  into  Randal's,  he  whispered, 
"Man  of  first-rate  talent — monstrous  rich  —  has  two  or  three 
parliamentary  seats  in  his  pocket — wife  gives  parties — her 
foible." 

"Proud  to  make  your  acquaintance,  sir."  said  Mr.  Av- 
enel, lifting  his  hat.  "Fine  day." 

"  Rather  cold  too,"  said  Leslie,  who,  like  all  thin  per- 
sons with  weak  digestions,  was  chilly  by  temperament ;  be- 
sides, he  had  enough  on  his  mind  to  chill  his  body. 

"So  much  the  healthier — braces  the  nerves,"  said  Mr. 
Avenel  ;  "  but  you  young  fellows  relax  the  system  by  hot 
rooms  and  late  hours.  Fond  of  dancing,  of  course,  sir  ? " 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  621 

Then,  without  waiting  for  Randal's  negative,  Mr.  Richard 
continued  rapidly,  "  Mrs.  Avenel  has  a  soirte  dansante  on 
Thursday — shall  be  very  happy  to  see  you  in  Eaton  Square. 
Stop,  I  have  a  card;"  and  he  drew  out  a  dozen  large  in- 
vitation cards,  from  which  he  selected  one,  and  presented  it 
to  Randal.  The  Baron  pressed  that  young  gentleman's 
arm,  and  Randal  replied  courteously  that  it  would  give 
him  great  pleasure  to  be  introduced  to  Mrs.  Avenel.  Then, 
as  he  was  not  desirous  to  be  seen  under  the  wing  of  Baron 
Levy,  like  a  pigeon  under  that  of  a  hawk,  he  gently  extri- 
cated himself,  and  pleading  great  haste,  walked  quickly  on 
toward  his  office. 

"That  young  man  will  make  a  figure  some  day,"  said 
the  Baron.  "  I  don't  know  any  one  of  his  age  with  so  few 
prejudices.  He  is  a  connection  by  marriage  to  Audley  Eger- 
ton,  who " 

"  Audley  Egerton  !  "  exclaimed  Mr.  Avenel ;  "  a  d d 

haughty,  aristocratic,  disagreeable,  ungrateful  fellow  :  " 

"Why,  what  do  you  know  of  him  ?" 

"  He  owed  his  first  seat  in  Parliament  to  the  votes  of 
two  near  relations  of  mine,  and  when  I  called  upon  him 
some  time  ago,  in  his  office,  he  absolutely  ordered  me  out  of 
the  room.  Hang  his  impertinence  ;  if  ever  I  can  pay  him 
off,  I  guess  I  shan't  fail  for  want  of  good  will !  " 

"  Ordered  you  out  of  the  room  ?  That's  not  like  Eger- 
ton, who  is  so  civil,  if  formal — at  least  to  most  men.  You 
must  have  offended  him  in  his  weak  point." 

"A  man  whom  the  public  pays  so  handsomely  should 
have  no  weak  point.  What  is  Egerton's  ?  " 

"  Oh,  he  values  himself  on  being  a  thorough  gentleman 
— a  man  of  the  nicest  honor,"  said  Levy,  with  a  sneer.  "  You 
must  have  ruffled  his  plumes  there.  How  was  it  ?" 

"  I  forget,"  answered  Mr.  Avenel,  who  was  far  too  well 
versed  in  the  London  scale  of  human  dignities  since  his 
marriage,  not  to  look  back  with  a  blush  at  his  desire  of 
knighthood.  "  No  use  bothering  our  heads  now  about  the 
plumes  of  an  arrogant  popinjay.  To  return  to  the  subject 
we  were  discussing.  You  must  be  sure  to  let  me  have  this 
money  next  week." 

"Rely  on  it." 

"  And  you'll  not  let  my  bills  get  into  the  market ;  keep 
them  under  lock  and  key." 

"So  we  agreed." 

"  It  is  but  a  temporary  difficulty — royal  mourning,  such 


622  MY  NOVEL;    OR, 

nonsense — panic  in  trade,  lest  these  precious  ministers  go 
out.     I  shall  soon  float  over  the  troubled  waters." 

"  By  the  help  of  a  paper  boat,"  said  the  Baron,  laugh- 
ing ;  and  the  two  gentlemen  shook  hands  and  parted. 


CHAPTER  VI. 

MEANWHILE  Audley  Egerton's  carriage  had  deposited 
him  at  the  door  of  Lord  Lansmere's  house,  at  Knights- 
bridge.  He  asked  for  the  Countess,  and  was  shown  into 
the  drawing-room,  which  was  deserted.  Egerton  was  paler 
than  usual ;  and  as  the  door  opened,  he  wiped  the  un- 
wonted moisture  from  his  forehead,  and  there  was  a  quiver 
on  his  firm  lip.  The  Countess  too,  on  entering,  showed  an 
emotion  almost  equally  unusual  to  her  self-control.  She 
pressed  Audley's  hand  in  silence,  and  seating  herself  by 
his  side,  seemed  to  collect  her  thoughts.  At  length  she 
said — 

"  It  is  rarely  indeed  that  we  meet,  Mr.  Egerton,  in  spite 
of  your  intimacy  with  Lansmere  and  Harley.  I  go  so 
little  into  your  world,  and  you  will  not  voluntarily  come  to 
me." 

"  Madam,"  replied  Egerton,  "  I  might  evade  your  kind 
reproach  by  stating  that  my  hours  are  not  at  my  disposal ; 
but  I  answer  you  with  plain  truth, — it  must  be  painful  to 
both  of  us  to  meet." 

The  Countess  colored  and  sighed,  but  did  not  dispute 
the  assertion. 

Audley  resumed.  "And  therefore  I  presume  that,  in 
sending  for  me,  you  have  something  of  moment  to  com- 
municate ?" 

"  It  relates  to  Harley,"  said  the  Countess,  as  if  in  apol- 
ogy;  "and  I  would  take  your  advice." 

"To  Harley  !"    Speak  on,  I  beseech  you." 

"  My  son  has  probably  told  you  that  he  has  educated 
and  reared  a  young  girl,  with  the  intention  to  make  her 
Lady  L'Estrange,  and  hereafter  Countess  of  Lansmere." 

"  Harley  has  no  secrets  from  me,"  said  Egerton,  mourn- 
fully, 

"This  young  lady  has  arrived  in  England — is  here — in 
this  house." 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  623 

"And  Harley  too?" 

"  No,  she  came  over  with  Lady  N and  her  daugh- 
ters. Harley  was  to  follow  shortly,  and  I  expect  him  daily. 
Here  is  his  letter.  Oberve,  he  has  never  yet  communicated 
his  intentions  to  this  young  person,  now  intrusted  to  my 
care — never  spoken  to  her  as  a- lover." 

Egerton  took  the  letter  and  read  it  rapidly,  though  with 
attention. 

"True,"  said  he,  as  he  returned  the  letter  :  "and  before 
he  does  so,  he  wishes  you  to  see  Miss  Digby  and  to  judge 
of  her  yourself — wishes  to  know  if  you  will  approve  and 
sanction  his  choice." 

"It  is  on  this  that  I  would  consult  you — a  girl  without 
rank  ; — the  father,  it  is  true,  a  gentleman,  though  almost 
equivocally  one, — but  the  mother,  I  know  not  what.  And 
Harley,  for  whom  I  hoped  an  alliance  with  the  first  houses 
in  England  ! "  The  Countess  pressed  her  hands  convulsively 
together.  ..-;,.. 

EGERTON. — He  is  no  more  a  boy.  His  talents  have  been 
wasted — his  life  a  wanderer's.  He  presents  to  you  a  chance 
of  resettling  his  mind,  of  re-arousing  his  native  powers,  of  a 
home  beside  your  own.  Lady  Lansmere,  you  cannot  hesitate  ! 

LADY  LANSMERE. — I  do,  I  do !  After  all  that  I  have 
hoped,  after  all  that  I  did  to  prevent 

EGERTON  (interrupting  her). — You  owe  him  now  an  atone- 
ment ;  that  is  in  your  power — it  is  not  in  mine. 

"The  Countess  again  pressed  Audley's  hand,  and  the  tears 
gushed  from  her  eyes. 

"  It  shall  be  so.  I  consent — I  consent.  I  will  silence,  I 
will  crush  back  this  proud  heart.  Alas  !  it  well-nigh  broke 
his  own  !  I  am  glad  you  speak  thus.  I  like  to  think  he 
owes  my  consent  to  you.  In  that  there  is  atonement  for 
both." 

"  You  are  too  generous,  madam,"  said  Egerton,  evidently 
moved,  though  still,  as  ever,  striving  to  repress  emotion. 
"  And  now  may  I  see  the  young  lady  ?  This  conference 
pains  me  ;  you  see  even  my  strong  nerves  quiver  ;  and  at 
this  time  I  have  much  to  go  through — need  all  my  strength 
and  firmness. 

"  I  hear,  indeed,  that  the  Government  will  probably  re- 
tire. But  it  is  with  honor  :  it  will  be  soon  called  back  by 
the  voice  of  the  nation." 

"  Let  me  see  the  future  wife  of  Harley  L' Estrange,"  said 
Egerton,  without  heed  of  this  consolatory  exclamation.. 


624  MY  NOVEL;    OR, 

The  Countess  rose  and  left  the  room.  In  a  few  minutes 
she  returned  with  Helen  Digby. 

Helen  was  wondrously  improved  from  the  pale,  delicate 
child,  with  the  soft  smile  and  intelligent  eyes,  who  had  sate 
by  the  side  of  Leonard  in  his  garret.  She  was  about  the 
middle  height,  still  slight,  but  beautifully  formed  ;  that  ex- 
quisite roundness  of  proportion  which  conveys  so  well  the 
idea  of  woman,  in  its  undulating  pliant  grace — formed  to 
embellish  life,  and  soften  away  its  rude  angles — formed  to 
embellish,  not  to  protect.  Her  face  might  not  have  satisfied 
the  critical  eye  of  an  artist — it  was  not  without  defects  in 
regularity  ;  but  its  expression  was  eminently  gentle  and 
prepossessing  ;  and  there  were  few  who  would  not  have  ex- 
claimed, "What  a  lovely  countenance  !"  The  mildness  of 
her  brow  was  touched  with  melancholy — her  childhood  had 
left  its  traces  on  her  youth.  Her  step  was  slow,  and  her 
manner  shy,  subdued,  and  timid. 

Audley  gazed  on  her  with  earnestness  as  she  approached 
him  ;  and  then  coming  forward,  took  her  hand  and  kissed 
it. 

"  I  am  your  guardian's  constant  friend,"  said  he,  and  he 
drew  her  gently  to  a  seat  beside  him,  in  the  recess  of  a 
Avindow.  With  a  quick  glance  of  his  eye  toward  the  Count- 
ess, he  seemed  to  imply  the  wish  to  converse  with  Helen 
somewhat  apart.  So  the  Countess  interpreted  the  glance  ; 
and  though  she  remained  in  the  room,  she  seated  herself  at 
a  distance,  and  bent  over  a  book. 

It  was  touching  to  see  how  the  austere  man  of  business 
lent  himself  to  draw  forth  the  mind  of  this  quiet,  shrinking 
girl ;  and  if  you  had  listened,  you  would  have  comprehended 
how  he  came  to  possess  such  social  influence,  and  how  well, 
some  time  or  other  in  the  course  of  his  life,  he  had  learned 
to  adapt  himself  to  women. 

He  spoke  first  of  Harley  L'Estrange — spoke  with  tact 
and  delicacy.  Helen  at  first  answered  by  monosyllables, 
and  then,  by  degrees,  with  grateful  and  open  affection. 
Audley's  brow  grew  shaded.  He  then  spoke  of  Italy,  and 
though  no  man  had  less  of  the  poet  in  his  nature,  yet,  with 
the  dexterity  of  one  long  versed  in  the  world,  and  who  has 
been  accustomed  to  extract  evidences  from  characters  most 
opposed  to  his  own,  he  suggested  such  topics  as  might  serve 
to  arouse  poetry  in  others.  Helen's  replies  betrayed  a  cul- 
tivated taste,  and  a  charming  womanly  mind  ;  but  they  be- 
trayed, also,  one  accustomed  to  take  its  colorings  from 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  625 

another's — to  appreciate,  admire,  revere  the  Lofty  and  the 
Beautiful,  but  humbly  and  meekly.  There  was  no  vivid 
enthusiasm,  no  remark  of  striking  originality,  no  flash  of 
the  self-kindling,  creative  faculty.  Lastly,  Egerton  turned 
to  England — to  the  critical  nature  of  the  times — to  the 
claims  which  the  country  possessed  upon  all  who  had  the 
ability  to  serve  and  guide  its  troubled  destinies.  He  enlarged 
warmly  on  Harley's  natural  talents,  and  rejoiced  that  he  had 
returned  to  England,  perhaps  to  commence  some  great 
career.  Helen  looked  surprised,  but  her  face  caught  no 
correspondent  glow  from  Audley's  eloquence.  He  rose,  and 
an  expression  of  disappointment  passed  over  his  grave, 
handsome  features,  and  as  quickly  vanished. 

"Adieu!  my  dear  Miss  Digby  ;  I  fear  I  have  wearied 
you,  especially  with  my  politics.  Adieu,  Lady  Lansmere ; 
no  doubt  I  shall  see  Harley  as  soon  as  he  returns." 

Then  he  hastened  from  the  room,  gained  his  carriage, 
and  ordered  the  coachman  to  drive  to  Downing  Street.  He 
drew  down  the  blinds,  and  leant  back.  A  certain  languor 
became  visible  in  his  face,  and  once  or  twice  he  mechanically 
put  his  hand  to  his  heart. 

"  She  is  good,  amiable,  docile — will  make  an  excellent 
wife,  no  doubt,"  said  he,  murmuringly.  "  But  does  she  love 
Harley  as  he  has  dreamed  of  love  ?  No !  Has  she  the 
power  and  energy  to  arouse  his  faculties,  and  restore  to  the 
world  the  Harley  of  old  ?  No  !  Meant  by  Heaven  to  be 
the  shadow  of  another's  sun — not  herself  the  sun — this  child 
is  not  the  one  who  can  atone  for  the  Past  and  illume  the 
Future." 


CHAPTER  VII. 

THAT  evening  Harley  L'Estrange  arrived  at  his  father's 
house.  The  'few  years  that  had  passed  since  we  saw  him 
last  had  made  no  perceptible  change  in  his  appearance. 
He  still  preserved  his  elastic  youthfulness  of  form,  and  sin- 
gular variety  and  play  of  countenance.  He  seemed  unaffect- 
edly rejoiced  to  greet  his  parents,  and  had  something  of 
the  gaiety  and  the  tenderness  of  a  boy  returned  from  school. 
His  manner  to  Helen  bespoke  the  chivalry  that  pervaded- 
all  the  complexities  and  curves  of  his  character.  It  was 
affectionate,  but  respectful.  Hers  to  him,  subdued — but 
27 


626  MY  NOVEL;    OR, 

innocently  sweet  and  gently  cordial.  Harley  was  the  chief 
talker.  The  aspect  of  the  times  was  so  critical,  that  he 
could  not  avoid  questions  on  politics  ;  and,  indeed,  he 
showed  an  interest  in  them  which  he  had  never  evinced  be- 
fore. Lord  Lansmere  was  delighted. 

"  Why,  Harley,  you  love  your  country,  after  all  ?" 

"  The  moment  she  seems  in  danger — yes  ! "  replied 
the  Patrician  ;  and  the  Sybarite  seemed  to  rise  into  the 
Athenian. 

Then  he  asked  with  eagerness  about  his  old  friend,  Aud- 
ley  ;  and,  his  curiosity  satisfied  there,  he  inquired  the  last 
literary  news.  He  had  heard  much  of  a  book  lately  pub- 
lished. He  named  the  one  ascribed  by  Parson  Dale  to 
Professor  Moss  :  none  of  his  listeners  had  read  it. 

Harley  pished  at  this,  and  accused  them  all  of  indolence 
and  stupidity,  in  his  own  quaint,  metaphorical  style.  Then 
he  said — "  And  town  gossip  ?" 

"  We  never  hear  it,"  said  Lady  Lansmere. 

"There  is  a  new  plough  much  talked  of  at  Boodle's," 
said  Lord  Lansmere. 

"  God  speed  it.  But  is  there  not  a  new  man  much  talked 
of  at  White's?" 

"  I  don't  belong  to  White's." 

"  Nevertheless,  you  may  have  heard  of  him — a  foreigner, 
a  Count  di  Peschiera." 

"Yes,"  said  Lord  Lansmere  ;  "he  was  pointed  out  to  me 
in  the  Park — a  handsome  man  for  a  foreigner  ;  wears  his 
hair  properly  cut  ;  looks  gentlemanlike  and  English." 

"Ah,  ah  !  He  is  here  then  !  "  And  Harley  rubbed  his 
hands. 

"  Which  road  did  you  take  ?  did  you  pass  the  Simplon  ?  " 

"  No  ;  I  came  straight  from  Vienna." 

Then,  relating  with  lively  vein  his  adventures  by  the 
way,  he  continued  to  delight  Lord  Lansmere  by  his  gaiety 
till  the  time  came  to  retire  to  rest.  As  soon  as  Harley  was 
in  his  own  room,  his  mother  joined  him. 

"  Well,"  said  he,  "  I  need  not  ask  if  you  like  Miss  Dig- 
by.  Who  would  not  ?" 

"  Harley,  my  own  son,"  said  the  mother,  bursting  into 
tears,  "  be  happy  your  own  way  ;  only  be  happy,  that  is  all 
I  ask." 

Harley,  much  affected,  replied  gratefully  and  soothingly 
to  this  fond  injunction.  And  then  gradually  leading  his 
mother  on  to  converse  of  Helen,  asked  abruptly — "  And  of 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  627 

the  chance  of  our  happiness — her  happiness  as  well  as  mine 
— what  is  your  opinion  ?  Speak  frankly." 

"Of  her  happiness  there  can  be  no  doubt,"  replied  the 
mother,  proudly.  "  Of  yours,  how  can  you  ask  me  ?  Have 
you  not  decided  on  that  yourself  ?  " 

"  But  still  it  cheers  and  encourages  one  in  any  experi- 
ment, however  well  considered,  to  hear  the  approval  of  an- 
other. Helen  has  certainly  a  most  gentle  temper." 

"  I  should  conjecture  so.     But  her  mind— — " 

"  Is  very  well  stored." 

"  She  speaks  so  little " 

"  Yes.     I  wonder  why  ?     She's  surely  a  woman  !  " 

"  Pshaw  !  "  said  the  Countess,  smiling  in  spite  of  herself. 
"  But  tell  me  more  of  the  process  of  your  experiment.  You 
took  her  as  a  child,  and  resolved  to  train  her  according  to 
your  own  ideal.  Was  that  easy  ?  " 

"  It  seemed  so.  I  desired  to  instil  habits  of  truth  :  she 
was  already  by  nature  truthful  as  the  day  ;  a  taste  for  nature 
and  all  things  natural — that  seemed  inborn  ;  perceptions  of 
Art  as  the  interpreter  of  Nature — those  were  more  difficult 
to  teach.  I  think  they  may  come.  You  have  heard  her 
play  and  sing  ?  " 

"  No." 

"  She  will  surprise  you.  She  has  less  talent  for  draw- 
ing ;  still,  all  that  teaching  could  do  has  been  done — in  a 
word,  she  is  accomplished.  Temper,  heart,  mind — these  are 
all  excellent."  Harley  stopped  and  suppressed  a  sigh. 
"  Certainly  I  ought  to  be  very  happy,"  said  he  ;  and  he  be- 
gan to  wind  up  his  watch. 

"  Of  course  she  must  love  you  ? "  said  the  Countess, 
after  a  pause.  "  How  could  she  fail  ?  " 

"  Love  me  !  My  dear  mother,  that  is  the  very  question 
I  shall  have  to  ask." 

"  Ask  !  Love  is  discovered  by  a  glance  ;  it  has  no  need 
of  asking." 

"  I  have  never  discovered  it,  then,  I  assure  you.  The 
fact  is,  that  before  her  childhood  was  passed,  I  removed 
her,  as  you  may  suppose,  from  my  roof.  She  resided  with 
an  Italian  family,  near  my  usual  abode.  I  visited  her  often, 
directed  her  studies,  watched  her  improvement 

"And  fell  in  love  with  her?" 

"  Fall  is  such  a  very  violent  word.  No  ;  I  don't  remem- 
ber to  have  had  a  fall.  It  was  all  a  smooth  inclined  plane 
from  the  first  step,  until  at  last  I  said  to  myself,  '  Harley 


628  MY  NOVEL;    OK, 

L'Estrange,  thy  time  has  come.  The  bud  has  blossomed 
into  flower.  Take  it  to  thy  breast.'  And  myself  replied  to 

myself,  meekly,  '  So  be  it.'  Then  I  found  that  Lady  N , 

with  her  daughters,  was  coming  to  England.  I  asked  her 
ladyship  to  take  my  ward  to  your  house.  I  wrote  to  you, 
and  prayed  your  assent  ;  and,  that  granted,  I  knew  you 
would  obtain  my  father's.  I  am  here — you  give  me  the  ap- 
proval I  sought  for.  I  will  speak  to  Helen  to-morrow. 
Perhaps,  after  all,  she  may  reject  me." 

"Strange,  strange — you  speak  thus  coldly,  thus  lightly  ; 
you,  so  capable  of  ardent  love  !  " 

"  Mother,"  said  Harley,  earnestly,  "be  satisfied  !  /  am  ! 
Love,  as  of  old,  I  feel,  alas  !  too  well,  can  visit  me  never  more. 
But  gentle  companionship,  tender  friendship,  the  relief 
and  the  sunlight  of  woman's  smile — hereafter  the  voices  of 
children — music  that,  striking  on  the  hearts  of  both  parents, 
weakens  the  most  lasting  and  the  purest  of  all  sympathies  : 
these  are  my  hope.  Is  the  hope  so  mean,  my  fond 
mother  ? " 

Again  the  Countess  wept,  and  her  tears  were  not  dried 
when  she  left  the  room. 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

OH  !  Helen,  fair  Helen — type  of  the  quiet,  serene,  un- 
noticed, deep-felt  excellence  of  woman.  Woman,  less  as 
the  ideal  that  a  poet  conjures  from  the  air,  than  as  the  com- 
panion of  a  poet  on  the  earth  !  Woman,  who,  with  her  clear 
sunny  vision  of  things  actual,  and  the  exquisite  fibre  of  her 
delicate  sense,  supplies  the  deficiencies  of  him  whose  foot 
stumbles  on  the  soil,  because  his  eye  is  too  intent  upon  the 
stars  !  Woman,  the  provident,  the  comforting — angel  whose 
pinions  are  folded  round  the  heart,  guarding  there  a  divine 
spring  unmarred  by  the  winter  of  the  world  !  Helen,  soft 
Helen,  is  it  indeed  in  thee  that  the  wild  and  brilliant  "  lord 
of  wantonness  and  ease  "  is  to  find  the  regeneration  of  his 
life — the  re-baptism  of  his  soul?  Of  what  avail  thy  meek 
prudent  household  virtues  to  one  whom  Fortune  screens 
from  rough  trial  ? — whose  sorrows  lie  remote  from  thy  ken  ? 
— whose  spirit,  erratic  and  perturbed,  now  rising,  now  fall- 
ing, needs  a  vision  more  subtle  than  thine  to  pursue,  and  a 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  629 

strength  that  can  sustain  the  reason,  when  it  droops,  on  the 
wings  of  enthusiasm  and  passion  ? 

And  thou,  thyself,  O  Nature,  shrinking  and  humble,  that 
needest  to  be  courted  forth  from  the  shelter,  and  developed 
under  the  calm  and  genial  atmosphere  of  Holy,  happy  love 
— can  such  affection  as  Harley  L"  Estrange  may  proffer  suffice 
to  thee  ?  Will  not  the  blossoms,  yet  folded  in  the  petal, 
wither  away  beneath  the  shade  that  may  protect  them  from 
the  storm,  and  yet  shut  them  from  the  sun  ?  Thou  who, 
where  thou  givest  love,  seekest,  though  meekly,  for  love  in 
return,  to  be  the  soul's  sweet  necessity  ;  the  life's  household 
partner  to  him  who  receives  all  thy  faith  and  devotion — 
canst  thou  influence  the  sources  of  joy  and  of  sorrow  in  the 
heart  that  does  not  heave  at  thy  name  ?  Hast  thou  the 
charm  and  the  force  of  the  moon,  that  the  tides  of  that 
wayward  sea  shall  ebb  and  flow  at  thy  will  ?  Yet  who  shall 
say — who  conjecture  how  near  two  hearts  can  become,  when 
no  guilt  lies  between  them,  and  time  brings  the  ties  all  its 
own  ?  Rarest  of  all  things  on  earth  is  the  union  in  which 
both,  by  their  contrasts,  make  harmonious  their  blending  ; 
each  supplying  the  defects  of  the  helpmate,  and  completing, 
by  fusion,  one  strong  human  soul !  Happiness  enough, 
where  even  Peace  does  but  seldom  preside,  when  each  can 
bring  to  the  altar,  if  not  the  flame,  still  the  incense.  Where 
man's  thoughts  are  all  noble  and  generous,  woman's  feelings 
all  gentle  and  pure,  love  may  follow,  if  it  does  not  precede  ; 
— and  if  not, — if  the  roses  be  missed  from  the  garland,  one 
may  sigh  for  the  rose,  but  one  is  safe  from  the  thorn. 

The  morning  was  mild,  yet  somewhat  overcast  by  the 
mist  which  announces  coming  winter  in  London,  and  Helen 
walked  musingly  beneath  the  trees  that  surrounded  the 
garden  of  Lord  Lansmere's  house.  Many  leaves  were  yet 
left  on  the  boughs  ;  but  they  were  sere  and  withered.  And 
the  birds  chirped  at  times  ;  but  their  note  was  mournful  and 
complaining.  All  within  this  house,  until  Harley 's  arrival, 
had  been  strange  and  saddening  to  Helen's  timid  and  sub- 
dued spirits.  Lady  Lansmere  had  received  her  kindly,  but 
with  a  certain  restraint ;  and  the  loftiness  of  manner,  com- 
mon to  the  Countess  with  all  but  Harley,  had  awed  and 
chilled  the  diffident  orphan.  Lady  Lansmere's  very  interest 
in  Harley's  choice — her  attempts  to  draw  Helen  out  of  her 
reserve — her  watchful  eyes  whenever  Helen  shyly  spoke,  or 
shyly  moved,  frightened  the  poor  child,  and  made  her  un- 
just to  herself. 


630  MY  NOVEL;    OR, 

The  very  servants,  though  staid,  grave,  and  respectful, 
as  suited  a  dignified,  old-fashioned  household,  painfully  con- 
trasted the  bright  welcoming  smiles  and  free  talk  of  Italian 
domestics.  Her  recollections  of  the  happy  warm  Conti- 
nental manner,  which  so  sets  the  bashful  at  their  ease, 
made  the  stately  and  cold  precision  of  all  around  her  doubly 
awful  and  dispiriting.  Lord  Lansmere  himself,  who  did  not 
as  yet  know  the  views  of  Harley,  and  little  dreamed  that  he 
was  to  anticipate  a  daughter-in-law  in  the  ward,  whom  he 
understood  Harley,  in  a  freak  of  generous  romance,  had 
adopted,  was  familiar  and  courteous,  as  became  a  host.  But 
he  looked  upon  Helen  as  a  mere  child,  and  naturally  left 
her  to  the  Countess.  The  dim  sense  of  her  equivocal  posi- 
tion— of  her  comparative  humbleness  of  birth  and  fortunes, 
oppressed  and  pained  her  ;  and  even  her  gratitude  to  Harley 
was  made  burthensome  by  a  sentiment  of  helplessness.  The 
grateful  long  to  requite.  And  what  could  she  ever  do  for 
him  ? 

Thus  musing,  she  wandered  alone  through  the  curving 
walks  ;  and  this  sort  of  mock  country  landscape — London 
loud,  and  even  visible,  beyond  the  high  gloomy  walls,  and 
no  escape  from  the  windows  of  the  square  formal  house — 
seemed  a  type  of  the  prison  bounds  of  Rank  to  one  whose 
soul  yearns  for  simple  loving  Nature. 

Helen's  reverie  was  interrupted  by  Nero's  joyous  bark. 
He  had  caught  sight  of  her,  and  came  bounding  up,  and 
thrust  his  large  head  into  her  hand.  As  she  stooped  to 
caress  the  dog,  happy  at  his  honest  greeting,  and  tears  that 
had  been  long  gathering  to  the  lids  fell  silently  on  his  face 
(for  I  know  nothing  that  more  moves  us  to  tears  than  the 
hearty  kindness  of  a  dog,  when  something  in  human  beings 
has  pained  or  chilled  us),  she  heard  behind  the  musical 
voice  of  Harley.  Hastily  she  dried  or  repressed  her  tears, 
as  her  guardian  came  up,  and  drew  her  arm  within  his  own. 

a  I  had  so  little  of  your  conversation  last  evening,  my 
dear  ward,  that  I  may  well  monopolize  you  now,  even  to  the 
privation  of  Nero.  And  so  you  are  once  more  in  your 
native  land  ? " 

Helen  sighed  softly. 

"May  I  not  hope  that  you  return  under  fairer  auspices 
than  those  which  your  childhood  knew  ?  " 

Helen  turned  her  eyes  with  ingenuous  thankfulness  to 
her  guardian,  and  the  memory  of  all  she  owed  to  him  rushed 
upon  her  heart. 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  631 

Harley  renewed,  and  with  earnest,  though  melancholy 
sweetness — "  Helen,  your  eyes  thank  me  ;  but  hear  me  be- 
fore your  words  do.  I  deserve  no  thanks.  I  am  about  to 
make  to  you  a  strange  confession  of  egotism  and  selfish- 
ness." 

"You  ! — oh,  impossible  !  " 

"  Judge  yourself,  and  then  decide  which  of  us  shall  have 
cause  to  be  grateful.  Helen,  when  I  was  scarcely  your  age 
—a  boy  in  years,  but  more,  methinks,  a  man  at  heart,  with 
man's  strong  energies  and  sublime  aspirings,  than  I  have 
ever  since  been — I  loved,  and  deeply " 

He  paused  a  moment,  in  evident  struggle.  Helen  lis- 
tened in  mute  surprise,  but  his  emotion  awakened  her  own  ; 
her  tender  woman's  heart  yearned  to  console.  Uncon- 
sciously her  arm  rested  on  his  less  lightly. 

"  Deeply  and  for  sorrow.  It  is  a  long  tale,  that  may  be 
told  hereafter.  The  worldly  would  call  my  love  a  madness. 
I  did  not  reason  on  it  then — I  cannot  reason  on  it  now. 
Enough  :  death  smote  suddenly,  terribly,  and  to  me  mys- 
teriously, her  whom  I  loved.  The  love  lived  on.  Fortunate- 
ly, perhaps  for  me,  I  had  quick  distraction,  not  to  grief,  but 
to  its  inert  indulgence.  I  was  a  soldier  ;  I  joined  our 
armies.  Men  called  me  brave.  Flattery  !  I  was  a  coward 
before  the  thought  of  life.  I  sought  death  :  like  sleep  it 
does  not  come  at  our  call.  Peace  ensued.  As  when  the 
winds  fall,  the  sails  droop — so  when  excitement  ceased,  all 
seemed  to  me  flat  and  objectless.  Heavy,  heavy  was  my 
heart.  Perhaps  grief  had  been  less  obstinate,  but  that  I 
feared  I  had  cause  for  self-reproach.  Since  then  I  have 
been  a  wanderer — a  self-made  exile.  My  boyhood  had  been 
ambitious — all  ambition  ceased.  Flames,  when  they  reach 
the  core  of  the  heart,  spread,  and  leave  all  in  ashes.  Let 
me  be  brief :  I  did  not  mean  thus  weakly  to  complain — I  to 
whom  Heaven  has  given  so  many  blessings  !  I  felt,  as  it 
were,  separated  from  the  common  objects  and  joys  of  men. 
I  grew  startled  to  see  how,  year  by  year,  wayward  humors 
possessed  me.  I  resolved  again  to  attach  myself  to  some 
living  heart — it  was  my  sole  chance  to  rekindle  my  own. 
But  the  one  I  had  loved  remained  as  my  type  of  woman, 
and  she  was  different  from  all  I  saw.  Therefore  I  said  to 
myself,  '  I  will  rear  from  childhood  some  young  fresh  life, 
to  grow  up  into  my  ideal.'  As  this  thought  began  to  haunt 
me,  I  chanced  to  discover  you.  Struck  with  the  romance 
of  your  early  life,  touched  by  your  courage,  charmed  by 


632  MY  NOVEL;    OR, 

your  affectionate  nature,  I  said  to  myself,  '  Here  is  what  I 
seek.'  Helen,  in  assuming  the  guardianship  of  your  life, 
in  all  the  culture  which  I  have  sought  to  bestow  on  your 
docile  childhood,  I  repeat,  that  I  have  been  but  the  egotist. 
And  now,  when  you  have  reached  that  age,  when  it  becomes 
me  to  speak,  and  you  to  listen — now,  when  you  are  under 
the  sacred  roof  of  my  own  mother — now  I  ask  you,  can  you 
accept  this  heart,  such  as  wasted  years,  and  griefs  too  fond- 
ly nursed,  have  left  it?  Can  you  be,  at  least,  my  comforter  ? 
Can  you  aid  me  to  regard  life  as  a  duty,  and  recover  those 
aspirations  which  once  soared  from  the  paltry  and  misera- 
ble confines  of  our  frivolous  daily  being  ?  Helen,  here  I 
ask  you,  can  you  be  all  this,  and  under  the  name  of — 
Wife  ? " 

It  would  be  in  vain  to  describe  the  rapid,  varying,  in- 
definable emotions  that  passed  through  the  inexperienced 
heart  of  the  youthful  listener,  as  Harley  thus  spoke.  He 
so  moved  all  the  springs  of  amaze,  compassion,  tender  re- 
spect, sympathy,  child-like  gratitude,  that  when  he  paused 
and  gently  took  her  hand,  she  remained  bewildered,  speech- 
less, overpowered.  Harley  smiled  as  he  gazed  upon  her 
blushing,  downcast,  expressive  face.  He  conjectured  at 
once  that  the  idea  of  such  proposals  had  never  crossed  her 
mind  ;  that  she  had  never  contemplated  him  in  the  char- 
acter of  wooer ;  never  even  sounded  her  heart  as  to  the 
nature  of  such  feelings  as  his  image  had  aroused. 

"My  Helen,"  he  resumed,  with  a  calm  pathos  of  voice, 
"  there  is  some  disparity  of  vears  between  us,  and  perhaps 
I  may  not  hope  henceforth  for  that  love  which  youth  gives 
to  the  young.  Permit  me  simply  to  ask,  what  you  will 
frankly  answer — '  Can  you  have  seen  in  our  quiet  life  abroad, 
or  under  the  roof  of  your  Italian  friends,  any  one  you 
prefer  to  me  ? ' ' 

"No,  indeed,  no  !"  murmured  Helen.  "  How  could  I? 
— who  is  like  you  ? "  Then,  with  a  sudden  effort — for  her 
innate  truthfulness  took  alarm,  and  her  very  affection  for 
Harley,  child-like  and  reverent,  made  her  tremble  lest  she 
should  deceive  him — she  drew  a  little  aside,  and  spoke 
thus  : — 

"  Oh  my  dear  guardian,  noblest  of  all  human  beings,  at 
least  in  my  eyes,  forgive,  forgive  me,  if  I  seem  ungrateful, 
hesitating  ;  but  I  cannot,  cannot  think  of  myself  as  worthy 
of  you.  I  never  so  lifted  my  eyes.  Your  rank,  your  posi- 
tion  " 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  633 

"  Why  should  they  be  eternally  my  curse  ?  Forget  them, 
and  go  on." 

"  It  is  not  only  they,"  said  Helen,  almost  sobbing, 
"though  they  are  much  ;  but  I  your  type,  your  ideal  ! — I ! 
— impossible!  Oh,  how  can  I  ever  be  anything  even  of  use, 
of  aid,  of  comfort,  to  one  like  you  !" 

"  You  can,  Helen — you  can,"  cried  Harley,  charmed  by 
such  ingenuous  modesty.  "  May  I  not  keep  this  hand  ? " 

And  Helen  left  her  hand  in  Harley's,  and  turned  away 
her  face,  fairly  weeping.  A  stately  step  passed  under  the 
wintry  trees. 

"  My  mother,"  said  Harley  L'Estrange,  looking  up,  "  I 
present  to  you  my  future  wife." 


CHAPTER  IX. 

WITH  a  slow  step  and  an  abstracted  air,  Harley  L'Es- 
trange bent  his  way  toward  Egerton's  house,  after  his  event- 
ful interview  with  Helen.  He  had  just  entered  one  of  the 
streets  leading  into  Grosvenor  Square,  when  a  young  man, 
walking  quickly  from  the  opposite  direction,  came  full 
against  him,  and  drawing  back  with  a  brief  apology,  recog- 
nized him,  and  exclaimed,  "  What !  you  in  England,  Lord 
L'Estrange  !  Accept  my  congratulations  on  your  return. 
But  you  seem  scarcely  to  remember  me." 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,  Mr.  Leslie.  I  remember  you  now 
by  your  smile  ;  but  you  are  of  an  age  in  which  it  is  permit- 
ted me  to  say  that  you  look  older  than  when  I  saw  you  last." 

"And  yet,  Lord  L'Estrange,  it  seems  to  me  that  you 
look  younger." 

Indeed,  this  reply  was  so  far  true  that  there  appeared 
less  difference  of  years  than  before  between  Leslie  and 
L'Estrange  ;  for  the  wrinkles  in  the  schemer's  mind  were 
visible  in  his  visage,  while  Harley's  dreamy  worship  of 
Truth  and  Beauty  seemed  to  have  preserved  to  the  votary 
the  enduring  youth  of  the  divinities. 

Harley  received  the  compliment  with  a  supreme  indif- 
ference, which  might  have  been  suitable  to  a  Stoic,  but 
which  seemed  scarcely  natural  to  a  gentleman  who  had 
just  proposed  to  a  lady  many  years  younger  than  himself. 

Leslie  renewed — "  Perhaps  you  are  on  your  way  to 
'  27* 


634  MY  NOVEL;    OR, 

Mr.  Egerton's.  If  so,  you  will  not  find  him  at  home  ;  he  is 
at  his  office." 

"Thank  you.  Then  to  his  office  I  must  re-direct  my 
steps." 

"I  am  going  to  him  myself,"  said  Randal,  hesitatingly. 

L'Estrange  had  no  prepossessions  in  favor  of  Leslie, 
from  the  little  he  had  seen  of  that  young  gentleman  ;  but 
Randal's  remark  was  an  appeal  to  his  habitual  urbanity, 
and  he  replied,  with  well-bred  readiness,  "  Let  us  be  com- 
panions so  far." 

Randal  accepted  the  arm  proffered  to  him  ;  and  Lord 
L'Estrange,  as  is  usual  with  one  long  absent  from  his  na- 
tive land,  bore  part  as  a  questioner  in  the  dialogue  that 
ensued. 

"  Egerton  is  always  the  same  man,  I  suppose — too  busy 
for  illness,  and  too  firm  for  sorrow  ?  " 

"  If  he  ever  feel  either,  he  will  never  stoop  to  complain. 
But,  indeed,  my  dear  lord,  I  should  like  much  to  know 
what  you  think  of  his  health." 

"  How  ?     You  alarm  me  !  " 

"  Nay,  I  did  not  mean  to  do  that  ;  and  pray  do  not  let 
him  know  that  I  went  so  far.  But  I  have  fancied  that  he 
looks  a  little  worn  and  suffering." 

"  Poor  Audley !  "  said  L'Estrange,  in  a  tone  of  deep 
affection.  "  I  will  sound  him,  and,  be  assured,  without 
naming  you  ;  for  I  know  well  how  little  he  likes  to  be  sup- 
posed capable  of  human  infirmity.  I  am  obliged  to  you 
for  your  hint — obliged  to  you  for  your  interest  in  one  so 
dear  to  me." 

And  Harley's  voice  was  more  cordial  to  Randal  than  it 
had  ever  been  before.  He  then  began  to  inquire  what 
Randal  thought  of  the  rumors  that  had  reached  himself  as 
to  the  probable  defeat  of  the  Government,  and  how  far 
Audley's  spirits  were  affected  by  such  risks.  But  Randal 
here,  seeing  that  Harley  could  communicate  nothing,  was 
reserved  and  guarded. 

"  Loss  of  office  could  not,  I  think,  affect  a  man  like 
Audley,"  observed  Lord  L'Estrange.  "He  would  be  as 
great  in  opposition — perhaps  greater;  and  as  to  emolu- 
ments  " 

"The  emoluments  are  good,"  interposed  Randal,  with 
a  half-sigh. 

"Good  enough,  I  suppose,  to  pay  him  back  about  a 
tenth  of  what  his  place  costs  our  magnificent  friend — No,  I 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  635 

will  say  one  thing  for  English  statesmen,  no  man  amongst 
them  ever  yet  was  the  richer  for  place." 

"And  Mr.  Egerton's  private  fortune   must   be   large,  I 
take  for  granted,"  said  Randal,  carelessly. 
|       "  It  ought  to  be,  if  he  has  time  to  look  to  it." 

Here  they  passed  the  hotel  in  which  lodged  the  Count 
di  Peschiera. 

Randal  stopped.  "  Will  you  excuse  me  for  an  instant  ? 
As  we  are  passing  this  hotel,  I  will  just  leave  my  card 
here."  So  saying  he  gave  his  card  to  a  waiter  lounging 
by  the  door.  "For  the  Count  di  Peschiera,"  said  he 
aloud. 

L' Estrange  started  ;  and  as  Randal  again  took  his  arm, 
said  —  "  So  that  Italian  lodges  here  ?  and  you  know  him  ?" 

"  I  know  him  but  slightly,  as  one  knows  any  foreigner 
who  makes  a  sensation." 

"  He  makes  a  sensation  ? " 

"  Naturally,  for  he  is  handsome,  witty,  and  said  to  be 
very  rich — that  is,  as  long  as  he  receives  the  revenues  of 
his  exiled  kinsman." 

"  I  see  you  are  well  informed,  Mr.  Leslie.  And  what  is 
supposed  to  bring  hither  the  Count  di  Peschiera?" 

"  I  did  hear  something,  which  I  did  not  quite  under- 
stand, about  a  bet  of  his  that  he  would  marry  his  kins- 
man's daughter ;  and  so,  I  conclude,  secure  to  himself 
all  the  inheritance  ;  and  that  he  is  therefore  here  to  dis- 
cover the  kinsman  and  win  the  heiress.  But  probably  you 
know  the  rights  of  the  story,  and  can  tell  me  what  credit 
to  give  to  such  gossip." 

"  I  know  this  at  least,  that  if  he  did  lay  such  a  wager, 
I  would  advise  you  to  take  any  odds  against  him  that  his 
backers  may  give,"  said  L'Estrange,  dryly;  and  while  his 
lip  quivered  with  anger,  his  eye  gleamed  with  arch  iron- 
ical humor. 

"  You  think,  then,  that  this  poor  kinsman  will  not  need 
such  an  alliance  in  order  to  regain  his  estates  ? " 

"Yes  ;  for  I  never  yet  knew  a  rogue  whom  I  could  not 
bet  against,  when  he  backed  his  own  luck  as  a  rogue 
against  Justice  and  Providence." 

Randal  winced,  and  felt  as  if  an  arrow  had  grazed  his 
heart ;  but  he  soon  recovered. 

"  And  indeed  there  is  another  vague  rumor  that  the 
young  lady  in  question  is  married  already — to  some  Eng- 
lishman." 


636  MY  NOVEL;    Off, 

This  time  it  was  Harleywho  winced.  "  Good  Heavens! 
that  cannot  be  true — that  would  undo  all  !  An  English- 
man just  at  this  moment !  But  some  Englishman  of  corre- 
spondent rank,  I  trust,  or  at  least  one  known  for  opinions 
opposed  to  what  an'  Austrian  would  call  Revolutionary 
doctrines  ? " 

"  I  know  nothing.  But  it  was  supposed,  merely  a  pri- 
vate gentleman  of  good  family.  Would  not  that  suffice  ? 
Can  the  Austrian  Court  dictate  a  marriage  to  the  daughter 
as  a  condition  for  grace  to  the  father?" 

"  No — noi  that  !  "  said  Harley,  greatly  disturbed.  "But 
put  yourself  in  the  position  of  any  minister  to  one  of  the 
great  European  monarchies.  Suppose  a  political  insurgent, 
formidable  for  station  and  wealth,  had  been  proscribed, 
much  interest  made  on  his  behalf,  a  powerful  party  striving 
against  it,  and  just  when  the  minister  is  disposed  to  relent, 
he  hears  that  the  heiress  to  this  wealth  and  this  station  is 
married  to  the  native  of  a  country  in  which  sentiments 
friendly  to  the  very  opinions  for  which  the  insurgent  was 
proscribed  are  popularly  entertained,  and  thus  that  the 
fortune  to  be  restored  may  be  so  employed  as  to  disturb 
the  national  security — the  existing  order  of  things  ; — this, 
too,  at  the  very  time  when  a  popular  revolution  has  just 
occurred  in  France,*  and  its  effects  are  felt  most  in  the  very 
land  of  the  exile  ; — suppose  all  this,  and  then  say  if  any- 
thing could  be  more  untoward  for  the  hopes  of  the  banished 
man,  or  furnish  his  adversaries  with  stronger  arguments 
against  the  restoration  of  his  fortune  ?  But  pshaw — this 
must  be  a  chimera  !  If  true,  I  should  have  known  of  it." 

"  I  quite  agree  with  your  lordship — there  can  be  no 
truth  in  such  a  rumor.  Some  Englishman,  hearing,  per- 
haps, of  the  probable  pardon  of  the  exile,  may  have  counted 
on  an  heiress,  and  spread  the  report  in  order  to  keep  off 
other  candidates.  By  your  account,  if  successful  in  his 
suit,  he  might  fail  to  find  an  heiress  in  the  bride." 

"  No  doubt  of  that.  Whatever  might  be  arranged,  I 
can't  conceive  that  he  would  be  allowed  to  get  at  the  for- 
tune, though  it  might  be  held  in  suspense  for  his  children. 
But,  indeed,  it  so  rarely  happens  that  an  Italian  girl  of  high 
name  marries  a  foreigner,  that  we  must  dismiss  this  notion 
with  a  smile  at  the  long  face  of  the  hypothetical  fortune- 
hunter.  Heaven  help  him,  if  he  exist !  " 

*  As  there  have  been  so  many  revolutions  in  France,  it  may  be  convenient  to  suggest  that, 
according  to  the  dates  of  this  story,  Harley  no  doubt  alludes  to  that  revolution  which  exiled 
Charles  X.,  and  placed  Louis  Philippe  on  the  throne. 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  637 

"  Amen,"  echoed  Randal,  devoutly. 

"  I  hear  that  Peschiera's  sister  is  returned  to  England. 
Do  you  know  her  too  ?  " 

"A  little." 

"  My  dear  Mr.  Leslie,  pardon  me  if  I  take  a  liberty  not 
warranted  by  our  acquaintance.  Against  the  lady  I  say 
nothing.  Indeed,  I  have  heard  some  things  which  appear 
to  entitle  her  to  compassion  and  respect.  But  as  to  Pes- 
chiera,  all  who  prize  honor  suspect  him  to  be  a  knave — I 
know  him  to  be  one.  Now,  I  think  that  the  longer  we  pre- 
serve that  abhorrence  for  knavery  which  is  the  generous 
instinct  of  youth,  why,  the  fairer  will  be  our  manhood,  and 
the  more  reverend  our  age.  You  agree  with  me  ?"  And 
Harley  suddenly  turning,  his  eyes  fell  like  a  flood  of  light 
upon  Randal's  pale  and  secret  countenance. 

"  To  be  sure,"  murmured  the  schemer. 

Harley,  surveying  him,  mechanically  recoiled,  and  with- 
drew his  arm. 

Fortunately  for  Randal,  who  somehow  or  other  felt 
himself  slipped  into  a  false  position,  he  scarce  knew  how 
or  why,  he  was  here  seized  by  the  arm  ;  and  a  clear,  open, 
manly  voice  cried,  "  My  dear  fellow,  how  are  you  ?  I  see 
you  are  engaged  now  ;  but  look  into  my  rooms  when  you 
can,  in  the  course  of  the  day." 

And  with  a  bow  of  excuse  for  his  interruption,  to  Lord 
L'Estrange,  the  speaker  was  then  turning  away,  when  Har- 
ley said — 

"  No,  don't  let  me  take  you  from  your  friend,  Mr.  Les- 
lie. And  you  need  not  be  in  a  hurry  to  see  Egerton  ;  for 
I  shall  claim  the  privilege  of  older  friendship  for  the  first 
interview." 

"  It  is  Mr.  Egerton's  nephew,  Frank  Hazeldean." 

"  Pray,  call  him  back,  and  present  me  to  him.  He  has 
a  face  that  would  have  gone  far  to  reconcile  Timon  to 
Athens." 

Randal  obeyed,  and  after  a  few  kindly  words  to  Frank, 
Harley  insisted  on  leaving  the  two  young  men  together, 
and  walked  on  to  Downing  Street  with  a  brisker  step. 


638  MY  NOVEL;    OR, 


CHAPTER  X. 

"  THAT  Lord  L'Estrange  seems  a  very  good  fellow." 

"  So-so  — an  effeminate  humorist — says  the  most  absurd 
things,  and  fancies  them  wise.  Never  mind  him.  You 
wanted  to  speak  to  me,  Frank  ? " 

"  Yes  ;  I  am  so  obliged  to  you  for  introducing  me  to 
Levy.  I  must  tell  you  how  handsomely  he  has  behaved." 

"  Stop  ;  allow  me  to  remind  you  that  I  did  not  introduce 
you  to  Levy  ;  you  had  met  him  before  at  Borrowell's,  if  I 
recollect  right,  and  he  dined  with  us  at  the  Clarendon — 
that  is  all  I  had  to  do  in  bringing  you  together.  Indeed  I 
rather  cautioned  you  against  him  than  not.  Pray  don't 
think  I  introduced  you  to  a  man  who,  however  pleasant  and 
perhaps  honest,  is  still  a  money-lender.  Your  father  would 
be  justly  angry  with  me  if  I  had  done  so." 

"  Oh,  pooh  !  you  are  prejudiced  against  poor  Levy. 
But  just  hear  ;  I  was  sitting  very  ruefully,  thinking  over 
those  cursed  bills,  and  how  the  deuce  I  should  renew  them, 
when  Levy  walked  into  my  rooms ;  and,  after  telling  me  of 
his  long  friendship  for  my  uncle  Egerton  and  his  admira- 
tion for  yourself,  and  (give  me  your  hand,  Randal)  saying 
how  touched  he  felt  by  your  kind  sympathy  in  my  troubles, 
he  opened  his  pocket-book,  and  showed  me  the  bills  safe 
and  sound  in  his  own  possession." 

"  How  ? " 

"  He  had  bought  them  up.  '  It  must  be  so  disagreeable 
to  me,'  he  said,  '  to  have  them  flying  about  the  London 
money-market,  and  those  Jews  would  be  sure  sooner  or  later 
to  apply  to  my  father.  And  now,'  added  Levy,  '  I  am  in  no 
immediate  hurry  for  the  money,  and  we  must  put  the  inter- 
est upon  fairer  terms.'  In  short,  nothing  could  be  more 
liberal  than  his  tone.  And  he  says,  'he  is  thinking  of  a 
way  to  relieve  me  altogether,  and  will  call  about  it  in  a  few 
days,  when  his  plan  is  matured.'  After  all,  I  must  owe  this 
to  you,  Randal.  I  dare  swear  you  put  it  into  his  head." 

"  O  no,  indeed  !  On  the  contrary,  I  still  say,  '  Be  cau- 
tious in  all  your  dealings  with  Levy.'  I  don't  know,  I'm 
sure,  what  he  means  to  propose.  Have  you  heard  from  the 
Hall  lately  ? " 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  639 

"Yes — to-day.  Only  think — the  Riccaboccas  have  dis- 
appeared. My  mother  writes  me  word  of  it — a  very  odd 
letter.  She  seems  to  suspect  that  I  know  where  they  are, 
and  reproaches  me  for  '  mystery ' — quite  enigmatical.  But 
there  is  one  sentence  in  her  letter — see,  here  it  is  in  the 
postscript — which  seems  to  refer  to  Beatrice  :  '  I  don't  ask 
you  to  tell  me  your  secrets,  Frank,  but  Randal  will  no  doubt 
have  assured  you  that  my  first  consideration  will  be  for 
your  own  happiness,  in  any  matter  in  which  your  heart  is 
really  engaged.' " 

"Yes,"  said  Randal,  slowly;  "no  doubt  this  refers  to 
Beatrice  ;  but,  as  I  told  you,  your  mother  will  not  interfere 
one  way  or  the  other — such  interference  would  weaken  her 
influence  with  the  Squire.  Besides,  as  she  said,  she  can't 
wish  you  to  marry  a  foreigner  ;  though  once  married,  she 

would But  how  do  you  stand  now  with  the  Marchesa  ? 

Has  she  consented  to  accept  you  ?" 

"  Not  quite  ;  indeed,  I  have  not  actually  proposed.  Her 
manner,  though  much  softened,  has  not  so  far  emboldened 
me  ;  and,  besides,  before  a  positive  declaration,  I  certainly 
must  go  down  to  the  Hall  and  speak  at  least  to  my 
mother." 

"  You  must  judge  for  yourself,  but  don't  do  anything 
rash  :  talk  first  to  me.  Here  we  are  at  my  office.  Good- 
bye ;  and — and  pray  believe  that,  in  whatever  you  do  with 
Levy,  I  have  no  hand  in  it." 


CHAPTER  XI. 

TOWARD  the  evening,  Randal  was  riding  fast  on  the  road 
to  Norwood.  The  arrival  of  Harley,  and  the  conversa- 
tion that  had  passed  between  that  nobleman  and  Randal, 
made  the  latter  anxious  to  ascertain  how  far  Riccabocca 
was  likely  to  learn  L'Estrange's  return  to  England,  and  to 
meet  with  him.  For  he  felt  that,  should  the  latter  come  to 
know  that  Riccabocca,  in  his  movements,  had  gone  by  Ran- 
dal's advice,  Harley  would  find  that  Randal  had  spoken  to 
him  disingenuously  ;  and,  on  the  other  hand,  Riccabocca, 
placed  under  the  friendly  protection  of  Lord  L'Estrange, 
would  no  longer  need  Randal  Leslie  to  defend  him  from  the 
machinations  of  Peschiera.  To  a  reader  happily  unaccus- 


640  MY  NOVEL;    OR, 

tomed  to  dive  into  the  deep  and  mazy  recesses  of  a  schemer's 
mind,  it  might  seem  that  Randal's  interest  in  retaining  a 
hold  over  the  exile's  confidence  would  terminate  with  the 
assurances  that  had  reached  him,  from  more  than  one  quar- 
ter, that  Violante  might  cease  to  be  an  heiress  if  she  mar- 
ried himself.  "  But  perhaps,"  suggests  some  candid  and 
youthful  conjectufer — "  perhaps  Randal  Leslie  is  in  love 
with  this  fair  creature  ? "  Randal  in  love  ! — no  !  He  was 
too  absorbed  by  harder  passions  for  that  blissful  folly.  Nor, 
ii  he  could  have  fallen  in  love,  was  Violante  the  one  to  at- 
tract that  sullen  secret  heart ;  her  instinctive  nobleness,  the 
very  stateliness  of  her  beauty,  womanlike  though  it  was, 
awed  him.  Men  of  that  kind  may  love  some  soft  slave — 
they  cannot  lift  their  eyes  to  a  queen.  They  may  look 
down — they  cannot  look  up.  But,  on  the  one  hand,  Ran- 
dal could  not  resign  altogether  the  chance  of  securing  a  for- 
tune that  would  realize  his  most  dazzling  dreams,  upon  the 
mere  assurance,  however  probable,  which  had  so  dismayed 
him  ;  and,  on  the  other  hand,  should  he  be  compelled  to 
relinquish  all  idea  of  such  alliance,  though  he  did  not  con- 
template the  base  perfidy  of  actually  assisting  Peschiera's 
avowed  designs,  still,  if  Frank's  marriage  with  Beatrice 
should  absolutely  depend  upon  her  brother's  obtaining  the 
knowledge  of  Violante's  retreat,  and  that  marriage  should 
be  as  conducive  to  his  interests  as  he  thought  he  could 
make  it,  why — he  did  not  then  push  his  deductions  farther, 
even  to  himself,  they  seemed  too  black  ;  but  he  sighed 
heavily,  and  that  sigh  foreboded  how  weak  would  be  honor 
and  virtue  against  avarice  and  ambition.  Therefore,  on  all 
accounts,  Riccabooca  was  one  of  those  cards  in  a  sequence, 
which  so  calculating  a  player  would  not  throw  out  of  his 
hand  :  it  might  serve  for  repique, — at  the  worst,  it  might 
score  well  in  the  game.  Intimacy  with  the  Italian  was  still 
part  and  parcel  in  that  knowledge  which  was  the  synonym 
of  power. 

While  the  young  man  was  thus  meditating,  on  his  road 
to  Norwood,  Riccabocca  and  his  Jemima  were  close  con- 
ferring in  their  drawing-room.  And  if  you  could  have  there 
seen  them,  reader,  you  would  have  been  seized  with  equal 
surprise  and  curiosity  ;  for  some  extraordinary  communica- 
tion had  certainly  passed  between  them.  Riccabocca  was 
evidently  much  agitated,  and  with  emotions  not  familiar  to 
him.  The  tears  stood  in  his  eyes  at  the  same  time  that  a 
smile,  the  reverse  of  cynical  or  sardonic,  curved  his  lips  ; 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  641 

while  his  wife  was  leaning  her  head  on  his  shoulder,  her 
hand  clasped  in  his,  and,  by  the  expression  of  her  face,  you 
might  guess  that  he  had  paid  her  some  very  gratifying 
compliment,  of  a  nature  more  genuine  and  sincere  than 
those  which  characterized  his  habitual  hollow  and  dissimu- 
lating gallantry.  But  just  at  this  moment  Giacomo  en- 
tered, and  Jemima,  with  her  native  English  modesty,  with- 
drew in  haste  from  Riccabocca's  sheltering  side. 

"  Padrone,"  said  Giacomo,  who,  whatever  his  astonish- 
ment at  the  connubial  position  he  had  disturbed,  was  much 
too  discreet  to  betray  it — "Padrone,  I  see  the  young  Eng- 
lishman riding  toward  the  house,  and  I  hope,  when  he 
arrives,  you  will  not  forget  the  alarming  information  I  gave 
to  you  this  morning." 

"  Ah — ah  !  "  said  Riccabocca,  his  face  falling. 

"  If  the  Signorina  were  but  married  !  " 

"  My  very  thought — my  constant  thought !  "  exclaimed 
Riccabocca.  "  And  you  really  believe  the  young  English- 
man loves  her  ? " 

"  Why  else  should  he  come,  excellency  ? "  asked  Gia- 
como, with  great  naivete. 

"  Very  true  ;  why,  indeed  ?"  said  Riccabocca.  "  Jemima, 
I  cannot  endure  the  terrors  I  suffer  on  that  poor  child's  ac- 
count. I  will  open  myself  frankly  to  Randal  Leslie.  And 
now,  too,  that  which  might  have  been  a  serious  consider- 
ation, in  case  I  return  to  Italy,  will  no  longer  stand  in  our 
way,  Jemima." 

Jemima  smiled  faintly,  and  whispered  something  to  Ric- 
cabocca, to  which  he  replied, — 

"  Nonsense,  ant  ma  mm.  I  know  it  will  be — have  not  a 
doubt  of  it,  I  tell  you  it  is  as  nine  to  four,  according  to  the 
nicest  calculations.  I  will  speak  at  once  to  Randal.  He  is 
too  young — too  timid  to  speak  himself." 

"Certainly,"  interposed  Giacomo;  "how  could  he  dare 
to  speak,  let  him  love  ever  so  well  ? " 

Jemima  shook  her  head. 

"  Oh,  never  fear,"  said  Riccabocca,  observing  this  ges- 
ture ;  "  I  will  give  him  the  trial.  If  he  entertain  but  mercen- 
ary views,  I  shall  soon  detect  them.  I  know  human  nature 
pretty  well,  I  think,  my  love  ;  and,  Giacomo, — just  get  me 
my  Machiavelli  ; — that's  right.  Now  leave  me,  my  dear  ;  I 
must  reflect,  and  prepare  myself." 

When  Randal  entered  the  house,  Giacomo,  with  a 
smile  of  peculiar  suavity,  ushered  him  into  the  drawing- 


642  -MY  NOVEL;    OR, 

room.  He  found  Riccabocca  alone,  and  seated  before  the 
fireplace,  leaning  his  face  on  his  hand,  with  the  great  folio 
of  Machiavelli  lying  open  on  the  table. 

The  Italian  received  him  as  courteously  as  usual ;  but 
there  was  in  his  manner  a  certain  serious  and  thoughtful 
dignity,  which  was  perhaps  the  more  imposing,  because  but 
rarely  assumed.  After  a  few  preliminary  observations, 
Randal  remarked  that  Frank  Hazeldean  had  informed  him 
of  the  curiosity  which  the  disappearance  of  the  Riccaboccas 
had  excited  at  the  Hall,  and  inquired  carelessly  if  the  Doc- 
tor had  left  instructions  as  to  the  forwarding  of  any  letters 
that  might  be  directed  to  him  at  the  Casino. 

"  Letters,"  said  Riccabocca,  simply  ;  "  I  never  receive 
any  ;  or,  at  least,  so  rarely,  that  it  was  not  worth  while  to 
take  an  event  so  little  to  be  expected  into  consideration. 
No  ;  if  any  letters  do  reach  the  Casino,  there  they  will 
wait." 

"  Then  I  can  see  no  possibility  of  indiscretion, — no 
chance  of  a  clue  to  your  address." 

"Nor  I  either." 

Satisfied  so  far,  and  knowing  that  it  was  not  in  Ricca- 
bocca's  habits  to  read  the  newspapers,  by  which  he  might 
otherwise  have  learnt  of  L'Estrange's  arrival  in  London, 
Randal  then  proceeded  to  inquire,  with  much  seeming  in- 
terest, into  the  health  of  Violante — hoped  it  did  not  suffer 
by  confinement,  etc.  Riccabocca  eyed  him  gravely  while 
he  spoke,  and  then  suddenly  rising,  that  air  of  dignity  to 
which  I  have  before  referred  became  yet  more  striking. 

''My  young  friend,"  said  he,  "hear  me  attentively,  and 
answer  me  frankly.  I  know  human  nature — "  Here  a 
slight  smile  of  proud  complacency  passed  the  sage's  lips, 
and  his  eye  glanced  toward  his  Machiavelli.  "  I  know  human 
nature — at  least  I  have  studied  it,"  he  renewed  more  ear- 
nestly, and  with  less  evident  self-conceit ;  "  and  I  believe 
that  Avhen  a  perfect  stranger  to  me  exhibits  an  interest  in 
my  affairs,  which  occasions  him  no  small  trouble — an  in- 
terest (continued  the  wise  man,  laying  his  hand  on  Randal's 
shoulder)  which  scarcely  a  son  could  exceed,  he  must  be 
under  the  influence  of  some  strong  personal  motive." 

"Oh,  sir!"  cried  Randal,  turning  a  shade  more  pale, 
and  with  a  faltering  tone.  Riccabocca  surveyed  him  with 
the  tenderness  of  a  superior  being,  and  pursued  his  de- 
ductive theories. 

"  In  your  case,  what  is  that  motive  ?     Not  political  ;  for 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  643 

I  conclude  you  share  the  opinions  of  your  government,  and 
those  opinions  have  not  favored  mine.  Not  that  of  pecun- 
iary or  ambitious  calculations ;  for  how  can  such  calcula- 
tions enlist  you  on  behalf  of  a  ruined  exile  ?  What  remains  ? 
Why,  the  motive  which  at  your  age  is  ever  the  most  natural 
and  the  strongest.  I  don't  blame  you.  Machiavelli  himself 
allows  that  such  a  motive  has  swayed  the  wisest  minds,  and 
overturned  the  most  solid  states.  In  a  word,  young  man, 
you  are  in  love,  and  with  my  daughter  Violante." 

Randal  was  so  startled  by  this  direct  and  unexpected 
charge  upon  his  own  masked  batteries,  that  he  did  not  even 
attempt  his  defence.  His  head  drooped  on  his  breast,  and 
he  remained  speechless. 

"  I  do  not  doubt,"  resumed  the  penetrating  judge  of  human 
nature,  "  that  you  would  have  been  withheld,  by  the  laudable 
and  generous  scruples  which  characterize  your  happy  age, 
from  voluntarily  disclosing  to  me  the  state  of  your  heart. 
You  might  suppose  that,  proud  of  the  position  I  once  held, 
or  sanguine  in  the  hope  of  regaining  my  inheritance,  I 
might  be  over-ambitious  in  my  matrimonial  views  for 
Violante  ;  or  that  you,  anticipating  my  restoration  to  honors 
and  fortune,  might  seem  actuated  by  the  last  motives  which 
influence  love  and  youth  ;  and  therefore,  my  dear  young 
friend,  I  have  departed  from  the  ordinary  custom  in  Eng- 
land, and  adopted  a  very  common  one  in  my  own  country. 
With  us  a  suitor  seldom  presents  himself  till  he  is  assured 
of  the  consent  of  a  father.  I  have  only  to  say  this — if  I  am 
right,  and  you  love  my  daughter,  my  first  object  in  life  is  to 
see  her  safe  and  secure  ;  and,  in  a  word — you  understand 
me." 

Now,  mightily  may  it  comfort  and  console  us  ordinary 
mortals,  who  advance  no  pretence  to  superior  wisdom  and 
ability,  to  see  the  huge  mistake  made  by  both  these  very 
sagacious  personages — Dr.  Riccabocca,  \%aluing  himself  on 
his  profound  acquaintance  with  character,  and  Randal  Les- 
lie, accustomed  to  grope  into  every  hole  and  corner  of 
thought  and  action,  wherefrom  to  extract  that  knowledge 
which  is  power  !  For  whereas  the  sage,  judging  not  only 
by  his  own  heart  in  youth,  but  by  the  general  influences  of 
the  master-passion  on  the  young,  had  ascribed  to  Randal 
sentiments  wholly  foreign  to  that  able  diplomatist's  nature  ; 
so  no  sooner  had  Riccabocca  brought  his  speech  to  a  close, 
than  Randal,  judging  also  by  his  own  heart,  and  by  the 
general  laws  which  influence  men  of  the  mature  age  and 


644  MY  NOVEL;    OR, 

boasted  worldly  wisdom  of  the  pupil  of  Machiavclli, 
instantly  decided  that  Riccabocca  presumed  upon  his  youth 
and  inexperience,  and  meant  most  nefariously  to  take  him 
in. 

"  The  poor  youth  !  "  thought  Riccabocca,  "  how  unpre- 
pared he  is  for  the  happiness  I  give  him  ! " 

"The  cunning  old  Jesuit!"  thought  Randal;  "he  has 
certainly  learned,  since  we  met  last,  that  he  has  no  chance 
of  regaining  his  patrimony,  and  so  he  wants  to  impose  on 
me  the  hand  of  a  girl  without  a  shilling.  What  other  motive 
can  he  possibly  have  ?  Had  his  daughter  the  remotest 
probability  of  becoming  the  greatest  heiress  in  Italy,  would 
he  dream  of  bestowing  her  on  me  in  this  off-hand  way  ?  The 
thing  stands  to  reason." 

Actuated  by  his  resentment  at  the  trap  thus  laid  for  him, 
Randal  was  about  to  disclaim  altogether  the  disinterested 
and  absurd  affection  laid  to  his  charge,  when  it  occurred  to 
him  that,  by  so  doing,  he  might  mortally  offend  the  Italian 
— since  the  cunning  never  forgive  those  who  refuse  to  be 
duped  by  them — and  it  might  still  be  conducive  to  his  inter- 
est to  preserve  intimate  and  familiar  terms  with  Riccabocca  ; 
therefore,  subduing  his  first  impulse,  he  exclaimed — 

"  O  too  generous  man  !  pardon  me  if  I  have  so  long  been 
unable  to  express  my  amaze,  my  gratitude  ;  but  I  cannot — 
no,  I  cannot,  while  your  prospects  remain  thus  uncertain, 
avail  myself  of  your — of  your  inconsiderate  magnanimity. 
Your  rare  conduct  can  only  redouble  my  own  scruples,  if 
you,  as  I  firmly  hope  and  believe,  are  restored  to  your  great 
possessions — you  would  naturally  look  so  much  higher  than 
me.  Should  these  hopes  fail,  then,  indeed,  it  may  be  dif- 
ferent ;  yet  even  then,  what  position,  what  fortune,  have  I 
to  offer  to  your  daughter  worthy  of  her?" 

"You  are  well-born  !  all  gentlemen  are  equals,"  said 
Riccabocca,  with  n  sort  of  easy  nobleness.  "You  have 
youth,  information,  talent — sources  of  certain  wealth  in  this 
happy  country — powerful  connections  ;  and,  in  fine,  if  you 
are  satisfied  with  marrying  for  love,  I  shall  be  contented  ; — 
if  not,  speak  openly.  As  to  the  restoration  to  my  posses- 
sions, I  can  scarcely  think  that  probable  while  my  enemy 
lives.  And  even  in  that  case,  since  I  saw  you  last,  some- 
thing has  occurred  (added  Riccabocca,  with  a  strange  smile, 
which  seemed  to  Randal  singularly  sinister  and  malignant) 
that  may  remove  all  difficulties.  Meanwhile  do  not  think 
me  so  extravagantly  magnanimous — do  not  underrate  the 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  645 

satisfaction  I  must  feel  at  knowing  Violante  safe  from  the 
designs  of  Peschiera — safe,  and  for  ever,  under  a  husband's 
roof.  I  will  tell  you  an  Italian  proverb — it  contains  a  truth 
full  of  wisdom  and  terror  : — 

'  Hai  cinquanta  amici  ? — non  basta, — Hai  un  neniico  ? — e  troppo.'  "  * 

"  Something  has  occurred  !  "  echoed  Randal,  not  heeding 
the  conclusion  of  this  speech,  and  scarcely  hearing  the  pro- 
verb which  the  sage  delivered  in  his  most  emphatic  and 
tragic  tone.  "  Something  has  occurred  !  My  dear  friend, 
be  plainer.  What  has  occurred  ?  "  Riccabocca  remained 
silent.  "  Something  that  induces  you  to  bestow  your 
daughter  on  me  ?  " 

Riccabocca  nooded,  and  emitted  a  low  chuckle. 

"  The  very  laugh  of  a  fiend,"  muttered  Randal.  "  Some- 
thing that  makes  her  not  worth  bestowing.  He  betrays  him- 
self. Cunning  people  always  do." 

"  Pardon  me,"  said  the  Italian  at  last,  "if  I  don't  answer 
your  question  ;  you  will  know  later  ;  but,  at  present,  this  is 
a  family  secret.  And  now  I  must  turn  to  another  and  more 
alarming  cause  for  my  frankness  to  you."  Here  Riccaboc- 
ca's  face  changed,  and  assumed  an  expression  of  mingled 
rage  and  fear.  "You  must  know,"  he  added,  sinking  his 
voice,  "  that  Giacomo  has  seen  a  strange  person  loitering 
about  the  house,  and  looking  up  at  the  windows  ;  and  he 
has  no  doubt — nor  have  I — that  this  is  some  spy  or  emissary 
of  Peschiera's." 

"  Impossible  ;  how  could  he  discover  you  ?" 

"  I  know  not ;  but  no  one  else  has  any  interest  in  doing 
so.  The  man  kept  at  a  distance,  and  Giacomo  could  not 
see  his  face." 

"  It  may  be  but  a  mere  idler.     Is  this  all  ? " 

"  No  ;  the  old  woman  who  serves  us  said  that  she  was 
asked  at  a  shop  '  if  we  were  not  Italians  ? ' >: 

"  And  she  answered  ? " 

" '  No  ; '  but  owned  that  *  we  had  a  foreign  servant, 
Giacomo.'  " 

*'  I  will  see  to  this.  Rely  on  it  that  if  Peschiera  has  dis- 
covered you,  I  will  learn  it.  Nay,  I  will  hasten  from  you 
in  order  to  commence  inquiry." 

"  I  cannot  detain  you.  May  I  think  that  we  have  now 
an  interest  in  common  ?" 

*  Have  you  fifty  friends  1 — it  is  not  enough. — Have  you  one  enemy  ? — it  is  too  much. 


646  MY  NOVEL;    OR, 

"  O  indeed,  yes  ;  but — but — your  daughter !  how  can  I 
dream  that  one  so  beautiful,  so  peerless,  will  confirm  the 
hope  you  have  extended  to  me  ?  " 

"  The  daughter  of  an  Italian  is  brought  up  to  consider 
that  it  is  a  father's  right  to  dispose  of  her  hand." 

"  But  the  heart  ? " 

"  Cospetto  !  "  said  the  Italian,  true  to  his  infamous  notions 
as  to  the  sex,  "  the  heart  of  a  girl  is  like  a  convent — the 
holier  the  cloister  the  more  charitable  the  door." 


CHAPTER  XII. 

RANDAL  had  scarcely  left  the  house  before  Mrs.  Ricca- 
bocca,  who  was  affectionately  anxious  in  all  that  concerned 
Violante,  rejoined  her  husband. 

"  I  like  the  young  man  very  well,"  said  the  sage — "very 
well,  indeed.  I  find  him  just  what  I  expected,  from  my 
general  knowledge  of  human  nature  ;  for  as  love  ordinarily 
goes  with  youth,  so  modesty  usually  accompanies  talent. 
He  is  young,  ergo  he  is  in  love  ;  he  has  talent,  ergo  he  is 
modest — modest  and  ingenuous." 

''And  you  think  not  in  any  way  swayed  by  interest  in 
his  affections  ?" 

"  Quite  the  contrary  ;  and  to  prove  him  the  more,  I  have 
not  said  a  word  as  to  the  worldly  advantages  which,  in  any 
case,  would  accrue  to  him  from  an  alliance  with  my  daugh- 
ter. In  any  case  ;  for  if  I  regain  my  country,  her  fortune 
is  assured  ;  and  if  not,  I  trust  (said  the  poor  exile,  lifting 
his  brow  with  stately  and  becoming  pride)  that  I  am  too 
well  aware  of  my  child's  dignity,  as  well  as  my  own,  to  ask 
any  one  to  marry  her  to  his  own  worldly  injury." 

"  Eh  !  I  don't  quite  understand  you,  Alphonso.  To  be 
sure,  your  dear  life  is  insured  for  her  marriage-portion  ; 
but— 

"  Pazzie—  stuff !"  said  Riccabocca,  petulantly;  "her 
marriage-portion  would  be  as  nothing  to  a  young  man  of 
Randal's  birth  and  prospects.  I  think  not  of  that.  But 
listen  :  I  have  never  consented  to  profit  by  Harley  L'Es- 
trange's  friendship  for  me  ;  my  scruples  would  not  extend 
to  my  son-in-la\v.  This  noble  friend  has  not  only  high 
rank,  but  considerable  influence — influence  with  the  Govern- 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  647 

ment — influence  with  Randal's  patron — who,  between  our- 
selves, does  not  seem  to  push  the  young  man  as  he  might 
do  ;  I  judge  by  what  Randal  says.  I  should  write  there- 
fore, before  anything  was  settled,  to  L'Estrange,  and  I 
should  say  to  him  simply,  '  I  never  asked  you  to  save  me 
from  penury,  but  I  do  ask  you  to  save  a  daughter  of  my 
house  from  humiliation.  I  can  give  to  her  no  dowry  ;  can 
her  husband  owe  to  my  friend  that  advance  in  an  honorable 
career — that  opening  to  energy  and  talent — which  is  more 
than  a  dowry  to  generous  ambition  ?  ' ' 

"Oh,  it  is  in  vain  you  would  disguise  your  rank,"  cried 
Jemima,  with  enthusiasm  ;  it  speaks  in  all  you  utter,  when 
your  passions  are  moved." 

The  Italian  did  not  seem  flattered  by  that  eulogy. 
"  Pish,"  said  he,  "  there  you  are  !  rank  again  !  " 

But  Jemima  was  right.  There  was  something  about  her 
husband  that  was  grandiose  and  princely,  whenever  he  es- 
caped from  his  accursed  Machiavelli,  and  gave  fair  play  to 
his  heart. 

And  he  spent  the  next  hour  or  so  in  thinking  over  all 
that  he  could  do  for  Randal,  and  devising  for  his  intended 
son  in-law  the  agreeable  surprises,  which  Randal  was  at 
that  very  time  racking  his  yet  cleverer  brains  to  disap- 
point. 

These  plans  conned  sufficiently,  Riccabocca  shut  up  his 
Machiavelli,  and  hunted  out  of  his  scanty  collection  of 
books  Buffon  on  Man,  and  various  other  psychological  vol- 
umes, in  which  he  soon  became  deeply  absorbed.  Why 
were  these  works  the  object  of  the  sage's  study  ?  Perhaps 
he  will  let  us  know  soon,  for  it  is  clearly  a  secret  known  to 
his  wife  ;  and  though  she  has  hitherto  kept  one  secret,  that 
is  precisely  the  reason  why  Riccabocca  would  not  wish  long 
to  overburthen  her  discretion  with  another. 


CHAPTER   XIII. 

RANDAL  reached  home  in  time  to  dress  for  a  late  dinner 
at  Baron  Levy's. 

The  Baron's  style  of  living  was  of  that  character  es- 
pecially affected  both  by  the  most  acknowledged  exquisites 
of  that  day,  and,  it  must  be  owned,  also  by  the  most  egregi- 


648  MY  NOVEL;    OR, 

ous  parvenus.  For  it  is  noticeable  that  it  is  your  parvenu 
who  always  comes  nearest  in  fashion  (so  far  as  externals 
are  concerned)  to  your  genuine  exquisite.  It  is  your  par- 
venu who  is  most  particular  as  to  the  cut  of  his  coat,  and  the 
precision  of  his  equipage,  and  the  .minutiae  of  his  menage. 
Those  between  the  parvenu  and  the  exquisite,  who  know 
their  own  consequence,  and  have  something  solid  to  rest 
upon,  are  slow  in  following  all  the  caprices  of  fashion,  and 
obtuse  in  observation  as  to  those  niceties  which  neither 
give  them  another  ancestor,  nor  add  another  thousand  to 
the  account  at  their  banker's  ; — as  to  the  last,  rather,  indeed, 
the  contrary  !  There  was  a  decided  elegance  about  the 
Baron's  house  and  his  dinner.  If  he  had  been  one  of  the 
lawful  kings  of  the  dandies,  you  would  have  cried,  "What 
perfect  taste  !  " — but  such  is  human  nature,  that  the  dandies 
who  dined  with  him  said  to  each  other,  "  He  pretend  to 

imitate  D !  vulgar  dog !  "  There  was  little  affectation 

of  your  more  showy  opulence.  The  furniture  in  the  rooms 
was  apparently  simple,  but,  in  truth,  costly,  from  its  luxu- 
rious comfort — the  ornaments  and  china  scattered  about 
the  commodes  were  of  curious  rarity  and  great  value  ;  and 
the  pictures  on  the  walls  were  gems.  At  dinner,  no  plate 
was  admitted  on  the  table.  The  Russian  fashion,  then  un- 
common, now  more  prevalent,  was  adopted — fruit  and 
flowers  in  old  Sevres  dishes  of  priceless  vertu,  and  in  spark- 
ling glass  of  Bohemian  fabric.  No  livery  servant  was  per- 
mitted to  wait  ;  behind  each  guest  stood  a  gentleman 
dressed  so  like  the  guest  himself,  in  fine  linen  and  simple 
black,  that  guest  and  lacquey  seemed  stereotypes  from  one 
plate. 

The  viands  were  exquisite  ;  the  wine  came  from  the 
cellars  of  deceased  archbishops  and  ambassadors.  The 
company  was  select ;  the  party  did  not  exceed  eight.  Four 
were  the  eldest  sons  of  peers  (from  a  baron  to  a  duke) ;  one 
was  a  professed  wit,  never  to  be  got  without  a  month's  no- 
tice, and  where  a  parvenu  was  host,  a  certainty  of  green 
peas  and  peaches — out  of  season  ;  the  sixth,  to  Randal's  as- 
tonishment, was  Mr.  Richard  Avenel ;  himself  and  the 
Baron  made  up  the  complement. 

The  eldest  sons  recognized  each  other  with  a  meaning 
smile  ;  the  most  juvenile  of  them,  indeed  (it  was  his  first 
year  in  London),  had  the  grace  to  blush  and  look  sheepish. 
The  others  were  more  hardened  ;  but  they  all  united  in  re- 
garding with  surprise  both  Randal  and  Dick  Avenel.  The 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  649 

former  was  known  to  most  of  them  personally,  and  to  all, 
by  repute,  as  a  grave,  clever,  promising  young  man,  rather 
prudent  than  lavish,  and  never  suspected  to  have  got  into  a 
scrape.  What  the  deuce  did  he  do  there  ?  Mr.  Avenel 
puzzled  them  yet  more.  A  middle-aged  man,  said  to  be  in 
business,  whom  they  had  observed  "  about  town  "  (for  he 
had  a  noticeable  face  and  figure) — that  is,  seen  riding  in  the 
Park,  or  lounging  in  the  pit  at  the  opera,  but  never  set  eyes 
on  at  a  recognized  club,  or  in  the  coteries  of  their  "set ;"  a 
man  whose  wife  gave  horrid  third-rate  parties,  that  took  up 
half  a  column  in  the  Morning  jP<«/with  a  list  of  "The  Com- 
pany Present,"  in  which  a  sprinkling  of  dowagers  fading 
out  of  fashion,  and  a  foreign  title  or  two,  made  the  dark- 
ness of  the  obscurer  names  doubly  dark.  Why  this  man 
should  be  asked  to  meet  them,  by  Baron  Levy,  too — a  de- 
cided tuft-hunter  and  would-be  exclusive — called  all  their 
faculties  into  exercise.  The  wit,  who,  being  the  son  of  a 
small  tradesman,  but  in  the  very  best  society,  gave  himself 
far  greater  airs  than  the  young  lords,  impertinently  solved 
the  mystery. — "  Depend  on  it,"  whispered  he  to  Spendquick 
— "  depend  on  it  the  man  is  the  X.  Y.  of  the  Times,  who  of- 
fers to  lend  any  sum  of  money  from  ;£io  to  half  a  million. 
He's  the  man  who  has  all  your  bills  ;  Levy  is  only  his 
jackal." 

"  'Pon  my  soul,"  said  Spendquick,  rather  alarmed,  "  if 
that's  the  case,  one  may  as  well  be  civil  to  him." 

"  You,  certainly,"  said  the  wit.  "  But  I  never  have  found 
an  X.  Y.  who  would  advance  me  the  L.  s.  ;  and  therefore,  I 
shall  not  be  more  respectful  to  X.  Y.  than  to  any  other  un- 
known quantity." 

By  degrees,  as  the  wine  circulated,  the  party  grew  gay 
and  sociable.  Levy  was  really  an  entertaining  fellow  ;  had 
all  the  gossip  of  the  town  at  his  fingers'  ends  ;  and  possessed, 
moreover,  that  pleasant  art  of  saying  ill-natured  things  of 
the  absent,  which  those  present  always  enjoy.  By  degrees, 
too,  Mr.  Richard  Avenel  came  out  ;  and,  as  the  whisper  had 
circulated  round  the  table  that  he  was  X.  Y.,  he  was  listened 
to  with  a  profound  respect,  which  greatly  elevated  his 
spirits.  Nay,  when  the  wit  tried  once  to  show  him  up  or 
mystify  him,  Dick  answered  with  a  bluff  spirit,  that,  though 
very  coarse,  was  found  so  humorous  by  Lord  Spendquick 
and  other  gentlemen  similarly  situated  in  the  money-market, 
that  they  turned  the  laugh  against  the  wit,  and  silenced  him 
for  the  rest  of  the  night — a  circumstance  which  made  the 
28 


650  MY  NOVEL;   OR, 

party  go  off  much  more  pleasantly.  After  dinner,  the  con- 
versation, quite  that  of  single  men,  easy  and  df'bonnaire, 
glanced  from  the  turf,  and  the  ballet,  and  the  last  scandal, 
toward  politics  ;  for  the  times  were  such  that  politics  were 
discussed  everywhere,  and  three  of  the  young  lords  were 
county  members. 

Randal  said  little,  but,  as  was  his  wont,  listened  atten- 
tively ;  and  he  was  aghast  to  find  how  general  was  the  be- 
lief that  the  Government  was  doomed.  Out  of  regard  to 
him,  and  with  that  delicacy  of  breeding  which  belongs  to  a 
certain  society,  nothing  personal  to  Egerton  was  said,  ex- 
cept by  Avenel,  who,  however,  on  blurting  out  some  rude 
expressions  respecting  that  minister,  was  instantly  checked 
by  the  Baron. 

"Spare  my  friend,  and  Mr.  Leslie's  near  connection," 
said  he,  with  a  polite  but  grave-  smile. 

"Oh,"  said  Avenel,  "public  men,  whom  we  pay,  are 
public  property— aren't  they,  my  lord?"  appealing  to  Spend- 
quick. 

"  Certainly,"  said  Spendquick,  with  great  spirit — "  pub- 
lic property,  or  why  should  we  pay  them  ?  There  must  be 
a  very  strong  motive  to  induce  us  to  do  that !  I  hate  paying 
people.  In  fact,"  he  subjoined  in  an  aside,  "  I  never  do." 

'•  However,"  resumed  Mr.  Avenel,  graciously,  "  I  don't 
want  to  hurt  your  feelings,  Mr.  Leslie.  As  to  the  feelings 
of  our  host,  the  Baron,  I  calculate  that  they  have  got  toler- 
ably tough  by  the  exercise  they  have  gone  through." 

"  Nevertheless,"  said  the  Baron,  joining  in  the  laugh 
which  any  lively  saying  by  the  supposed  X.  Y.  was  sure  to 
excite — "  nevertheless,  *  love  me,  love  my  dog,'  love  me,  love 
my  Egerton." 

Randal  started,  for  his  quick  ear  and  subtle  intelligence 
caught  something  sinister  and  hostile  in  the  tone  with  which 
Levy  uttered  this  equivocal  comparison,  and  his  eye  darted 
toward  the  Baron.  But  the  Baron  had  bent  down  his  face, 
and  was  regaling  himself  upon  an  olive. 

By-and-by  the  party  rose  from  table.  The  four  young 
noblemen  had  their  engagements  elsewhere,  and  proposed 
to  separate  without  re-entering  the  drawing-room.  As.  in 
Goethe's  theory,  monads  which  have  affinities  with  each 
other  are  irresistibly  drawn  together,  so  these  gay  children 
of  pleasure  had,  by  a  common  impulse,  on  rising  from  table, 
moved  each  to  each,  and  formed  a  group  round  the  fire- 
place. Randal  stood  a  little  apart,  musing  ;  the  wit  ex- 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE,  651 

amined  the  pictures  through  his  eye-glass  ;  and  Mr.  Avenel 
drew  the  Baron  toward  the  sideboard,  and  there  held  him 
in  whispered  conference.  This  colloquy  did  not  escape  the 
young  gentlemen  round  the  fire-place  ;  they  glanced  to- 
ward each  other. 

"  Settling  the  per-centage  on  renewal,"  said  one,  sotto 
voce. 

"X.  Y.  does  not  seem  such  a  very  bad  fellow,"  said  an- 
other. 

"  He  looks  rich,  and  talks  rich,"  said  a  third. 

"  A  decided  independent  way  of  expressing  his  senti- 
ments ;  those  moneyed  men  generally  have." 

"  Good  heavens  !  "ejaculated  Spendquick,  who  had  been 
keeping  his  eye  anxiously  fixed  on  the  pair,  "  do  look  ;  X. 
Y.  is  actually  taking  out  his  pocket-book  ;  he  is  coming  this 
way.  Depend  on  it  he  has  got  our  bills — mine  is  due  to- 
morrow ! " 

"And  mine  too,"  said  another,  edging  off.  "Why,  it  is 
a  perfect  guet-a pens." 

Meanwhile,  breaking  away  from  the  Baron,  who  ap- 
peared anxious  to  detain  him,  and  failing  in  that  attempt, 
turned  aside,  as  if  not  to  see  Dick's  movements — a  circum- 
stance which  did  not  escape  the  notice  of  the  group,  and 
confirmed  all  their  suspicions,  Mr.  Avenel,  with  a  serious, 
thoughtful  face,  and  a  slow  step,  approached  the  group. 
Nor  did  the  great  Roman  general  more  nervously  "  flutter 
the  dove-cotes  in  Corioli,"  than  did  the  advance  of  the  sup- 
posed X.  Y.  agitate  the  bosoms  of  Lord  Spendquick  and 
his  sympathizing  friends.  Pocket-book  in  hand,  and  appar- 
ently feeling  for  something  formidable  within  its  mystic  re- 
cesses, step  by  step  came  Dick  Avenel  toward  the  fireplace. 
The  group  stood  still,  fascinated  by  horror. 

"  Hum,"  said  Mr.  Avenel,  clearing  his  throat. 

"  I  don't  like  that  hum  at  all,"  muttered  Spendquick. 

"  Proud  to  have  made  your  acquaintance,  gentlemen," 
said  Dick,  bowing. 

The  gentlemen,  thus  addressed,  bowed  low  in  return. 

"  My  friend  the  Baron  thought  this  not  exactly  the  time 
to —  "  Dick  stopped  a  moment  ;  you  might  have  knocked 
down  those  four  young  gentlemen,  though  four  -finer  speci- 
mens of  humanity  no  aristocracy  in  Europe  could  produce 
— you  might  have  knocked  them  down  with  a  feather ! 
"  But,"  renewed  Avenel,  not  finishing  his  sentence,  "  I  have 
made  it  a  rule  in  life  never  to  lose  securing  a  good  oppor- 


652  MY  NOVEL;    OR, 

tunity  ;  in  short,  to  make  the  most  of  the  present  moment. 
And,"  added  he,  with  a  smile  which  froze  the  blood  in  Lord 
Spendquick's  veins,  "  the  rule  has  made  me  a  very  warm 
man  !  Therefore,  gentlemen,  allow  me  to  present  you  each 
with  one  of  these  " — every  hand  retreated  behind  the  back 
of  its  well-born  owner — when,  to  the  inexpressible  relief  of 
all,  Dick  concluded  with — "  a  little  soiree  dansante"  and  ex- 
tended four  cards  of  invitation. 

"  Most  happy  !  "  exclaimed  Spendquick.  "  I  don't  dance 

in  general  ;  but  to  oblige  X I  mean  to  have  a  better 

acquaintance,  sir,  with  you — I  would  dance  on  the  tight- 
rope." 

There  was  a  good-humored,  pleasant  laugh  at  Spend- 
quick's enthusiasm,  and  a  general  shaking  of  hands  and 
pocketing  of  the  invitation  cards. 

"  You  don't  look  like  a  dancing  man,"  said  Avenel, 
turning  to  the  wit,  who  was  plump  and  somewhat  gouty — 
as  wits  who  dine  out  five  days  in  the  week  generally  are  ; 
"  but  we  shall  have  supper  at  one  o'clock." 

Infinitely  offended  and  disgusted,  the  wit  replied,  dryly, 
"  that  every  hour  of  his  time  was  engaged  for  the  rest  of  the 
season,"  and,  with  a  stiff  salutation  to  the  Baron,  took  his 
departure.  The  rest,  in  good  spirits,  hurried  away  to  their 
respective  cabriolets  ;  and  Leslie  was  following  them  into 
the  hall,  when  the  Baron,  catching  hold  of  him,  said,  "  Stay, 
I  want  to  talk  to  you." 


CHAPTER  XIV. 

THE  Baron  turned  into  his  drawing-room,  and  Leslie  fol- 
lowed. 

"  Pleasant  young  men,  those,"  said  Levy,  with  a  slight 
sneer,  as  he  threw  himself  into  an  easy-chair  and  stirred  the 
fire.  "  And  not  at  all  proud  ;  but,  to  be  sure,  they  are — 
under  great  obligations  to  me.  Yes  ;  they  owe  me  a  great 
deal.  Apropos,  I  have  had  a  long  talk  with  Frank  Hazel- 
dean — fine  young  man — remarkable  capacities  for  business. 
I  can  arrange  his  affairs  for  him.  I  find,  on  reference  to 
the  Will  Office,  that  you  were  quite  right ;  the  Casino  prop- 
erty is  entailed  on  Frank.  He  will  have  the  fee-simple. 
He  can  dispose  of  the  reversion  entirely.  So  that  there 
will  be  no  difficulty  in  our  arrangements." 


VARIETIES     IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  653 

"  But  I  told  you  also  that  Frank  had  scruples  about  bor- 
rowing on  the  event  of  his  father's  death." 

"  Ay — you  did  so.  Filial  affection  !  I  never  take  that 
into  account  in  matters  of  business.  Such  little  scruples, 
though  they  are  highly  honorable  to  human  nature,  soon 
vanish  before  the  prospect  of  the  King's  Bench.  And,  too, 
as  you  so  judiciously  remarked,  our  clever  young  friend  is 
in  love  with  Madame  di  Negra." 

"  Did  he  tell  you  that  ? "" 

"  No  ;  but  Madame  di  Negra  did  !  " 

"  You  know  her  ?" 

"  I  know  most  people  in  good  society,  who  now  and  then 
require  a  friend  in  the  management  of  their  affairs.  And 
having  made  sure  of  the  fact  you  stated,  as  to  Hazeldean's 
contingent  property  (excuse  my  prudence),  I  have  accom- 
modated Madame  di  Negra,  and  bought  up  her  debts." 

"  You  have  ?    You  surprise  me  !  " 

"  The  surprise  will  vanish  on  reflection.  But  you  are 
very  new  to  the  world  yet,  my  dear  Leslie.  By  the  way,  I 
have  had  an  interview  with  Peschiera " 

"About  his  sister's  debts?" 

"  Partly.     A  man  of  the  nicest  honor  is  Peschiera." 

Aware  of  Levy's  habit  of  praising  people  for  the  quali- 
ties in  which,  according  to  the  judgment  of  less  penetrating 
mortals,  they  were  most  deficient,  Randal  only  smiled  at  this 
eulogy,  and  waited  for  Levy  to  resume.  But  the  Baron  sat 
silent  and  thoughtful  for  a  minute  or  two,  and  then  wholly 
changed  the  subject. 

"  I  think  your  father  has  some  property  in shire, 

and  you  probably  can  give  me  a  little  information  as  to  cer- 
tain estates  of  a  Mr.  Thornhill,  estates  which,  on  examina- 
tion of  the  title  deeds,  I  find  once,  indeed,  belonged  to  your 
family."  The  Baron  glanced  at  a  very  elegant  memoran- 
dum book. — "  The  manors  of  Rood  and  Dulmansberrv,  with 
sundry  farms  thereon.  Mr.  Thornhill  wants  to  sell  them — 
an  old  client  of  mine,  Thornhill.  He  has  applied  to  me  on 
the  matter.  Do  you  think  it  an  improvable  property  ?  " 

Randal  listened  with  a  livid  cheek  and  a  throbbing  heart. 
We  have  seen  that,  if  there  was  one  ambitious  scheme  in 
his  calculation  which,  though  not  absolutely  generous  and 
heroic,  still  might  win  its  way  to  a  certain  sympathy  in  the 
undebased  human  mind,  it  was  the  hope  to  restore  the  fallen 
fortunes  of  his  ancient  house,  and  repossess  himself  of  the 
long-alienated  lands  that  surrounded  the  dismal  wastes  of 


654  MY  NOVEL;    OR, 

the  mouldering  hall.  And  now  to  hear  that  those  lands 
were  getting  into  the  inexorable  gripe  of  Levy — tears  of 
bitterness  stood  in  his  eyes. 

"  Thornhill,"  continued  Levy,  who  watched  the  young 
man's  countenance — "  Thornhill  tells  me  that  that  part  of 
his  property — the  old  Leslie  lands — produces  ^£2000  a-year, 
and  that  the  rental  could  be  raised.  He  would  take  ^£50,000 
for  it — ^£20,000  down,  and  suffer  the  remaining  ^30,000  to 
lie  on  mortgage  at  four  per  cent.  It  seems  a  very  good 
purchase.  What  do  you  say  ? " 

"  Don't  ask  me,"  said  Randal,  stung  into  rare  honesty  ; 
"  for  I  had  hoped  I  might  live  to  repossess  myself  of  that 
property." 

"  Ah  !  indeed.  It  would  be  a  very  great  addition  to  your 
consequence  in  the  world — not  from  the  mere  size  of  the 
estate,  but  from  its  hereditary  associations.  And  if  you 
have  any  idea  of  the  purchase — believe  me,  I'll  not  stand  in 
your  way." 

"  How  can  I  have  any  idea  of  it  ?  " 

"  But  I  thought  you  said  you  had." 

"  I  understood  that  these  lands  could  not  be  sold  till  Mr. 
Thornhill's  son  came  of  age,  and  joined  in  getting  rid  of  the 
entail." 

"Yes,  so  Thornhill  himself  supposed,  till,  on  examining 
the  title-deeds,  I  found  he  was  under  a  mistake.  These 
lands  are  not  comprised  in  the  settlement  made  by  old 
Jasper  Thornhill,  which  ties  up  the  rest  of  the  property. 
The  title  will  be  perfect.  Thornhill  wants  to  settle  the 
matter  at  once — losses  on  the  turf,  you  understand  ;  an 
immediate  purchaser  would  get  still  better  terms.  A  Sir 
John  Spratt  would  give  the  money — but  the  addition  of 
these  lands  would  make  the  Spratt  property  of  more  con- 
sequence in  the  county  than  the  Thornhill.  So  my  client 
would  rather  take  a  few  thousands  less  from  a  man  who 
don't  set  up  to  be  his  rival.  Balance  of  power  in  counties 
as  well  as  nations." 

Randal  was  silent. 

"  Well,"  said  Levy,  with  great  kindness  of  manner,  "  I 
see  I  pain  you  ;  and  though  I  .am  what  my  very  pleasant 
guests  would  call  a  parvenu,  I  comprehend  your  natural 
feelings  as  a  gentleman  of  ancient  birth.  Parvenu!  Ah! 
is  it  not  strange,  Leslie,  that  no  wealth,  no  fashion,  no  fame, 
can  wipe  out  that  blot  ?  They  call  me  n.  parvenu,  and  borrow 
my  money.  They  call  our  friend  the  wit  a  parvenu,  and 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  655 

submit  to  all  his  insolence — if  they  condescend  to  regard 
his  birth  at  all — provided  they  can  but  get  him  to  dinner. 
They  call  the  best  debater  in  the  Parliament  of  England  a 
parvenu,  and  will  entreat  him,  some  day  or  other,  to  be  prime 
minister,  and  ask  him  for  stars  and  garters.  A  droll  world, 
and  no  wonder  the  parvenus  want  to  upset  it." 

Randal  had  hitherto  supposed  that  this  notorious  tuft- 
hunter — this  dandy  capitalist — this  money-lender,  whose 
whole  fortune  had  been  wrung  from  the  wants  and  follies 
of  an  aristocracy,  was  naturally  a  firm  supporter  of  things 
as  they  are — how  could  things  be  better  for  men  like  Baron 
Levy  ?  But  the  usurer's  burst  of  democratic  spleen  did  not 
surprise  his  precocious  and  acute  faculty  of  observation. 
He  had  before  remarked  that  it  is  the  persons  who  fawn 
most  upon  an  aristocracy,  and  profit  the  most  by  the  fawn- 
ing, who  are  ever  at  heart  its  bitterest  disparagers.  Why  is 
this  ?  Because  one  full  half  of  democratic  opinion  is  made 
up  of  envy  ;  and  we  can  only  envy  what  is  brought  before 
our  eyes,  and  what,  while  very  near  to  us,  is  still  unattain- 
able. No  man  envies  an  archangel. 

"  But,"  said  Levy,  throwing  himself  back  in  his  chair, 
"  a  new  order  of  things  is  commencing ;  we  shall  see. 
Leslie,  it  is  lucky  for  you  that  you  did  not  enter  Parliament 
under  the  Government ;  it  would  be  vour  political  ruin  for 
life." 

"  You  think,  then,  that  the  ministry  really  cannot  last  ?" 

"  Of  course  I  do  ;  and  what  is  more,  I  think  that  a 
ministry  of  the  same  principles  cannot  be  restored.  You 
are  a  young  man  of  talent  and  spirit ;  your  birth  is  nothing 
compared  to  the  rank  of  the  reigning  party ;  it  would  tell, 
to  a  certain  degree,  in  a  democratic  one.  I  say,  you  should 
be  more  civil  to  Avenel  ;  he  could  return  you  to  Parliament 
at  the  next  election." 

"The  next  election  !  In  six  years  !  We  have  just  had 
a  general  election." 

"  There  will  be  another  before  this  year,  or  half  of  it,  or 
perhaps  a  quarter  of  it,  is  out." 

"  What  makes  you  think  so  ? " 

"  Leslie,  let  there  be  confidence  between  us  ;  we  can 
help  each  other.  Shall  we  be  friends  ?" 

"  With  all  my  heart.  But  though  you  may  help  me,  how 
can  I  help  you  ? " 

"You  have  helped  me  already  to  Frank  Hazeldean  and 
the  Casino  estate.  All  clever  men  can  help  me.  Come, 


656  MY  NOVEL;    OR, 

then,  we  are  friends  ;  and  what  I  say  is  secret.  You  ask  me 
why  I  think  there  will  be  a  general  election  so  soon  ?  I 
will  answer  you  frankly.  Of  all  the  public  men  I  ever  met 
with,  there  is  no  one  who  has  so  clear  a  vision  of  things 
immediately  before  him  as  Audley  Egerton." 

"  He  has  that  character.  Not  /<arr-seeing,  but  clear- 
sighted  to  a  certain  limit." 

"  Exactly  so.  No  one  better,  therefore,  knows  public 
opinion,  and  its  immediate  ebb  and  flow." 

"  Granted." 

"  Egerton,  then,  counts  on  a  general  election  within 
three  months  ;  and  I  have  lent  him  the  money  for  it." 

"  Lent  him  the  money  !  Egerton  borrow  money  of  you 
— the  rich  Audley  Egerton  !  " 

"Rich  !"  repeated  Levy  in  a  tone  impossible  to  describe, 
and  accompanying  the  word  with  that  movement  of  the 
middle  finger  and  thumb,  commonly  called  a  "snap,"  which 
indicates  profound  contempt. 

He  said  no  more.  Randal  sat  stupefied.  At  length  the 
latter  muttered,  "  But  if  Egerton  is  really  not  rich — if  he 
lose  office,  and  wthout  the  hope  of  return  to  it " 

"If  so,  he  is  ruined  !"  said  Levy,  coldly;  "and  there- 
fore, from  regard  to  yo\i,  and  feeling  an  interest  in  your 
future  fate,  I  say — Rest  no  hopes  of  fortune  or  career  upon 
Audley  Egerton.  Keep  your  place  for  the  present,  but  be 
prepared  at  the  next  election  to  stand  upon  popular  prin- 
ciples. Avenel  shall  return  you  to  Parliament ;  and  the 
rest  is  with  luck  and  energy.  And  now,  I'll  not  detain  you 
longer,"  said  Levy,  rising  and  ringing  the  bell.  The  ser- 
vant entered. 

'  Is  my  carriage  here  ?" 

'Yes,  Baron." 

'  Can  I  set  you  down  anywhere  ?  " 

'  No,  thank  you,  I  prefer  walking." 

'  Adieu,  then.  And  mind  you  remember  the  soirfa  dan- 
sante  at  Mrs.  Avenel's."  Randal  mechanically  shook  the 
hand  extended  to  him,  and  went  down  the  stairs. 

The  fresh  frosty  air  aroused  his  intellectual  faculties, 
which  Levy's  ominous  words  had  almost  paralyzed. 

And  the  first  thing  the  clever  schemer  said  to  himself 
was  this — "  But  what  can  be  the  man's  motives  in  what  he 
said  to  me  ? " 

The  next  was — "  Egerton  ruined  !     What  am  I,  then  ?  " 

And  the  third  was — "  And  that  fair  remnant  of  the  old 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  657 

Leslie  property !  ^20,000  down — how  to  get  the  sum  ? 
Why  should  Levy  have  spoken  to  me  of  this  ? " 

And  lastly,  the  soliloquy  rounded  back — "The  man's 
motives  !  His  motives  !  " 

Meanwhile,  the  Baron  threw  himself  into  his  chariot — 
the  most  comfortable  easy  chariot  you  can  possibly  con- 
ceive— single  man's  chariot — perfect  taste — no  married  man 
ever  had  such  a  chariot ;  and  in  a  few  minutes  he  was  at 

— 's  hotel,  and  in  the  presence  of  Giulio  Franzini,  Count 
di  Peschiera. 

"  Man  cher"  said  the  Baron,  in  very  good  French,  and 
in  a  tone  of  the  most  familiar  equality  with  the  descendant 
of  the  princes  and  heroes  of  grand  mediaeval  Italy — "  Man 
cher,  give  me  one  of  your  excellent  cigars.  I  think  I  have 
put  all  matters  in  train." 

"You  have  found  out " 

"  No  ;  not  so  fast  yet,"  said  the  Baron,  lighting  the 
cigar  extended  to  him.  "  But  you  said  that  you  should  be 
perfectly  contented  if  it  only  cost  you  ^20,000  to  marry 
off  your  sister  (to  whom  that  sum  is  legally  due),  and  to 
marry  yourself  to  the  heiress." 

"I  did,  indeed." 

"  Then  I  have  no  doubt  I  shall  manage  both  objects  for 
that  sum,  if  Randal  Leslie  really  knows  where  the  young 
lady  is,  and  can  assist  you.  Most  promising  able  man  is 
Randal  Leslie — but  innocent  as  a  babe  just  born." 

"Ha,  ha!     Innocent?     Qtte  diable  !  " 

"  Innocent  as  this  cigar,  man  cher — strong  certainly,  but 
smoked  very  easily.  Soyez  tranquille  /  " 


CHAPTER    XV. 

WHO  has  not  seen,  who  not  admired,  that  noble  picture 
by  Daniel  Maclise,  which  refreshes  the  immortal  name  of 
my  ancestor  Caxton  !  For  myself,  while  with  national  pride 
I  heard  the  admiring  murmurs  of  the  foreigners  who 
grouped  around  it  (nothing,  indeed,  of  which  our  nation 
may  be  more  proud  had  they  seen  in  the  Crystal  Palace) — 
heard,  with  no  less  a  pride  in  the  generous  nature  of  fellow- 
artists,  the  warm  applause  of  living  and  deathless  masters, 
sanctioning  the  enthusiasm  of  the  popular  crowd  ; — what 
28* 


658  MY  NOVEL;    OR, 

struck  me  more  than  the  precision  of  drawing,  for  which 
the  artist  has  been  always  renowned,  and  the  just,  though 
gorgeous  affluence  of  color  which  he  has  more  recently  ac- 
quired, was  the  profound  depth  of  conception,  out  of  which 
this  great  work  had  so  elaborately  arisen.  That  monk, 
\vith  his  scowl  toward  the  printer  and  his  back  on  the  Bible 
over  which  his  form  casts  a  shadow — the  whole  transition  be- 
tween the  mediaeval  Christianity  of  cell  and  cloister,  and 
the  modern  Christianity  that  rejoices  in  the  daylight,  is  de- 
picted there,  in  the  shadow  that  obscures  the  Book — in  the 
scowl  that  is  fixed  upon  the  Book-diffuscr ; — that  sombre, 
musing  face  of  Richard,  Duke  of  Gloucester,  with  the 
beauty  of  Napoleon,  darkened  to  the  expression  of  a  Fiend, 
looking  far  and  anxiously  into  futurity,  as  if  foreseeing 
there  what  antagonism  was  about  to  be  created  to  the 
schemes  of  secret  crime  and  unrelenting  force  ; — the  chival- 
rous head  of  the  accomplished  Rivers,  seen  but  in  profile 
under  his  Helmet,  as  if  the  age  when  Chivalry  must  defend 
its  noble  attributes,  in  steel,  was  already  half  passed  away : 
and,  not  least  grand  of  all,  the  rude  thews  and  sinews  of 
the  artisan  forced  into  service  on  the  type,  and  the  ray  of 
intellect,  fierce  and  menacing  revolutions  yet  to  be,  strug- 
gling through  his  rugged  features,  and  across  his  low  knitted 
brow  ; — all  this,  which  showed  how  deeply  the  idea  of  the 
discovery,  in  its  good  and  in  its  evil,  its  saving  light  and  its 
perilous  storms,  had  sunk  into  the  artist's  soul,  charmed  me 
as  effecting  the  exact  union  between  sentiment  and  execu- 
tion, which  is  the  true  and  rare  consummation  of  the  ideal 
in  Art.  But  observe,  while  in  these  personages  of  the 
group  are  depicted  the  deeper  and  graver  agencies  impli- 
cated in  the  bright  but  terrible  invention — observe  how 
little  the  light  epicures  of  the  hour  heed  the  scowl  of  the 
monk,  or  the  restless  gesture  of  Richard,  or  the  troubled 
gleam  in  the  eyes  of  the  artisan — King  Edward,  handsome 
Poco  curante,  delighted  in  the  surprise  of  a  child,  with  a  new 
toy  ;  and  Clarence,  with  his  curious,  yet  careless,  glance — 
all  the  while  Caxton  himself,  calm,  serene,  untroubled,  in- 
tent solely  upon  the  manifestation  of  his  discovery,  and  no 
doubt  supremely  indifferent  whether  the  first  proofs  of  it 
shall  be  dedicated  to  a  Rivers  or  an  Edward,  a  Richard  or 
a  Henry,  Plantagenet  or  Tudor — 'tis  all  the  same  to  that 
comely,  gentle-looking  man.  So  is  it  ever  with  your  Ab- 
stract Science  ! — not  a  jot  cares  its  passionless  logic  for  the 
woe  or  weal  of  a  generation  or  two.  The  stream,  once 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  659 

emerged  from  its  source,  passes  on  into  the  great  Intellect- 
ual Sea,  smiling  over  the  wretch  that  it  drowns,  or  under 
the  keel  of  the  ship  which  it  serves  as  a  slave. 

"  Now,  when  about  to  commence  the  present  chapter  on 
the  Varieties  of  Life,  this  masterpiece  of  thoughtful  art 
forced  itself  on  my  recollection,  and  illustrated  what  I  de- 
signed to  convey.  In  the  surface  of  every  age,  it  is  often 
that  which  but  amuses,  for  the  moment,  the  ordinary  chil- 
dren of  pleasant  existence,  the  Edwards  and  the  Clarences  (be 
they  kings  and  dukes,  or  simplest  of  simple  subjects),  which 
afterward  towers  out  as  the  great  serious  epoch  of  the 
time.  When  we  look  back  upon  human  records,  how  the  eye 
settles  upon  WRITERS  as  the  main  land-marks  of  the  past  ! 
We  talk  of  the  age  of  Augustus,  of  Elizabeth,  of  Louis  XIV., 
of  Anne,  as  the  notable  eras  of  the  world.  Why  ?  Because 
it  is  their  writers  who  have  made  them  so.  Intervals  between 
one  age  of  authors  and  another  lie  unnoticed,  as  the  flats  and 
common  lands  of  uncultured  history.  And  yet,  strange  to 
say,  when  these  authors  are  living  amongst  us,  they  occupy 
a  very  small  portion  of  our  thoughts,  and  fill  up  but  desul- 
tory interstices  in  the  bitumen  and  tufo  wherefrom  we  build 
up  the  Babylon  of  our  lives  !  So  it  is,  and  perhaps  so  it 
should  be,  whether  it  pleases  the  conceit  of  penmen  or  not. 
Life  is  meant  to  be  active  ;  and  books,  though  they  give  the 
action  to  future  generations,  administer  but  to  the  holiday 
of  the  present. 

And  so,  with  this  long  preface,  I  turn  suddenly  from  the 
Randals  and  the  Egertons,  arid  the  Levys,  Avenels,  and 
Peschieras — from  the  plots  and  passions  of  practical  life,  and 
drop  the  reader  suddenly  into  one  of  those  obscure  retreats 
wherein  Thought  weaves,  from  unnoticed  moments,  a  new 
link  to  the  chain  that  unites  the  ages. 

Within  a  small  room,  the  single  window  of  which  opened 
on  a  fanciful  and  fairy-like  garden,  that  has  been  before  de- 
scribed, sat  a  young  man  alone.  Fie  had  been  writing,  the 
ink  was  not  dry  on  his  manuscript,  but  his  thoughts  had 
been  suddenly  interrupted  from  his  work,  and  his  eyes,  now 
lifted  from  the  letter  which  had  occasioned  that  interruption, 
sparkled  with  delight.  "He  will  come,"  exclaimed  the 
young  man!  "  come  here — to  the  home  which  I  owe  to  him. 
I  have  not  been  unworthy  of  his  friendship.  And  she  " — his 
breast  heaved,  but  the  joy  faded  from  his  face.  "  Oh,  strange, 
strange,  that  I  feel  sad  at  the  thought  to  see  her  again.  See 
her — Ah  no  !  my  own  comforting  Helen — my  own  Child- 


660  MY  NOVEL;    OR, 

angel  !  Her  I  can  never  see  again  !  The  grown  woman — 
that  is  not  my  Helen.  And  yet — and  yet  (he  resumed  after 
a  pause),  if  ever  she  read  the  pages  in  which  thought  flowed 
and  trembled  under  her  distant  starry  light — if  ever  she  see 
how  her  image  has  rested  with  me,  and  feel  that,  while  others 
believe  that  I  invent,  I  have  but  remembered — will  she  not, 
for  a  moment,  be  my  own  Helen  again  !  Again,  in  heart 
and  in  fancy,  stand  by  my  side  on  the  desolate  bridge — hand 
in  hand — orphans  both,  as  we  stood  in  the  days  so  sorrowful, 
yet,  as  I  recall  them,  so  sweet, — Helen  in  England,  it  is  a 
dream  ! " 

He  rose,  half-consciously,  and  went  to  the  window.  The 
fountain  played  merrily  before  his  eyes,  and  the  birds  in  the 
aviary  carolled  loud  to  his  ear.  "  And  in  this  house,"  he 
murmured,  "I  saw  her  last !  And  there,  where  the  fountain 
now  throws  its  spray  on  high — there  her  benefactor  and  mine 
told  rne  that  I  was  to  lose  her,  that  I  might  win  fame. 
Alas  !  " 

At  this  time  a  woman,  whose  dress  was  somewhat  above 
her  mien  and  air,  which,  though  not  without  a  certain  re- 
spectability, were  very  homely,  entered  the  room  ;  and,  see- 
ing the  young  man  standing  thus  thoughtful  by  the  window, 
paused.  She  was  used  to  his  habits  ;  and  since  his  success 
in  life,  had  learned  to  respect  them.  So  she  did  not  disturb 
his  reverie,  but  began  softly  to  arrange  the  room — dusting, 
with  the  corner  of  her  apron,  the  various  articles  of  furni- 
ture, putting  a  stray  chair  or  two  in  its  right  place,  but  not 
touching  a  single  paper.  Virtuous  woman,  and  rare  as 
virtuous  ! 

The  young  man  turned  at  last,  with  a  deep,  yet  not  al- 
together painful,  sigh — 

"  My  dear  mother,  good-day  to  you.  Ah,  you  do  well  to 
make  the  room  look  its  best.  Happy  news !  I  expect  a 
visitor  !  " 

"  Dear  me,  Leonard,  will  he  want  lunch — or  what  ?" 

"  Nay,  I  think  not,  mother.  It  is  he  to  Avhom  we  owe 
all — '  Hcec  otia  fecit?  Pardon  my  Latin  ;  it  is  Lord 
L'Estrange." 

The  face  of  Mrs.  Fairfield  (the  reader  has  long  since  di- 
vined the  name)  changed  instantly  and  betrayed  a  nervous 
twitch  of  all  the  muscles,  which  gave  her  a  family  likeness 
to  old  Mrs.  Avenel. 

"  Do  not  be  alarmed,  mother.     He  is  the  kindest — 

"Don't  talk  so  :  I  can't  bear  it  !"  cried  Mrs.  Fairfield. 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  66 1 

"  No  wonder  you  are  affected  by  the  recollection  of  all 
his  benefits.  But  when  once  you  have  seen  him,  you  will 
find  yourself  ever  after  at  your  ease.  And  so,  pray  smile  and 
look  as  good  as  you  are  ;  for  I  am  proud  of  your  open  hon- 
est look  when  you  are  pleased,  mother.  And  he  must  see 
your  heart  in  your  face  as  I  do." 

With  this,  Leonard  put  his  arm  around  the  widow's 
neck,  and  kissed  her.  She  clung  to  him  fondly  for  a  mo- 
ment, and  he  felt  her  tremble  from  head  to  foot.  Then  she 
broke  from  his  embrace,  and  hurried  out  of  the  room. 
Leonard  thought  perhaps  she  had  gone  to  improve  her 
dress,  or  to  carry  her  housewife  energies  to  the  decoration 
of  the  other  rooms  ;'for  "the  house  "  was  Mrs.  Fairfield's 
hobby  and  passion  ;  and  now  that  she  worked  no  more,  save 
for  her  amusement,  it  was  her  main  occupation.  The  hours 
she  contrived  to  spend  daily  in  bustling  about  those  little 
rooms,  and  leaving  everything  therein  to  all  appearance  pre- 
cisely the  same,  were  among  the  marvels  in  life  which  the 
genius  of  Leonard  had  never  comprehended.  But  she  was 
always  so  delighted  when  Mr.  Norreys  or  some  rare  visitor 
came  ;  and  said,  (Mr.  Norreys  never  failed  to  do  so),  "  How 
neatly  all  is  kept  here  !  What  could  Leonard  do  without 
you,  Mrs.  Fairfield?" 

And,  to  Norreys's  infinite  amusement,  Mrs.  Fairfield 
always  returned  the  same  answer.  "Deed,  sir,  and  thank 
you  kindly,  but  'tis  my  belief  that  the  drawin'-room  would 
be  awful  dusty." 

Once  more  left  alone,  Leonard's  mind  returned  to  the 
state  of  reverie,  and  his  face  assumed  the  expression  that 
had  now  become  to  it  habitual.  Thus  seen,  he  was  changed 
much  since  we  last  beheld  him.  His  cheek  was  more  pale 
and  thin,  his  lips  more  firmly  compressed,  his  eye  more  fixed 
and  abstract.  You  could  detect,  if  I  may  borrow  a  touching 
French  expression,  that  "  sorrow  had  passed  by  there."  But 
the  melancholy  on  his  countenance  was  ineffably  sweet  and 
serene,  and  on  his  ample  forehead  there  was  that  power,  so 
rarely  seen  in  early  youth — the  power  that  has  conquered, 
and  betrays  its  conquests  but  in  calm.  The  period  of  doubt, 
of  struggle,  of  defiance,  was  gone  perhaps  for  ever  ;  genius 
and  soul  were  reconciled  to  human  life.  It  was  a  face  most 
loveable  ;  so  gentle  and  peaceful  in  its  character.  No  want 
of  fire  :  on  the  contrary,  the  fire  was  so  clear  and  so  stead- 
fast, that  it  conveyed  but  the  impression  of  light.  The  can- 
dor of  boyhood,  the  simplicity  of  the  villager,  were  still 


662  MY  NOVEL;    OR, 

there — refined  by  intelligence,  but  intelligence  that  seemed 
to  have  traversed  through  knowledge — not  with  the  footstep, 
but  the  wing — unsullied  by  the  mire— tending  toward  the 
star — seeking  through  the  various  grades  of  Being  but  the 
lovelier  forms  of  truth  and  goodness  ;  at  home,  as  should 
be  the  Art  that  consummates  the  Beautiful — 

"  In  den  heitern  Regionen 
Wo  die  reinen  Formen  wohnen."  * 

From  this  reverie  Leonard  did  not  seek  to  rouse  himself, 
till  the  bell  at  the  garden-gate  rang  loud  and  shrill ;  and 
then  starting  up  and  hurrying  into  the  hall,  his  hand  was 
grasped  in  Harley's. 


CHAPTER  XVI. 

A  FULL  and  happy  hour  passed  away  in  Harley's  ques- 
tions and  Leonard's  answers  ;  the  dialogue  that  naturally 
ensued  between  the  two,  on  the  first  interview  after  an  ab- 
sence of  years  so  eventful  to  the  younger  man. 

The  history  of  Leonard  during  this  interval  was  almost 
solely  internal,  the  struggle  of  intellect  with  its  own  diffi- 
culties, the  wanderings  of  imagination  through  its  own 
adventurous  worlds. 

The  first  aim  of  Norreys,  in  preparing  the  mind  of  his 
pupil  for  its  vocation,  had  been  to  establish  the  equilibrium 
of  its  powers,  to  calm  into  harmony  the  elements  rudely 
shaken  by  the  trials  and  passions  of  the  old,  hard,  outer 
life. 

The  theory  of  Norreys  was  briefly  this.  The  education 
of  a  superior  human  being  is  but  the  development  of  ideas 
in  one  for  the  benefit  of  others.  To  this  end,  attention 
should  be  directed  — ist,  To  the  value  of  the  ideas  collected  ; 
2ndly,  To  their  discipline  ;  3rdly,  To  their  expression.  For 
the  first,  acquirement  is  necessary  ;  for  the  second,  disci- 
pline ;  for  the  third,  art.  The  first  comprehends  knowledge, 
purely  intellectual,  whether  derived  from  observation, 
memory,  reflection,  books  or  men,  Aristotlp  or  Fleet  Street. 
The  second  demands  training,  not  only  intellectual,  but 

*  At  home — "  In  the  serene  regions 

Where  dwell  the  pure  forms." 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  663 

moral ;  the  purifying  and  exaltation  of  motives  ;  the  forma- 
tion of  habits  :  in  which  method  is  but  a  part  of  a  divine 
and  harmonious  symmetry — an  union  of  intellect  and  con- 
science. Ideas  of  value,  stored  by  the  first  process  ;  mar- 
shalled into  force,  and  placed  under  guidance,  by  the  second  ; 
it  is  the  result  of  the  third,  to  place  them  before  the  world 
in  the  most  attractive  or  commanding  form.  This  may  be 
done  by  actions  no  less  than  words  ;  but  the  adaptation  of 
means  to  end,  the  passage  of  ideas  from  the  brain  of  one  man 
into  the  lives  and  souls  of  all,  no  less  in  action  than  in  books, 
requires  study.  Action  has  its  art  as  Avell  as  literature. 
Here  Norreys  had  but  to  deal  with  the  calling  of  the  scholar, 
the  formation  of  the  writer,  and  so  to  guide  the  perceptions 
toward  those  varieties  in  the  sublime  and  beautiful,  the 
just  combination  of  which  is  at  once  CREATION.  Man  him- 
self is  but  a  combination  of  elements.  He  who  combines  in 
nature,  creates  in  art. 

Such,  very  succinctly  and  inadequately  expressed,  was 
the  system  upon  which  Norreys  proceeded  to  regulate  and 
perfect  the  great  native  powers  of  his  pupil  ;  and  though 
the  reader  may  perhaps  say  that  no  system  laid  down  by 
another  can  either  form  genius  or  dictate  to  its  results,  yet 
probably  nine-tenths  at  least  of  those  in  whom  we  recognize 
the  luminaries  of  our  race,  have  passed,  unconsciously  to 
themselves  (for  self-education  is  rarely  conscious  of  its 
phases),  through  each  of  these  processes.  And  no  one  who 
pauses  to  reflect  will  deny,  that,  according  to  this  theory, 
illustrated  by  a  man  of  vast  experience,  profound  knowl- 
edge, and  exquisite  taste,  the  struggles  of  genius  would  be 
infinitely  lessened  ;  its  vision  cleared  and  strengthened,  and 
the  distance  between  effort  and  success  notably  abridged. 

Norreys,  however,  was  far  too  deap  a  reasoner  to  fall 
into  the  error  of  modern  teachers,  who  suppose  that  educa- 
tion can  dispense  with  labor.  No  mind  becomes  muscular 
without  rude  and  early  exercise.  Labor  should  be  stren- 
uous, but  in  right  directions.  All  that  we  can  do  for  it  is  to 
save  the  waste  of  time  in  blundering  into  needless  toils. 

The  master  had  thus  first  employed  his  neophyte  in  arrang- 
ing and  compiling  materials  for  a  great  critical  work  in 
which  Norreys  himself  was  engaged.  In  this  stage  of 
scholastic  preparation,  Leonard  was  necessarily  led  to  the 
acquisition  of  languages,  for  which  he  had  great  aptitude — • 
the  foundations  of  a  large  and  comprehensive  erudition  were 
solidly  constructed.  lie  traced  by  the  ploughshare  the 


664  MY  NOVEL;    OR, 

walls  of  the  destined  city.  Habits  of  accuracy  and  of  gen- 
eralization became  formed  insensibly  ;  and  that  precious 
faculty  which  seizes,  amidst  accumulated  materials,  those  that 
serve  the  object  for  which  they  are  explored, — (that  faculty 
which  quadruples  all  force,  by  concentrating  it  on  one  point) 
— once  roused  into  action,  gave  purpose  to  every  toil  and 
quickness  to  each  perception.  But  Norreys  did  not  confine 
his  pupil  solely  to  the  mute  world  of  a  library  ;  he  intro- 
duced him  to  some  of  the  first  minds  in  arts,  science,  and 
letters — and  active  life.  "  These,"  said  he,  "are  the  living 
ideas  of  the  present,  out  of  which  books  for  the  future  will 
be  written :  study  them  ;  and  here,  as  in  the  volumes  of  the 
past,  diligently  amass  and  deliberately  compile." 

By  degrees  Norreys  led  on  that  young,  ardent  mind 
from  the  selection  of  ideas  to  their  aesthetic  analysis — from 
compilation  to  criticism  :  but  criticism  severe,  close,  and 
logical — a  reason  for  each  word  of  praise  or  of  blame.  Led 
in  this  stage  of  his  career  to  examine  into  the  laws  of 
beauty,  a  new  light  broke  upon  his  mind  ;  from  amidst  the 
masses  of  marble  he  had  piled  around  him,  rose  the  vision 
of  the  statue. 

And  so,  suddenly  one  day  Norreys  said  to  him,  "  I  need 
a  compiler  no  longer— maintain  yourself  by  your  own  crea- 
tions." And  Leonard  wrote,  and  a  work  flowered  up  from 
the  seed  deep  buried,  and  the  soil  well  cleared  to  the  rays 
of  the  sun  and  the  healthful  influence  of  expanded  air. 

That  first  work  did  not  penetrate  to  a  very  wide  circle 
of  readers,  not  from  any  perceptible  fault  of  its  own — there 
is  luck  in  these  things  ;  the  first  anonymous  work  of  an 
original  genius  is  rarely  at  once  eminently  successful.  But 
the  more  experienced  recognized  the  promise  of  the  book. 
Publishers,  who  have  an  instinct  in  the  discovery  of  avail- 
able talent,  which  often  forestalls  the  appreciation  of  the 
public,  volunteered  liberal  offers.  "  Be  fully  successful 
this  time,"  said  Norreys  ;  "  think  not  of  models  nor  of  style. 
Strike  at  once  at  the  common  human  heart — throw  away 
the  corks — swim  out  boldly.  One  word  more — never  write 
a  page  till  you  have  walked  from  your  room  to  Temple 
Bar,  and,  mingling  with  men,  and  reading  the  human  face, 
learn  why  great  poets  have  mostly  passed  their  lives  in 
cities." 

Thus  Leonard  wrote  again,  and  woke  one  morning  to 
find  himself  famous.  So  far  as  the  chances  of  all  profes- 
sions dependent  on  health  will  permit,  present  independence, 


N  ENGLISH  LIFE.  665 

and,  with  foresight  and  economy,  the  prospect  of  future 
competence,  were  secured. 

"And,  indeed,"  said  Leonard,  concluding  a  longer  but 
a  simpler  narrative  than  is  here  told — "  indeed,  there  is 
some  chance  that  I  may  obtain  at  once  a  sum  that  will 
leave  me  free  for  the  rest  of  my  life  to  select  my  own  sub- 
jects and  write  without  care  for  remuneration.  This  is 
what  I  call  the  true  (and,  perhaps,  alas !  the  rare)  indepen- 
dence of  him  who  devotes  himself  to  letters.  Norreys,  hav- 
ing seen  my  boyish  plan  for  the  improvement  of  certain  ma- 
chinery in  the  steam-engine,  insisted  on  my  giving  much 
time  to  mechanics.  The  study  that  once  pleased  i»e  so 
greatly,  now  seemed  dull  ;  but  I  went  into  it  with  good 
heart  ;  and  the  result  is,  that  I  have  improved  so  far  on 
my  original  idea,  that  my  scheme  has  met  the  approbation 
of  one  of  our  most  scientific  engineers  ;  and  I  am  assured 
that  the  patent  for  it  will  be  purchased  of  me  upon  terms 
which  I  am  ashamed  to  name  to  you,  so  disproportioned  do 
they  seem  to  the  value  of  so  simple  a  discovery.  Mean- 
while, I  am  already  rich  enough  to  have  realized  the  two 
dreams  of  my  heart — to  make  a  home  in  the  cottage  where 
I  had  last  seen  you  and  Helen — 1  mean  Miss  Digby  ; 
and  to  invite  to  that  home  her  who  had  sheltered  my  in- 
fancy." 

"  Your  mother,  where  is  she  ?     Let  me  see  her." 

Leonard  ran  out  to  call  the  widow,  but,  to  his  surprise 
and  vexation,  learned  that  she  had  quitted  the  house  before 
L'Estrange  arrived. 

He  came  back  perplexed  how  to  explain  what  seemed 
ungracious  and  ungrateful,  and  spoke  with  hesitating  lip 
and  flushed  cheek  of  the  widow's  natural  timidity  and 
sense  of  her  own  homely  station.  "  And  so  overpowered  is 
she,"  added  Leonard,  "  by  the  recollection  of  all  that  we 
owe  to  you,  that  she  never  hears  your  name  without  agita- 
tion or  tears,  and  trembled  like  a  leaf  at  the  thought  of  see- 
ing you." 

"  Ha  !  "  said  Harley,  with  visible  emotion.  "  Is  it  so  ?  " 
And  he  bent  down,  shading  his  face  with  his  hand.  "  And," 
he  renewed,  after  a  pause,  but  not  looking  up — "  and  you 
ascribe  this  fear  of  seeing  me,  this  agitation  at  my  name, 
solely  to  an  exaggerated  sense  of — of  the  circumstances  at- 
tending my  acquaintance  with  yourself?" 

"And,  perhaps,  to  a  sort  of  shame  that  the  mother  of 
one  you  have  made  her  proud  of  is  but  a  peasant." 


666  MY  NOVEL;    OR, 

"  That  is  all  ?  "  said  Harlcy,  earnestly,  now  looking  up 
and  fixing  his  eyes,  in  which  stood  tears,  upon  Leonard's 
ingenuous  brow. 

"Oh,  my  dear  lord,  what  else  can  it  be  ?  Do  not  judge 
her  harshly." 

L'Estrange  arose  abruptly,  pressed  Leonard's  hand,  mut- 
tered something  not  audible,  and  then  drawing  his  young 
friend's  arm  in  his,  led  him  into  the  garden,  and  turned 
the  conversation  back  to  its  former  topics. 

Leonard's  heart  yearned  to  ask  after  Helen,  and  yet 
something  withheld  him  from  doing  so,  till,  seeing  Har- 
ley  djd  not  volunteer  to  speak  of  her,  he  could  not  resist 
his  impulse.  "  And  Helen — Miss  Digby — is  she  much 
changed  ? " 

"  Changed,  no — yes  ;  very  much." 

"Very  much  !  "  Leonard  sighed.   "  I  shall  see  her  again?" 

"  Certainly,"  said  Harley,  in  a  tone  of  surprise.  "  How 
can  you  doubt  it  ?  And  I  reserve  to  you  the  pleasure  of 
saying  that  you  are  renowned.  You  blush  ;  well,  I  will  say 
that  for  you.  But  you  shall  give  her  your  books." 

"  She  has  not  yet  read  them,  then  ? — not  the  last  ?  The 
first  was  not  worthy  of  her  attention,"  said  Leonard,  disap- 
pointed. 

"  She  has  only  just  arrived  in  England  ;  and  though 
your  books  reached  me  in  Germany,  she  was  not  then  with 
me.  When  I  have  settled  some  busrness  that  will  take  me 
from  town,  I  shall  present  you  to  her  and  my  mother." 
There  was  a  certain  embarrassment  in  Ilarley's  voice  as  he 
spoke  ;  and,  turning  round  abruptly,  he  exclaimed,  "  But 
you  have  shown  poetry  even  here.  I  could  not  have  con- 
ceived that  so  much  beauty  could  be  drawn  from  what  ap- 
peared to  me  the  most  common-place  of  all  suburban  gar- 
dens. Why,  surely,  where  that  charming  fountain  now 
plays  stood  the  rude  bench  in  which  I  read  your  verses." 

"  It  is  true  ;  I  wished  to  unite  all  together  my  happiest 
associations.  I  think  I  told  you,  my  lord,  in  one  of  my  let- 
ters, that  I  had  owed  a  very  happy,  yet  very  struggling  time 
in  my  boyhood  to  the  singular  kindness  and  generous  in- 
structions of  a  foreigner  whom  I  served.  This  fountain  is 
copied  from  one  that  I  made  in  his  garden,  and  by  the 
margin  of  which  many  a  summer  day  I  have  sat  and  dreamt 
of  fame  and  knowledge." 

"True,  you  told  me  of  that  ;  and  your  foreigner  will  be 
pleased  to  hear  of  your  success,  and  no  less  so  of  your 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  667 

grateful  recollections.  By  the  way,  you  did  not  mention 
his  name." 

"  Riccabocca." 

"Riccabocca!  My  own  dear  and  noble  friend  ! — is  it 
possible  ?  One  of  my  reasons  for  returning  to  England  is 
connected  with  him.  You  shall  go  down  with  me  and  see 
him.  I  meant  to  start  this  evening." 

"  My  dear  lord,"  said  Leonard,  "I  think  that  you  may 
spare  yourself  so  long  a  journey.  I  have  reason  to  suspect 
that  Signer  Riccabocca  is  my  nearest  neighbor.  Two  days 
ago  I  was  in  the  garden,  when  suddenly  lifting  my  eyes  to 
yon  hillock  I  perceived  the  form  of  a  man  seated  amongst 
the  brushwood  ;  and,  though  I  could  not  see  his  features, 
there  was  something  in  the  very  outline  of  his  figure  and 
his  pecu-liar  posture,  that  irresistibly  reminded  me  of  Ricca- 
bocca. I  hastened  out  of  the  garden  and  ascended  the  hill, 
but  he  was  gone.  My  suspicions  were  so  strong,  that  I 
caused  inquiry  to  be  made  at  the  different  shops  scattered 
about,  and  learned  that  a  family,  consisting  of  a  gentleman, 
his  wife,  and  daughter,  had  lately  come  to  live  in  a  house  that 
you  must  have  passed  in  your  way  hither,  standing  a  little 
back  from  the  road,  surrounded  by  high  walls  ;  and  though 
they  were  said  to  be  English,  yet  from  the  description 
given  to  me  of  the  gentleman's  person  by  one  who  had  noticed 
it,  by  the  fact  of  a  foreign  servant  in  their  employ,  and  by 
the  very  name  '  Richmouth,'  assigned  to  the  new-comers,  I 
can  scarcely  doubt  that  it  is  the  family  you  seek." 

"And  you  have  not  called  to  ascertain  ?" 

"Pardon  me,  but  the  family  so  evidently  shunning  ob- 
servation (no  one  but  the  master  himself  ever  seen  without 
the  walls),  the  adoption  of  another  name  too — led  me  to 
infer  that  Signer  Riccabocca  has  some  strong  motive  for 
concealment ;  and  now,  with  my  improved  knowledge  of 
life,  and  recalling  all  the  past,  I  cannot  but  suppose  that 
Riccabocca  was  not  what  he  appeared.  Hence,  I  have  hes- 
itated on  formally  obtruding  myself  upon  his  secrets,  what- 
ever they  be,  and  have  rather  watched  for  some  chance 
occasion  to  meet  him  in  his  walks." 

"  You  did  right,  my  dear  Leonard  ;  but  my  reasons  for 
seeing  my  old  friend  forbid  all  scruples  of  delicacy,  and  I 
will  go  at  once  to  his  house." 

'•  You  will  tell  me,  my  lord,  if  I  am  right." 

"  I  hope  to  be  allowed  to  do  so.  Pray,  stay  at  home  till 
I  return.  And  now,  ere  I  go,  one  question  more  :  You 


668  MY  NOVEL;    OR, 

indulge  conjectures  as  to  Riccabocca,  because  he  has 
changed  his  name — why  have  you  dropped  your  own  ? " 

"  I  wished  to  have  no  name,"  said  Leonard,  coloring 
deeply,  "  but  that  which  I  could  make  myself." 

"  Proud  poet,  this  I  can  comprehend.  But  from  what 
reason  did  you  assume  the  strange  and  fantastic  name  of 
Oran  ?  " 

The  flush  on  Leonard's  face  became  deeper.  "My  lord," 
said  he,  in  a  low  voice,  "  it  is  a  childish  fancy  of  mine  ;  it  is 
an  anagram." 

"Ah!" 

"  At  a  time  when  my  cravings  after  knowledge  were 
likely  much  to  mislead,  and  perhaps  to  undo  me,  I  chanced 
on  some  poems  that  suddenly  affected  my  whole  mind,  and 
led  me  up  into  purer  air  ;  and  I  was  told  that  these  poems 
were  written  in  youth,  by  one  who  had  beauty  and  genius — 
one  who  was  in  her  grave — a  relation  of  my  own,  and  her 
familiar  name  was  Nora " 

"Ah  !  "  again  ejaculated  Lord  L'Estrange,  and  his  arm 
pressed  heavily  .upon  Leonard's. 

"  So,  somehow  or  other,"  continued  the  young  author 
falteringly,  "  I  wished  that  if  ever  I  won  a  poet's  fame, 
it  might  be  to  my  own  heart,  at  least,  associated  with  this 
name  of  Nora — with  her  whom  death  had  robbed  of  the 
fame  that  she  might  otherwise  have  won — with  her 
who " 

He  paused,  greatly  agitated. 

Harley  was  no  less  so.  But,  as  if  by  a  sudden  impulse, 
the  soldier  bent  down  his  manly  head  and  kissed  the  poet's 
brow  ;  then  he  hastened  to  the  gate,  flung  himself  on  his 
horse,  and  rode  away. 


CHAPTER  XVII. 

LORD  L'ESTRANGE  did  not  proceed  at  once  to  Ricca- 
bocca's  house.  He  was  under  the  influence  of  a  remem- 
brance too  deep  and  too  strong  to  yield  easily  to  the  luke- 
warm claim  of  friendship.  He  rode  fast  and  far  ;  and  im- 
possible it  would  be  to  define  the  feelings  that  passed 
through  a  mind  so  acutely  sensible  and  so  rootedly  tena- 
cious of  all  affections.  When  recalling  his  duty  to  the  Italian, 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  669 

he  once  more  struck  into  the  road  to  Norwood,  the  slow 
pace  of  his  horse  was  significant  of  his  own  exhausted 
spirits  ;  a  deep  dejection  had  succeeded  to  feverish  excite- 
ment. "  Vain  task,"  he  murmured,  "  to  wean  myself  from 
the  dead !  Yet  I  am  now  betrothed  to  another  ;  and  she, 

with  all  her  virtues,  is  not  the  one  to "  He  stopped 

short  in  generous  self-rebuke.  "  Too  late  to  think  of  that ! 
Now,  all  that  should  remain  to  me  is  to  insure  the  happi- 
ness of  the  life  to  which  I  have  pledged  my  own.  But " 

He  sighed  as  he  so  murmured.  On  reaching  the  vicinity  of 
Riccabocca's  house,  he  put  up  his  horse  at  a  little  inn,  and 
proceeded  on  foot  across  the  heath-land  toward  the  dull 
square  building,  which  Leonard's  description  had  sufficed 
to  indicate  as  the  exile's  new  home.  It  wras  long  before 
any  one  answered  his  summons  at  the  gate.  Not  till  he  had 
thrice  rung  did  he  hear  a  heavy  step  on  the  gravel-walk 
within  ;  then  the  wicket  within  the  gate  was  partially  drawn 
aside,  a  dark  eye  gleamed  out,  and  a  voice  in  imperfect 
English  asked  who  was  there.  . 

"Lord  L'Estrange  ;  and  if  I  am  right  as  to  the  person  I 
seek,  that  name  will  at  once  admit  me." 

The  door  flew  open  as  did  that  of- the  mystic  cavern  at 
the  sound  of  "  Open,  Sesame  ;  "  and  Giacomo,  almost  weep- 
ing with  joyous  emotion,  exclaimed,  in  Italian,  "  The  good 
Lord  !  Holy  San  Giacomo !  thou  hast  heard  me  at  last ! 
We  are  safe  now."  And  dropping  the  blunderbuss  with 
which  he  had  taken  the  precaution  to  arm  himself,  he  lifted 
Harley's  hand  to  his  lips,  in  the  affectionate  greeting  pecu- 
liar to  his  countrymen. 

"And  the  Padrone?"  asked  Harley,  as  he  entered  the 
jealous  precincts. 

"  Oh,  he  is  just  gone  out ;  but  he  will  not  be  long.  You 
will  wait  for  him  ? " 

"  Certainly.  What  lady  is  that  I  see  at  the  far  end  of 
the  garden  ? " 

"  Bless  her,  it  is  our  Signorina.  I  will  run  and  tell  her 
you  are  come." 

"  That  I  am  come  ;  but  she  cannot  know  me  even  by 
name." 

"  Ah,  Excellency,  can  you  think  so  ?  Many  and  many 
a  time  has  she  talked  to  me  of  you,  and  I  have  heard  her 
pray  to  the  holy  Madonna  to  bless  you,  and  in  a  voice  so 
sweet — 

"  Stay,  I  will  present  myself  to  her.     Go  into  the  house, 


670  MY  NOVEL  ;    OR, 

and  we  will  wait  without  for  the  Padrone.  Nay,  I  need  the 
air,  my  friend."  Harley,  as  he  said  this,  broke  from  Gia- 
como,  and  approached  Violante. 

The  poor  child,  in  her  solitary  walk  in  the  obscurer  parts 
of  the  dull  garden,  had  escaped  the  eye  of  Giacomo  when 
he  had  gone  forth  to  answer  the  bell  ;  and  she,  unconscious 
of  the  fears  of  which  she  was  the  object,  had  felt  something 
of  youthful  curiosity  at  the  summons  at  the  gate,  and  the 
sight  of  a  stranger  in  close  and  friendly  confidence  with  the 
unsocial  Giacomo. 

Harley  now  neared  her  with  that  singular  grace  of 
movement  which  belonged  to  him,  a.  thrill  shot  through 
her  heart — she  knew  not  why.  She  did  not  recognize  his 
likeness  to  the  sketch  taken  by  her  father  from  his  recol- 
lections of  Harley's  early  youth.  She  did  not  guess  who  lie 
was  ;  and  yet  she  felt  herself  color,  and,  naturally  fearless 
though  she  was,  turned  away  with  a  vague  alarm. 

"  Pardon  my  want  of  ceremony,  Signorina,"  said  Har- 
ley, in  Italian  ;.'-but  I  am  so  old  a  friend  of  your  father's 
that  I  cannot  feel  as  a  stranger  to  yourself." 

Then  Violante  lifted  to  him  her  dark  eyes,  so  intelligent 
and  so  innocent — eyes  full  of  surprise,  but  not  displeased 
surprise.  And  Harley  himself  stood  amazed  and  almost 
abashed,  by  the  rich  and  almost  marvellous  beauty  that 
beamed  upon  him.  "  My  father's  friend,"  she  said,  hesi- 
tatingly, "and  I  never  to  have  seen  you  !  " 

"Ah,  Signorina,"  said  Harley  (and  something  of  its  na- 
tive humor,  half  arch,  half  sad,  played  round  his  lip),  "you 
are  mistaken  there  ;  you  have  seen  me  before,  and  you  re- 
ceived me  much  more  kindly  then " 

"  Signer  !  "  said  Violante,  more  and  more  surprised,  and 
with  a  yet  richer  color  on  her  cheeks. 

Harley,  who  had  now  recovered  from  the  first  effect  of 
her  beauty,  and  who  regarded  her  as  men  of  his  years  and 
character  are  apt  to  regard  ladies  in  their  teens,  as  more 
child  than  woman,  suffered  himself  to  be  amused  by  her 
perplexity  ;  for  it  was  in  his  nature,  that  the  graver  and 
more  mournful  he  felt  at  heart,  the  more  he  sought  to  give 
play  and  whim  to  his  spirits. 

"Indeed,  Signorina,"  said  he,  demurely,  "you  insisted 
then  on  placing  one  of  those  fair  hands  in  mine  ;  the  other 
(forgive  me  the  fidelity  of  my  recollections)  was  affection- 
ately thrown  around  my  neck." 

"  Signer  ! "  again    exclaimed  Violante  ;    but   this  time 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  671 

there  was  anger  in  her  voice,  as  well  as  surprise,  and  noth- 
ing could  be  more  charming  than  her  look  of  pride  and 
resentment. 

Harley  smiled  again,  but  with  so  much  kindly  sweet- 
ness, that  the  anger  vanished  at  once,  or  rather  Violante 
felt  angry  with  herself  that  she  was  no  longer  angry  with 
him.  But  she  had  looked  so  beautiful  in  her  anger,  that 
Harley  wished,  perhaps,  to  see  her  angry  again.  So,  com- 
posing his  lips  from  their  propitiatory  smile,  he  resumed, 
gravely — 

"  Your  flatterers  will  tell  you,  Signorina,  that  you  are 
much  improved  since  then,  but  I  liked  you  better  as  you 
were  ;  not  but  what  I  hope  to  return  some  day  what  you 
then  so  generously  press.ed  upon  me." 

"  Pressed  upon  you  ! — I  ?  Signer,  you  are  under  some 
strange  mistake." 

"  Alas  !  no  ;  but  the  female  heart  is  so  capricious  and 
fickle  !  You  pressed  it  upon  me,  I  assure  you.  I  own  that 
I  was  not  loath  to  accept  it." 

"  Pressed  it !     Pressed  what  ?  " 

"  Your  kiss,  my  child,"  said  Harley  ;  and  then  added, 
with  a  serious  tenderness,  "  And  I  again  say  that  I  hope  to 
return  it  some  day — -when  I  see  you,  by  the  side  of  father 
and  of  husband,  in  your  native  land — the  fairest  bride  on 
whom  the  skies  of  Italy  ever  smiled  !  And  now,  pardon  a 
hermit  and  a  soldier  for  his  rude  jests,  and  give  your  hand, 
in  token  of  that  pardon, — to  Harley  L' Estrange." 

Violante,  who,  at  the  first  words  of  his  address  had  re- 
coiled, with  a  vague  belief  that  the  stranger  was  out  of  his 
mind,  sprang  forward  as  it  closed,  and,  in  all  the  vivid  en- 
thusiasm of  her  nature,  pressed  the  hand  held  out  to  her, 
with  both  her  own.  "Harley  L'Estrange — the  preserver  of 
my  father's  life  ! "  she  cried  ;  and  her  eyes  were  fixed  on 
his  with  such  evident  gratitude  and  reverence  that  Harley 
felt  at  once  confused  and  delighted.  She  did  not  think  at 
that  instant  of  the  hero  of  her  dreams — she  thought  but  of 
him  who  had  saved  her  father.  But,  as  his  eyes  sank  be- 
fore her  own,  and  his  head  uncovered,  bowed  over  the 
hand  he  held,  she  recognized  the  likeness  to  the  features  on 
which  she  had  so  often  gazed.  The  first  bloom  of  youth 
was  gone,  but  enough  of  youth  still  remained  to  soften  the 
lapse  of  years,  and  to  leave  to  manhood  the  attractions 
which  charm  the  eye.  Instinctively  she  withdrew  her  hands 
from  his  clasp,  and,  in  her  turn,  looked  down. 


672  MY  NOVEL;    OR, 

In  this  pause  of  embarrassment  to  both,  Riccabocca  let 
himself  into  the  garden  by  his  own  latch-key,  and,  startled 
to  see  a  man  by  the  side  of  Violante,  sprang  forward  with 
an  abrupt  and  angry  cry.  Harley  heard,  and  turned. 

As  if  restored  to  courage  and  self-possession  by  the 
sense  of  her  father's  presence,  Violante  again  took  the  hand 
of  the  visitor.  "Father,"  she  said,  simply,  "it  is  he — he  is 
corne  at  last."  And  then,  retiring  a  few  steps,  she  contem- 
plated them  both  ;  and  her  face  was  radiant  with  happiness 
— as  if  something,  long  silently  missed  and  looked  for,  was 
as  silently  found,  and  life  had  no  more  a  want,  nor  the 
heart  a  void. 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  673 


BOOK   TENTH. 


INITIAL   CHAPTER. 

UPON    THIS   FACT — THAT  THE  WORLD    IS   STILL   MUCH   THE    SAME 
AS   IT   ALWAYS   HAS   BEEN. 

IT  is  observed  by  a  very  pleasant  writer — read  now-a- 
days  only  by  the  brave  pertinacious  few  who  still  struggle 
hard  to  rescue  from  the  House  of  Pluto  the  souls  of  de- 
parted authors,  jostled  and  chased  as  those  souls  are  by  the 
noisy  footsteps  of  the  living — it  is  observed  by  the  admirable 
Charron,  that  "judgment  and  wisdom  is  not  only  the  best, 
but  the  happiest  portion  God  Almighty  hath  distributed 
amongst  men  ;  for  though  this  distribution  be  made  with  a 
very  uneven  hand,  yet  nobody  thinks  himself  stinted  or  ill- 
dealt  with,  but  he  that  hath  never  so  little  is  contented  in 
this  respect."* 

And,  certainly,  the  present  narrative  may  serve  in  nota- 
ble illustration  of  the  remark  so  dryly  made  by  the  witty 
and  wise  preacher.  For  whether  our  friend  Riccabocca  de- 
duce theories  for  daily  life  from  the  great  folio  of  Machia- 
velli,  or  that  promising  young  gentleman,  Mr.  Randal  Les- 
lie, interpret  the  power  of  knowledge  into  the  art  of  being 
too  knowing  for  dull  honest  folks  to  cope  with  him  ;  or 
acute  Dick  Avenel  push  his  way  up  the  social  ascent  with 
a  blow  for  those  before,  and  a  kick  for  those  behind  him, 
after  the  approved  fashion  of  your  strong  New  Man  ;  or 
Baron  Levy — that  cynical  impersonation  of  Gold — compare 
himself  to  the  Magnetic  Rock  in  the  Arabian  tale,  to  which 
the  nails  in  every  ship  that  approaches  the  influence  of  the 
loadstone  fly  from  the  planks,  and  a  shipwreck  per  day 

*  Translation  of  Charron  on  Wisdom.  By  G.  STANHOPE,  D.D.,  late  Dean  of  Canter- 
bury (1729).  A  translation  remarkable  for  ease,  vigor,  and  (despite  that  contempt  for  the 
strict  rules  of  grammar,  which  was  common  enough  amongst  writers  at  the  commencement  of 
the  last  century)  for  the  idiomatic  raciness  of  its  English. 

29 


674  MY  NOVEL;    OK, 

adds  its  waifs  to  the  Rock  :  questionless  at  least  it  is,  that 
each  of  those  personages  believes  that  Providence  has  be- 
stowed on  him  an  elder  son's  inheritance  of  wisdom.  Nor, 
were  we  to  glance  toward  the  obscurer  paths  of  life,  should 
we  find  good  Parson  Dale  deem  himself  worse  off  than  the 
rest  of  the  world  in  this  precious  commodity— as,  indeed, 
he  has  signally  evinced  of  late  in  that  shrewd  guess  of  his 
touching  Professor  Moss  ; — even  plain  Squire  Hazeldean 
takes  it  for  granted  that  he  could  teach  Audley  Egerton  a 
thing  or  two  worth  knowing  in  politics  ;  Mr.  Stirn  thinks 
that  there  is  no  branch  of  useful  lore  on  which  he  could  not 
instruct  the  Squire;  while  Sprott,  the  tinker,  with  his  bag 
full  of  tracts  and  lucifer-matches,  regards  the  whole  frame- 
work of  modern  society,  from  a  rick  to  a  constitution,  with 
the  profound  disdain  of  a  revolutionary  philosopher.  Con- 
sidering that  every  individual  thus  brings  into  the  stock  of 
the  world  so  vast  a  share  of  intelligence,  it  cannot  but  ex- 
cite our  wonder  to  find  that  Oxenstiern  is  popularly  held  to 
be  right  when  he  said,  "  See,  my  son,  how  little  wisdom  it 
requires  to  govern  States  ;  " — that  is,  Men  !  That  so  many 
millions  of  persons,  each  with  a  profound  assurance  that  he 
is  possessed  of  an  exalted  sagacity,  should  concur  in  the  as- 
cendancy of  a  few  inferior  intellects,  according  to  a  few 
stupid,  prosy,  matter-of-fact  rules  as  old  as  the  hills,  is  a 
phenomenon  very  discreditable  to  the  spirit  and  energy  of 
the  aggregate  human  species  !  It  creates  no  surprise  that 
one  sensible  watch-dog  should  control  the  movements  of  a 
flock  of  silly  grass-eating  sheep  ;  but  that  two  or  three  silly 
grass-eating  sheep  should  give  the  law  to  whole  flocks  of 
such  mighty  sensible  watch-dogs — Diavolo !  Dr.  Riccabocca, 
explain  that  if  you  can  !  And  wonderfully  strange  it  is,  that 
notwithstanding  all  the  march  of  enlightenment,  notwith- 
standing our  progressive  discoveries  in  the  laws  of  nature — 
our  railways,  steam-engines,  animal  magnetism,  and  electro- 
biulogy — we  have  never  made  any  improvement  that  is  gen- 
erally acknowledged,  since  Men  ceased  to  be  troglodytes 
and  nomads,  in  the  old-fashioned  gamut  of  flats  and  sharps, 
which  attunes  into  irregular  social  jog-trot  all  the  genera- 
tions that  pass  from  the  cradle  to  the  grave;  still,  "the  de- 
sire for  something  we  have  not"  impels  all  the  energies  that 
keep  us  in  movement,  for  good  or  for  ill,  according  to  the 
checks  or  the  directions  of  each  favorite  desire. 

A  friend  of  mine  once  said  to  a  millionaire,  whom  he  saw 
for  ever  engaged  in  making  money  which  he  never  seemed 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  675 

to  have  any  pleasure  in  spending,  "  Pray,  Mr. ,  will  you 

answer  me  one  question  :  You  are  said  to  have  two  millions, 
and  you  spend  ^600  a-year.  In  order  to  rest  and  enjoy, 
what  will  content  you  ?" 

"  A  little  more,"  answered  the  millionaire.  That  "little 
more"  is  the  main-spring  of  civilization.  Nobody  ever  gets  it ! 

"Philus,"  saith  a  Latin  writer,  "was  not  so  rich  as 
Laelius  ;  Laelius  was  not  so  rich  as  Scipio  ;  Scipio  was  not  so 
rich  as  Crassus  ;  and  Crassus  was  not  so  rich  as  he  wished  to 
be  !  "  If  John  Bull  were  once  contented,  Manchester  might 
shut  up  its  mills.  It  is  the  "  little  more  "  that  makes  a  mere 
trifle  of  the  National  Debt !— Long  life  to  it  ! 

Still,  mend  our  law-books  as  we  will,  one  is  forced  to 
confess  that  knaves  are  often  seen  in  fine  linen,  and  honest 
men  in  the  most  shabby  old  rags  ;  and  still,  notwithstanding 
the  exceptions,  knavery  is  a  very  hazardous  game ;  and 
honesty,  on  the  whole,  by  far  the  best  policy.  Still,  most  of 
the  Ten  Commandments  remain  at  the  core  of  all  the  Pan- 
dects and  Institutes  that  keep  our  hands  off  our  neighbors' 
throats,  wives,  and  pockets  ;  still,  every  year  shows  that 
the  Parson's  maxim — non  quieta  movere — is  as  prudent  for  the 
health  of  communities  as  when  Apollo  recommended  his 
votaries  not  to  rake  up  a  fever  by  stirring  the  Lake  Cama- 
rina  ;  still  people,  thank  Heaven,  decline  to  reside  in  paral- 
lelograms ;  and  the  surest  token  that  we  live  under  a  free 
government  is,  when  we  are  governed  by  persons  whom  we 
have  a  full  right  to  imply,  by  our  censure  and  ridicule,  are 
blockheads  compared  to  ourselves  !  Stop  that  delightful 
privilege,  and,  by  Jove  !  sir,  there  is  neither  pleasure  nor 
honor  in  being  governed  at  all !  You  might  as  well  be — a 
Frenchman  ! 


CHAPTER  II. 

THE  Italian  and  his  friend  are  closeted  together. 

"And  why  have  you  left  your  home  in shire?  and 

why  this  new  change  of  name  ?  " 

"  Peschiera  is  in  England." 

"  I  know  it." 

"  And  bent  on  discovering  me  ;  and,  it  is  said,  of  stealing 
from  me  my  child." 

"  He  has   had  the  assurance  to  lay  wagers  that  he  will 


676  MY  NOVEL;    OR, 

win  the  hand  of  your  heiress.  I  know  that  too  ;  and  there- 
fore I  have  come  to  England — first  to  baffle  his  design — for 
I  do  not  think  your  fears  altogether  exaggerated— and  next 
to  learn  from  you  how  to  follow  up  a  clue  which,  unless  I 
am  too  sanguine,  may  lead  to  his  ruin,  and  your  uncon- 
ditional restoration.  Listen  to  me.  You  are  aware  that, 
after  the  skirmish  with  Peschiera's  armed  hirelings  sent  in 
search  of  you,  I  received  a  polite  message  from  the  Austrian 
Government,  requesting  me  to  leave  its  Italian  domains. 
Now,  as  I  hold  it  the  obvious  duty  of  any  foreigner,  admit- 
ted to  the  hospitality  of  a  State,  to  refrain  from  all  participa- 
tion in  its  civil  disturbances,  so  I  thought  my  honor  assailed 
at  this  intimation,  and  went  at  once  to  Vienna  to  explain  to 
the  Minister  there  (to  whom  I  was  personally  known),  that 
though  I  had,  as  became  man  to  man,  aided  to  protect  a 
refugee,  who  had  taken  shelter  under  my  roof,  from  the 
infuriated  soldiers  at  the  command  of  his  private  foe,  I  had 
not  only  not  shared  in  any  attempt  at  revolt,  but  dissuaded, 
as  far  as  I  could,  my  Italian  friends  from  their  enterprise  ; 
and  that  because,  without  discussing  its  merits,  I  believed, 
as  a  military  man  and  a  cool  spectator,  the  enterprise  could 
only  terminate  in  fruitless  bloodshed.  I  was  enabled  to 
establish  my  explanation  by  satisfactory  proof  ;  and  my 
acquaintance  with  the  Minister  assumed  something  of  the 
character  of  friendship.  I  was  then  in  a  position  to  advo- 
cate your  cause,  and  to  state  your  original  reluctance  to 
enter  into  the  plots  of  the  insurgents.  I  admitted  freely 
that  you  had  such  natural  desire  for  the  independence  of 
your  native  land,  that,  had  the  standard  of  Italy  been  boldly 
hoisted  by  its  legitimate  chiefs,  or  at  the  common  uprising 
of  its  whole  people,  you  would  have  been  found  in  the  van, 
amidst  the  ranks  of  your  countrymen  ;  but  I  maintained 
that  you  would  never  have  shared  in  a  conspiracy  frantic  in 
itself,  and  defiled  by  the  lawless  schemes  and  sordid  ambition 
of  its  main  projectors,  had  you  not  been  betrayed  and 
decoyed  into  it  by  the  misrepresentations  and  domestic 
treachery  of  .your  kinsman — the  very  man  who  denounced 
you.  Unfortunately,  of  this  statement  I  had  no  proof  but 
your  own  word.  I  made,  however,  so  far  an  impression  in 
your  favor,  and.  it  may  be,  against  the  traitor,  that  your 
property  was  not  confiscated  to  the  State,  nor  handed  over, 
upon  the  plea  of  your  civil  death,  to  your  kinsman." 

"  How ! — I  do  not  understand.     Peschiera  has  the  prop- 
erty?" 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  677 

"  He  holds  the  revenues  but  of  one-half  upon  pleasure, 
and  they  would  be  withdrawn,  could  I  succeed  in  establish- 
ing the  case  that  exists  against  him.  I  was  forbidden  before 
to  mention  this  to  you  ;  the  Minister,  not  inexcusably,  sub- 
mitted you  to  the  probation  of  unconditional  exile.  Your 
grace  might  depend  upon  your  own  forbearance  from  fu- 
ture conspiracies — forgive  the  word.  I  need  not  say  I  was 
permitted  to  return  to  Lombardy.  I  found,  on  my  arrival, 
that — that  your  unhappy  wife  had  been  to  my  house,  and 
exhibited  great  despair  at  hearing  of  my  departure." 

Riccabocca  knit  his  dark  brows,  and  breathed  hard. 

"  I  did  not  judge  it  necessary  to  acquaint  you  with  this 
circumstance,  nor  did  it  much  affect  me.  I  believed  in  her 
guilt — and  what  could  now  avail  her  remorse,  if  remorse  she 
felt  ?  Shortly  afterward,.  I  heard  that  she  was  no  more." 

"Yes,"  muttered  Riccabocca,  "she  died  in  the  same  year 
that  I  left  Italy.  It  must  be  a  strong  reason  that  can  excuse 
a  friend  for  reminding  me  even  that  she  once  lived  !  " 

"I  come  at  once  to  that  reason,"  said  L'Estrange  gently. 
"  This  autumn  I  was  roaming  through  Switzerland,  and,  in 
one  of  my  pedestrian  excursions  amidst  the  mountains,  I 
met  with  an  accident,  which  confined  me  for  some  days  to 
a  sofa  at  a  little  inn  in  an  obscure  village.  My  hostess  was 
an  Italian  ;  and,  as  I  had  left  my  servant  at  a  town  at  some 
distance,  I  required  her  attention  till  I  could  write  to  him  to 
come  to  me.  I  was  thankful  for  her  care,  and  amused  by 
her  Italian  babble.  We  became  very  good  friends.  She 
told  me  she  had  been  servant  to  a  lady  of  great  rank,  who 
had  died  in  Switzerland  ;  and  that,  being  enriched  by  the 
generosity  of  her  mistress,  she  had  married  a  Swiss  inn- 
keeper, and  his  people  had  become  hers.  My  servant 
arrived,  and  my  hostess  learned  my  name,  which  she  did 
not  know  before.  She  came  into  my  room  greatly  agitated. 
In  brief,  this  woman  had  been  servant  to  your  wife.  She 
had  accompanied  her  to  my  villa,  and  known  of  her  anxiety 
to  see  me,  as  your  friend.  The  Government  had  assigned 
to  your  wife  your  palace  at  Milan,  with  a  competent  income. 
She  had  refused  to  accept  of  either.  Failing  to  see  me, 
she  had  set  off  toward  England,  resolved  upon  seeing  your- 
self ;  for  the  journals  had  stated  that  to  England  you  had 
escaped." 

"  She  dared  ! — shameless  !  And  see,  but  a  moment  be- 
fore, I  had  forgotten  all  but  her  grave  in  a  foreign  soil — and 
these  tears  had  forgiven  her,"  murmured  the  Italian. 


678  MY  NOVEL;    OR, 

"  Let  them  forgive  her  still,"  said  Harley,  with  all  his 
exquisite  sweetness  of  look  and  tone.  "I  resume.  On  en- 
tering Switzerland,  your  wife's  health,  which  you  know  was 
always  delicate,  gave  way.  To  fatigue  and  anxiety  suc- 
ceeded fever,  and  delirium  ensued.  She  had  taken  with  her 
but  this  one  female  attendant — the  sole  one  she  could  trust 
— on  leaving  home.  She  suspected  Peschiera  to  have  bribed 
her  household.  In  the  presence  of  this  woman  she  raved 
of  her  innocence — in  accents  of  terror  and  aversion,  de- 
nounced your  kinsman — and  called  on  you  to  vindicate  her 
name  and  your  own." 

"  Ravings  indeed  !  Poor  Paulina  ! "  groaned  Ricca- 
bocca,  covering  his  face  with  both  hands. 

"But  in  her  delirium  there  were  lucid  intervals.  In  one 
of  these  she  rose,  in  spite  of  all  her  servant  could  do  to  re- 
strain her,  took  from  her  desk  several  letters,  and  reading 
them  over,  exclaimed  piteously,  '  But  how  to  get  them  to 
him  ? — whom  to  trust  ?  And  his  friend  is  gone  ! '  Then  an 
idea  seemed  suddenly  to  flash  upon  her,  for  she  uttered  a 
joyous  exclamation,  sat  down,  and  wrote  long  and  rapidly  ; 
enclosed  what  she  wrote  with  all  the  letters,  in  one  packet, 
which  she  sealed  carefully,  and  bade  her  servant  carry  to 
the  post,  with  many  injunctions  to  take  it  with  her  own 
hand,  and  pay  the  charge  on  it.  '  For  oh  ! '  said  she  (I  re- 
peat the  words  as  my  informant  told  them  to  me) — 'for,  oh  ! 
this  is  my  sole  chance  to  prove  to  my  husband  that,  though 
I  have  erred,  I  am  not  the  guilty  thing  he  believes  me  :  the 
sole  chance,  too,  to  redeem  my  error,  and  restore,  perhaps 
to  my  husband  his  country,  to  my  child  her  heritage.'  The 
servant  took  the  letter  to  the  post  ;  and  when  she  returned, 
her  lady  was  asleep,  with  a  smile  upon  her  face.  But  from 
that  sleep,  she  woke  again  delirious,  and  before  the  next 
morning  her  soul  had  fled."  Here  Riccabocca  lifted  one 
hand  from  his  face  and  grasped  Harley's  arm,  as  if  mutely 
beseeching  him  to  pause.  The  heart  of  the  man  struggled 
hard  with  his  pride  and  his  philosophy  ;  and  it  was  long  be- 
fore Harley  could  lead  him  to  regard  the  worldly  prospects 
which  this  last  communication  from  his  wife  might  open  to 
his  ruined  fortunes.  Not,  indeed,  till  Riccabocca  had  per- 
suaded himself,  and  half-persuaded  Harley  (for  strong,  in- 
deed, was  all  presumption  of  guilt  against  the  dead)  that  his 
wife's  protestations  of  innocence  from  all  but  error  had  been 
but  ravings. 

"Be  this  as  it  may,"  said  Harley,  "there  seems  every 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  679 

reason  to  suppose  that  the  letters  enclosed  were  Peschiera's 
correspondence,  and  that,  if  so,  these  would  establish  the 
proof  of  his  influence  over  your  wife,  and  of  his  perfidious 
machinations  against  yourself.  I  resolved,  before  coming 
hither,  to  go  round  by  Vienna.  There  I  heard,  with  dismay, 
that  Peschiera  had  not  only  obtained  the  imperial  sanction 
to  demand  your  daughter's  hand,  but  had  boasted  to  his 
profligate  circle  that  he  should  succeed  ;  and  he  was  actually 
on  his  road  to  England.  I  saw  at  once  that  could  this  de- 
sign, by  any  fraud  or  artifice,  be  successful  with  Violante 
(for  of  your  consent,  I  need  not  say,  I  did  not  dream),  the 
discovery  of  the  packet,  whatever  its  contents,  would  be 
useless  :  Peschiera's  end  would  be  secured.  I  saw  also  that 
his  success  would  suffice  for  ever  to  clear  his  name — for 
his  success  must  imply  your  consent  (it  would  be  to  disgrace 
your  daughter,  to  assert  that  she  had  married  without  it), 
and  your  consent  would  be  his  acquittal.  I  saw,  too,  with 
alarm,  that  to  all  means  for  the  accomplishment  of  his  pro- 
ject he  would  be  urged  by  despair  ;  for  his  debts  are  great, 
and  his  character  nothing  but  new  wealth  can  support.  I 
knew  that  he  was  able,  bold,  determined,  and  that  he  had 
taken  with  him  a  large  supply  of  money  borrowed  upon 
usury; — in  a  word,  I  trembled  for  you  both.  I  have  now 
seen  your  daughter,  and  1  tremble  no  more.  Accomplished 
seducer  as  Peschiera  boasts  himself,  the  first  look  upon  her 
fp.ce,  so  sweet  yet  so  noble,  convinced  me  that  she  is  proof 
ngainst  a  legion  of  Peschieras.  Now,  then,  return  we  to 
this  all-important  subject — to  this  packet.  It  never  reached 
you.  Long  years  have  passed  since  then.  Does  it  exist 
still  ?  Into  whose  hands  would  it  have  fallen  ?  Try  to 
summon  up  all  your  recollections.  The  servant  could  not 
remember  the  name  of  the  person  to  whom  it  was  addressed  ; 
she  only  insisted  that  the  name  began  with  a  B,  that  it  was 
directed  to  England,  and  that  to  England  she  accordingly 
paid  the  postage.  Whom  then,  with  a  name  that  begins 
with  B,  or  (in  case  the  servant's  memory  here  misled  her) 
whom  did  you  or  your  wife  know,  during  your  visit  to  Eng- 
land, with  sufficient  intimacy  to  make  it  probable  that  she 
would  select  such  a  person  for  her  confidant  ?  " 

"I  cannot  conceive,"  said  Riccabocca,  shaking  his  head. 
"We  came  to  England  shortly  after  our  marriage.  Paulina 
was  affected  by  the  climate.  She  spoke  not  a  word  of  English, 
and  indeed  not  even  French,  as  might  have  been  expected 
from  her  birth,  for  her  father  was  poor,  and  thoroughly 


68o  MY  NOVEL;    OR, 

Italian.  She  refused  all  society.  I  went,  it  is  true,  some- 
what into  the  London  world — enough  to  induce  me  to 
shrink  from  the  contrast  that  my  second  visit  as  a  beggared 
refugee  would  have  made  to  the  reception  I  met  with  on  my 
first  ;  but  I  formed  no  intimate  friendships.  I  recall  no  one 
whom  she  could  have  written  to  as  intimate  with  me." 

"But,"  persisted  Harley,  "think  again.  Was  there  no 
lady  well  acquainted  with  Italian,  and  with  whom,  perhaps, 
for  that  very  reason,  your  wife  became  familiar?" 

"  Ah,  it  is  true.  There  was  one  old  lady  of  retired  hab- 
its, but  who  had  been  much  in  Italy.  Lady — Lady — I  re- 
member—Lady Jane  Horton." 

"  Horton — Lady  Jane  !  "  exclaimed  Harley  ;  "  again  ! 
thrice  in  one  day — is  this  wound  never  to  scar  over  ?  " 
Then,  noting  Riccabocca's  look  of  surprise,  he  said,  "  Ex- 
cuse me,  my  friend  ;  I  listen  to  you  with  renewed  interest. 
Lady  Jane  was  a  distant  relation  of  my  own  ;  she  judged 
me,  perhaps,  harshly — and  I  have  some  painful  associations 
with  her  name  ;  but  she  was  a  woman  of  many  virtues. 
Your  wife  knew  her  ?" 

"  Not,  however,  intimately — still,  better  than  any  one 
else  in  London.  But  Paulina  would  not  have  written  to 
her  ;  she  knew  that  Lady  Jane  had  died  shortly  after  her 
own  departure  from  England.  I  myself  was  summoned 
back  to  Italy  on  pressing  business  ;  she  was  too  unwell  to 
journey  with  me  as  rapidly  as  I  was  obliged  to  travel  ; 
indeed,  illness  detained  her  several  weeks  in  England.  In 
this  interval  she  might  have  made  acquaintances.  Ah, 
now  I  see  ;  I  guess.  You  say  the  name  began  with  B. 
Paulina,  in  my  absence,  engaged  a  companion — a  Mrs. 
Bertram.  This  lady  accompanied  her  abroad.  Paulina 
became  excessively  attached  to  her,  she  knew  Italian  so 
well.  Mrs.  Bertram  left,  her  on  the  road  and  returned  to 
England,  for  some  private  affairs  of  her  own.  I  forget  why 
or  wherefore  ;  if,  indeed,  I  ever  asked  or  learned.  Paulina 
missed  her  sadly,  often  talked  of  her,  wondered  why  she 
never  heard  from  her.  No  doubt  it  was  to  this  Mrs.  Ber- 
tram that  she  wrote  !  " 

"  And  you  don't  know  the  lady's  friends,  or  address  ?  " 

"No." 

"Nor  who  recommended  her  to  your  wife  ?  " 

"No." 

"  Probably  Lady  Jane  Horton  ?  " 

"  It  may  be  so.     Very  likely." 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  68 1 

"  I  will  follow  up  this  track,  slight  as  it  is." 

"  But  if  Mrs.  Bertram  received  the  communication,  how 
comes  it  that  it  never  reached  myself — O,  fool  that  I  am, 
how  should  it !  I,  who  guarded  so  carefully  my  incognito  !  " 

"True.  This  your  wife  could  not  foresee  ;  she  would 
naturally  imagine  that  your  residence  in  England  would  be 
easily  discovered.  But  many  years  must  have  passed  since 
your  wife  lost  sight  of  this  Mrs.  Bertram,  if  their  acquaint- 
ance was  made  soon  after  your  marriage  ;  and  now  it  is  a 
long  time  to  retrace — before  even  your  Violante  was  born." 

"  Alas !  yes.  I  lost  two  fair  sons  in  the  interval.  Vio- 
lante was  born  to  me  as  a  child  of  sorrow." 

"And  to  make  sorrow  lovely  !  how  beautiful  she  is  ! " 

The  father  smiled  proudly. 

"  Where,  in  the  loftiest  houses  of  Europe,  find  a  hus- 
band worthy  of  such  a  prize  ?  " 

"  You  forget  that  I  am  still  an  exile — she  still  dower- 
less.  You  forget  that  I  am  pursued  by  Peschiera  ;  that  I 
would  rather  see  her  a  beggar's  wife — than — Pah,  the  very 
thought  maddens  me,  it  is  so  foul.  Corpo  di  Bacco  !  I  have 
been  glad  to  find  her  a  husband  already." 

"  Already  !     Then  that  young  man  spoke  truly  ?  " 

"What  young  man  ? '' 

"Randal  Leslie.  How!  you  know  him?"  Here  a 
brief  explanation  followed.  Harlev  heard  with  attentive 
ear,  and  marked  vexation,  the  particulars  of  Riccabocca's 
connection  and  implied  engagement  with  Leslie. 

"There  is  something  very  suspicious  to  me  in  all  this," 
said  he.  "  Why  should  this  young  man  have  so  sounded 
me  as  to  Violante's  chance  of  losing  fortune  if  she  married 
an  Englishman  ? " 

"  Did  he  ?  O,  pooh  !  excuse  him.  It  was  but  his  nat- 
ural wish  to  seem  ignorant  of  all  about  me.  He  did  not 
know  enough  of  my  intimacy  with  you  to  betray  my  secret." 

"  But  he  knew  enough  of  it — must  have  known  enough 
to  have  made  it  right  that  he  should  tell  you  I  was  in 
England.  He  does  not  seem  to  have  done  so." 

"  No — that  is  strange — yet  scarcely  strange  ;  for,  when 
we  last  met,  his  head  was  full  of  other  things — love  and 
marriage.  Basta!  youth  will  be  youth." 

"He   has  no  youth  left   in   him!"    exclaimed    Harley, 

passionately.     "  I  doubt  if  he  ever  had  any.     He  is  one  of 

those   men  who  come  into  the  world  with  the  pulse  of  a 

centenarian.     You  and  I   never  shall  be  as  old — as  he  was 

29* 


682  MY  NOVEL;    OR, 

in  long-clothes.  Ah,  you  may  laugh  ;  but  I  am  never 
wrong  in  my  instincts.  I  disliked  him  at  the  first — his  eye, 
his  smile,  his  voice,  his  very  footstep.  It  is  madness  in 
you  to  countenance  such  a  marriage  ;  it  may  destroy  all 
chance  of  your  restoration." 

"  Better  that  than  infringe  my  word  once  passed." 

"  No,  no,"  exclaimed  Harley  ;  "  your  word  is  not  passed 
— it  shall  not  be  passed.  Nay,  never  look  so  piteously  at 
me.  At  all  events,  pause  till  we  know  more  of  this  young 
man.  If  he  be  worthy  of  her  without  a  dower,  why,  then,  let 
him  lose  you  your  heritage  ?  I  should  have  no  more  to  say. " 

"But  why  lose  me  my  heritage?  There  is  no  law  in 
Austria  which  can  dictate  to  a  father  what  husband  to 
choose  for  his  daughter." 

"Certainly  not.  But  you  are  out  of  the  pale  of  law 
itself  just  at  present  ;  and  it  would  surely  be  a  reason  for 
state  policy  to  withhold  your  pardon,  and  it  would  be  to  the 
loss  of  that  favor  with  your  own  countrymen,  which  would 
now  make  that  pardon  so  popular,  if  it  were  known  that 
the  representative  of  your  name  were  debased  by  your 
daughter's  alliance  with  an  English  adventurer — a  clerk  in 
a  public  office  !  O,  sage  in  theory,  why  are  you  such  a 
simpleton  in  action  ?  " 

Nothing  moved  by  this  taunt,  Riccabocca  rubbed  his 
hands,  and  then  spread  them  comfortably  over  the  fire. 

"My  friend,"  said  he,  "the  representation  of  my  name 
would  pass  to  my  son." 

"  But  you  have  no  son  ?  " 

"  Hush  !  I  am  going  to  have  one  ;  my  Jemima  informed 
me  of  it  yesterday  morning  ;  and  it  was  upon  that  informa- 
tion that  I  resolved  to  speak  to  Leslie.  Am  I  a  simpleton 
now  ? " 

"  Going  to  have  a  son,"  repeated  Harley,  looking  very 
bewildered  ;  "  how  do  you  know  it  is  to  be  a  son  ?" 

"  Physiologists  are  agreed,"  said  the  sage,  positively, 
"  that  where  the  husband  is  much  older  than  the  wife,  and 
there  has  been  a  long  interval  without  children  before  she 
c  ondescends  to  increase  the  population  of  the  world — she 
(that  is,  it  is  at  least  as  nine  to  four) — she  brings  into  the 
world  a  male.  I  consider  that  point,  therefore,  as  settled, 
to  according  the  calculations  of  statisticians  and  the  re- 
searches of  naturalists." 

Harley  could  not  help  laughing,  though  he  was  still 
angry  and  disturbed. 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  683 

"The  same  man  as  ever  ;  always  the  fool  of  philosophy." 

"  Cospetto  !  "  said  Riccabocca.  "  I  am  rather  the  phi- 
losopher of  fools.  And  talking  of  that,  shall  I  present  you 
to  my  Jemima  ?" 

"  Yes  ;  but  in  turn  I  must  present  you  to  one  who  re- 
members with  gratitude  your  kindness,  and  whom  your 
philosophy,  for  a  wonder,  has  not  ruined.  Some  time  or 
other  you  must  explain  that  to  me.  Excuse  me  for  a  mo- 
ment ;  I  will  go  for  him." 

"  For  him  ; — for  whom  ?  In  my  position  I  must  be  cau- 
tious and — 

"  I  will  answer  for  his  faith  and  discretion.  Meanwhile, 
order  dinner,  and  let  me  and  my  friend  stay  to  share  it." 

"  Dinner  ?  Corpo  di  Bacco  ! — not  that  Bacchus  can  help 
us  here.  What  will  Jemima  say  ?  " 

"  Henpecked  man,  settle  that  with  your  connubial  ty- 
rant. But  dinner  it  must  be." 

I  leave  the  reader  to  imagine  the  delight  of  Leonard  at 
seeing  once  more  Riccabocca  unchanged,  and  Violante  so 
improved;  and  the  kind  Jemima  too.  And  their  wonder 
at  him  and  his  history,  his  books  and  his  fame.  He  nar- 
rated his  struggles  and  adventures  with  a  simplicity  that 
removed  from  a  story  so  personal  the  character  of  egotism. 
But  when  he  came  to  speak  of  Helen,  he  was  brief  and  re- 
served. 

Violante  would  have  questioned  more  closely  ;  but,  to 
Leonard's  relief,  Harley  interposed. 

"You  shall  see  her  whom  he  speaks  of  before  long,  and 
question  her  yourself." 

With  these  words,  Harley  turned  the  young  man's  narra- 
tive into  new  directions  ;  and  Leonard's  words  again  flowed 
freely.  Thus  the  evening  passed  away  happily  to  all  save 
Riccabocca.  For  the  thought  of  his  dead  wife  rose  ever 
and  anon  before  the  exile  ;  but  when  it  did,  and  became 
too  painful,  he  crept  nearer  to  Jemima,  and  looked  in  her 
simple  face,  and  pressed  her  cordial  hand.  And  yet  the 
monster  had  implied  to  Harley  that  his  comforter  was  a 
fool — so  she  was,  to  love  so  contemptible  a  slanderer  of  her- 
self and  her  sex. 

Violante  was  in  a  state  of  blissful  excitement  ;  she  could 
not  analyze  her  own  joy.  But  her  conversation  was  chiefly 
with  Leonard ;  and  the  most  silent  of  all  was  Harley.  He 
sat  listening  to  Leonard's  warm,  yet  unpretending  elo- 
quence— that  eloquence  which  flows  so  naturally  from 


6S4  MY  NOVEL;    OR, 

genius,  when  thoroughly  at  its  ease,  and  not  chilled  back 
on  itself  by  hard,  unsympathizing  hearers — listened,  yet 
more  charmed,  to  the  sentiments  less  profound,  yet  no  less 
earnest — sentiments  so  feminine,  yet  so  noble,  with  which 
Violante's  fresh,  virgin  heart  responded  to  the  poet's  kin- 
dling soul.  Those  sentiments  of  hers  were  so  unlike  all  he 
heard  in  the  common  world — so  akin  to  himself  in  his  gone 
youth  !  Occasionally — at  some  high  thought  of  her  own, 
or  some  lofty  line  from  Italian  song,  that  she  cited  with 
lighted  eyes,  and  in  melodious  accents — occasionally  he 
reared  his  knightly  head,  and  his  lip  quivered,  as  if  he  had 
heard  the  sound  of  a  trumpet.  The  inertness  of  long  years 
was  shaken.  The  Heroic,  that  lay  deep  beneath  all  the 
humors  of  his  temperament,  was  reached,  appealed  to  ;  and 
stirred  within  him,  rousing  up  all  the  bright  associations 
connected  with  it,  and  long  dormant.  When  he  arose  to 
take  leave,  surprised  at  the  lateness  of  the  hour,  Harley 
said,  in  a  tone  that  bespoke  the  sincerity  of  the  compliment, 
"  I  thank  you  for  the  happiest  hours  I  have  known  for 
years."  His  eye  dwelt  on  Violante  as  he  spoke.  But 
timidity  returned  to  her  with  his  words — at  his  look  ;  and 
it  was  no  longer  the  inspired  muse,  but  the  bashful  girl  that 
stood  before  him. 

"  And  when  shall  I  see  you  again  ?  "  asked  Riccabocca, 
disconsolately,  following  his  guest  to  the  door. 

"  When  ?  Why,  of  course,  to-morrow.  Adieu  !  my 
friend.  No  wonder  you  have  borne  your  exile  so  patiently, 
— with  such  a  child  !  " 

He  took  Leonard's  arm,  and  walked  with  him  to  the  inn 
where  he  had  left  his  horse.  Leonard  spoke  of  Violante 
with  enthusiasm.  Harlev  was  silent. 


CHAPTER  III. 

THE  next  day  a  somewhat  old-fashioned,  but  exceedingly 
patrician,  equipage  stopped  at  Riccabocca's  garden-gate. 
Giacomo,  who,  from  a  bed-room  window,  had  caught  sight 
of  its  winding  toward  the  house,  was  seized  with  undefinable 
terror  when  he  beheld  it  pause  before  their  walls,  and  heard 
the  shrill  summons  at  the  portal.  He  rushed  into  his  mas- 
ter's presence,  and  implored  him  not  to  stir — not  to  allow 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  685 

any  one  to  give  ingress  to  the  enemies  the  machine  might 
disgorge.  "I  have  heard,"  said  he,  "how  a  town  in  Italy — 
I  think  it  was  Bologna — was  once  taken  and  given  up  to 
the  sword,  by  incautiously  admitting  a  wooden  horse,  full 
of  the  troops  of  Barbarossa,  and  all  manner  of  bombs  and 
Congreve  rockets." 

"The  story  is  differently  told  in  Virgil,"  quoth  Ricca- 
bocca,  peeping  out  of  the  window.  "  Nevertheless,  the 
machine  looks  very  large  and  suspicious  ;  unloose  Pompey." 

"Father,"  said  Violante,  coloring,  "  it  is  your  friend 
Lord  L'Estrange  ;  I  hear  his  voice." 

"  Are  you  sure  ?  " 

"  Quite.     How  can  I  be  mistaken  ?  " 

"  Go  then,  Giacomo  ;  but  take  Pompey  with  thee — and 
give  the  alarm  if  we  are  deceived." 

But  Violante  was  right ;  and  in  a  few  moments  Lord 
L'Estrange  was  seen  walking  up  the  garden,  and  giving  the 
arm  to  two  ladies. 

"  Ah,"  said  Riccabocca,  composing  his  dressing-robe 
around  him,  "go,  my  child,  and  summon  Jemima.  Man 
to  man  ;  but,  for  Heaven's  sake,  woman  to  woman." 

Harley  had  brought  his  mother  and  Helen,  in  compli- 
ment to  the  ladies  of  his  friend's  household. 

The  proud  Countess  knew  that  she  was  in  the  presence 
of  Adversity,  and  her  salute  to  Riccabocca  was  only  less  re- 
spectful than  that  by  which  she  would  have  rendered  homage 
to  her  sovereign.  But  Riccabocca,  always  gallant  to  the 
sex  that  he  pretended  to  despise,  was  not  to  be  outdone  in 
ceremony  ;  and  the  bow  which  replied  to  the  curtsey  would 
have  edified  the  rising  generation,  and  delighted  such  sur- 
viving relics  of  the  old  Court  breeding  as  may  linger  yet 
amidst  the  gloomy  pomp  of  the  Faubourg  St.  Germain. 
These  dues  paid  to  etiquette,  the  Countess  briefly  intro- 
duced Helen  as  Miss  Digby,  and  seated  herself  near  the 
exile.  In  a  few  moments  the  two  elder  personages  be- 
came quite  at  home  with  each  other  ;  and,  really,  perhaps 
Riccabocca  had  never,  since  we  have  known  him,  showed 
to  sucli  advantage  as  by  the  side  of  his  polished,  but  some- 
what formal  visitor.  Both  had  lived  so  little  with  our  mod- 
ern ill-bred  age  !  They  took  out  their  manners  of  a 
former  race,  with  a  sort  of  pride  in  airing  once  more  such 
fine  lace  and  superb  brocade.  Riccabocca  gave  truce  to 
the  shrewd  but  homely  wisdom  of  his  proverbs — perhaps 
he  remembered  that  Lord  Chesterfield  denounces  proverbs 


686  MY  NOVEL;    OR, 

as  vulgar  ; — and  gaunt  though  his  figure,  and  far  from 
elegant  though  his  dressing-robe,  there  was  that  about  him 
which  spoke  undeniably  of  the  grand  seigneur — of  one  to 
whom  a  Marquis  de  Dangeau  would  have  offered  a.fauteuil 
by  the  side  of  the  Rohans  and  Montmorencies. 

Meanwhile  Helen  and  Harley  seated  themselves  a  little 
apart,  and  were  both  silent — the  first,  from  timidity,  the 
second  from  abstraction.  At  length  the  door  opened,  and 
Harley  suddenly  sprang  to  his  feet — Violante  and  Jemima 
entered.  Lady  Lansmere's  eyes  first  rested  on  the  daugh- 
ter, and  she  could  scarcely  refrain  from  an  exclamation  of 
admiring  surprise  ;  but  then,  when  she  caught  sight  of  Mrs. 
Riccabocca's  somewhat  humble,  yet  not  obsequious  mien 
— looking  a  little  shy,  a  little  homely,  yet  still  thoroughly  a 
gentlewoman  (though  of  your  plain  rural  kind  of  that 
genus) — she  turned  from  the  daughter,  and  with  the  s'avoir 
vivre  of  the  fine  old  school,  paid  her  first  respects  to  the 
wife  ;  respects  literally,  for  her  manner  implied  respect, — 
but  it  was  more  kind,  simple,  and  cordial  than  the  respect 
she  had  shown  to  Riccabocca  ; — as  the  sage  himself  had 
said,  here  "  it  was  Woman  to  Woman."  And  then  she  took 
Violante's  hand  in  both  hers,  and  gazed  on  her  as  if  she 
could  not  resist  the  pleasure  of  contemplating  so  much 
beauty.  "My  son,"  she  said,  softly,  and  with  a  half-sigh — 
"my  son  in  vain  told  me  not  to  be  surprised.  This  is  the 
first  time  I  have  ever  known  reality  exceed  description  !  " 

Violante's  blush  here  made  her  still  more  beautiful  ;  and 
as  the  Countess  returned  to  Riccabocca,  she  stole  gently  to 
Helen's  side. 

"  Miss  Digby,  my  ward,"  said  Harley,  pointedly,  observ- 
ing that  his  mother  had  neglected  her  duty  of  presenting 
Helen  to  the  ladies.  He  then  reseated  himself,  and  con- 
versed with  Mrs.  Riccabocca  ;  but  his  bright  quick  eye 
glanced  over  at  the  two  girls.  They  were  about  the  same 
age— and  youth  was  all  that,  to  the  superficial  eye,  they 
seemed  to  have  in  common.  A  greater  contrast  could  not 
well  be  conceived  ;  and,  what  is  strange,  both  gained  by  it. 
Violante's  brilliant  loveliness  seemed  yet  more  dazzling, 
and  Helen's  fair  gentle  face  yet  more  winning.  Neither 
had  mixed  much  with  girls  of  her  own  age  ;  each  took  to 
the  other  at  first  sight.  Violante,  as  the  less  shy,  began 
the  conversation. 

"You  are  his  ward — Lord  L'Estrange's  ?" 

"Yes." 


VARIETIES  IN   ENGLISH  LIFE.  687 

"  Perhaps  you  came  with  him  from  Italy  ? " 

"  No,  not  exactly.  But  I  have  been  in  Italy  for  some 
years." 

"  Ah  !  you  regret — nay,  I  am  foolish — you  return  to  your 
native  land.  But  the  skies  in  Italy  are  so  blue — here  it 
seems  as  if  nature  wanted  colors." 

"  Lord  L'Estrange  says  that  you  were  very  young  when 
you  left  Italy  ;  you  remember  it  well.  He,  too,  prefers  Italy 
to  England." 

"  He  !     Impossible  !  " 

"  Why  impossible,  fair  sceptic  ?  "  cried  Harley,  inter- 
rupting himself  in  the  midst  of  a  speech  to  Jemima. 

Violante  had  not  dreamed  that  she  could  be  overheard 
— she  was  speaking  low  ;  but,  though  vividly  embarrassed, 
she  answered  distinctly — 

"  Because  in  England  there  is  the  noblest  career  for  no- 
ble minds." 

Harley  was  startled,  and  replied,  with  a  slight  sigh, 
"At  your  age  I  should  have  said  as  you  do.  But  this  Eng- 
land of  ours  is  so  crowded  with  noble  minds,  that  they  only 
jostle  each  other,  and  the  career  is  one  cloud  of  dust." 

"  So,  I  have  read,  seems  a  battle  to  a  common  soldier, 
but  not  to  the  chief." 

"  You  have  read  good  descriptions  of  battles,  I  see." 

Mrs.  Riccabocca,  who  thought  this  remark  a  taunt  upon 
her  step-daughter's  studies,  hastened  to  Violante's  relief. 

"  Her  papa  made  her  read  the  history  of  Italy,  and  I  be- 
lieve that  is  full  of  battles. " 

HARLEY. — All  history  is,  and  all  women  are  fond  of  war 
and  of  warriors.  I  wonder  why  ? 

VIOLANTE  (turning  to  Helen,  and  in  a  very  low  voice, 
resolved  that  Harley  should  not  hear  this  time). — We  can 
guess  why — can  we  not  ? 

HARLEY  (hearing  every  word,  as  if  it  had  been  spoken  in 
St.  Paul's  Whispering  Gallery). — If  you  can  guess,  Helen, 
pray  tell  me. 

HELEN  (shaking  her  pretty  head,  and  answering,  with  a 
livelier  smile  than  usual). — But  I  am  not  fond  of  war  and 
warriors. 

HARLEY  (to  Violante). — Then  I  must  appeal  at  once  to 
you,  self-convicted  Bellona  that  you  are.  Is  it  from  the 
cruelty  natural  to  the  fenrale  disposition  ? 

VIOLANTE  (with  a  sweet  musical  laugh). — From  two  pro- 
pensities still  more  natural  to  it. 


6S8  MY  *tiOVEL;    OR, 

HARLEY. — You  puzzle  me  :  what  can  they  be  ? 

VIOLANTE  — Pity  and  admiration  ;  we  pity  the  weak  and 
admire  the  brave. 

Harley  inclined  his  head,  and  was  silent. 

Lady  Lansmere  had  suspended  her  conversation  with 
Riccabocca  to  listen  to  this  dialogue.  "Charming!"  she 
cried.  "  You  have  explained  what  has  often  perplexed  me. 
Ah,  Harley,  I  am  glad  to  see  that  your  satire  is  foiled  ;  you 
have  no  reply  to  that." 

"No  ;  I  willingly  own  myself  defeated,  too  glad  to  claim 
the  Signorina's  pity,  since  my  cavalry-sword  hangs  on  the 
wall,  and  I  can  have  no  longer  a  professional  pretence  to 
her  admiration." 

He  then  rose,  and  glanced  toward  the  window.  "  But  I 
see  a  more  formidable  disputant  for  my  conqueror  to  en- 
counter is  coming  into  the  field — one  whose  profession  it  is 
to  substitute  some  other  romance  for  that  of  camp  and  siege." 

"  Our  friend  Leonard,"  said  Riccabocca,  turning  his 
eyes  also  toward  the  window.  "True;  as  Quevedo  says 
wittily,  '  Ever  since  there  has  been  so  great  a  demand  for 
type,  there  has  been  much  less  lead  to  spare  for  cannon- 
balls.'  " 

Here  Leonard  entered.  Harley  had  sent  Lady  Lans- 
mere's  footman  to  him  with  a  note,  that  prepared  him  to 
meet  Helen.  As  he  came  into  the  room,  Harley  took  him 
by  the  hand  and  led  him  to  Lady  Lansmere. 

•"  The  friend  of  whom  I  spoke.  Welcome  him  now  for 
my  sake,  ever  after  for  his  own  ;  "  and  then,  scarcely  allow- 
ing time  for  the  Countess's  elegant  and  gracious  response, 
he  drew  Leonard  toward  Helen.  "  Children,"  said  he,  with 
a  touching  voice,  that  thrilled  through  the  hearts  of  both, 
"go  and  seat  yourselves  yonder,  and  talk  together  of  the 
past.  Signorina,  I  invite  you  to  renewed  discussion  upon 
the  abstruse  metaphysical  subject  you  have  started  ;  let  us 
see  if  we  cannot  find  gentler  sources  for  pity  and  admira- 
tion than  war  and  warriors."  He  took  Violante  aside  to 
the  window.  "You  remember  that  Leonard,  in  telling  you 
his  history  last  night,  spoke,  you  thought  rather  too  briefly, 
of  the  little  girl  who  had  been  his  companion  in  the  rudest 
time  of  his  trials.  When  you  would  have  questioned  more, 
I  interrupted  you,  and  said,  'You  should  see  her  shortly, 
and  question  her  yourself.'  And- now  what  think  you  .of 
Helen  Digby  ?  Hush,  speak  low.  But  her  ears  are  not  so 
sharp  as  mine." 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  689 

VIOLANTE. — Ah  !  that  is  the  fair  creature  whom  Leonard 
called  his  child-angel  ?  What  a  lovely  innocent  face  ! — the 
angel  is  there  still. 

HARLEY  (pleased  both  at  the  praise  and  with  her  who 
gave  it). — You  think  so  ;  and  you  are  right.  Helen  is  not 
communicative.  But  fine  natures  are  like  fine  poems,— a 
glance  at  the  first  two  lines  suffices  for  a  guess  into  the 
beauty  that  waits  you  if  you  read  on. 

Violante  gazed  on  Leonard  and  Helen,  as  they  sat  apart. 
Leonard  was  the  speaker,  Helen  the  listener ;  and  though 
the  former  had,  in  his  narrative  the  night  before,  been  in- 
deed brief  as  to  the  episode  in  his  life  connected  with  the 
orphan,  enough  had  been  said  to  interest  Violante  in  the 
pathos  of  their  former  position  toward  each  other,  and  in 
the  happiness  they  must  feel  in  their  meeting  again — sepa- 
rated for  years  on  the  wide  sea  of  life,  now  both  saved  from 
the  storm  and  shipwreck.  The  tears  came  into  her  eyes. 
"  True,"  she  said,  very  softly,  "  there  is  more  here  to  move 
pity  and  admiration  than  in "  She  paused. 

HARLEY. — Complete  the  sentence.  Are  you  ashamed  to 
retract  ?  Fie  on  your  pride  and  obstinacy. 

VIOLANTE. — No  ;  but  even  here  there  have  been  war  and 
heroism — the  war  of  genius  with  adversity,  and  heroism  in 
the  comforter  who  shared  it  and  consoled.  Ah  !  wherever 
pity  and  admiration  are  both  felt,  something  nobler  than 
mere  sorrow  must  have  gone  before  ;  the  heroic  must  exist. 

"  Helen  does  not  know  what  the  word  heroic  means," 
said  Harley,  rather  sadly  ;  "you  must  teach  her." 

"Is  it  possible,"  thought  he,  as  he  spoke,  "that  a  Ran- 
dal Leslie  could  have  charmed  this  grand  creature  ?  No 
'Heroic,'  surely,  in  that  sleek  young  placeman."  "Your 
father,"  he  said  aloud,  and  fixing  his  eyes  on  her  face, 
"  sees  much,  he  tells  me,  of  a  young  man  about  Leonard's 
age,  as  to  date  ;  but  I  never  estimate  the  age  of  men  by  the 
parish  register  ;  and  I  should  speak  of  that  so-called  young 
man  as  a  contemporary  of  my  great-grandfather  ; — I  mean 
Mr.  Randal  Leslie.  Do  you  like  him  ?" 

"  Like  him  ?"  said  Violante,  slowly,  as  if  sounding  her 
own  mind — "  Like  him  ? — yes." 

"Why  ?  "  asked  Harley,  with  dry  and  curt  indignation. 

"  His  visits  seem  to  please  my  dear  father.  Certainly  I 
like  him." 

"  Hum.     He  professes  to  like  you,  I  suppose  ?" 

Violante  laughed  unsuspiciously.     She  had  half  a  mind 


690  MY  NOVEL;    OR, 

to  reply, — "Is  that  so  strange  ?"  But  her  respect  for  Har- 
ley  stopped  her.  The  words  would  have  seemed  to  her 
pert. 

"  I  am  told  he  is  clever,"  resumed  Harley. 

"  O,  certainly." 

"And  he  is  rather  handsome.  But  I  like  Leonard's  face 
better." 

'•  Better — that  is  not  the  word.  Leonard's  face  is  as 
that  of  one  Who  has  gazed  so  often  upon  Heaven  ;  and  Mr. 
Leslie's — there  is  neither  sunlight  nor  starlight  reflected 
there." 

"  My  dear  Violante  !  "  exclaimed  Harley,  overjoyed  ;  and 
he  pressed  her  hand. 

The  blood  rushed  over  the  girl's  cheek  and  brow  ;  her 
hand  trembled  in  his.  But  Harley's  familiar  exclamation 
might  have  come  from  a  father's  lips. 

At  that  moment  Helen  softly  approached  them,  and 
looking  timidly  into  her  guardian's  face,  said,  "  Leonard's 
mother  is  with  him  :  he  asks  me  to  call  and  see  her.  May 
I?" 

"  May  you  !  A  pretty  notion  the  Signorina  must  form 
of  your  enslaved  state  of  pupilage,  when  she  hears  you 
ask  that  question.  Of  course  you  may." 

"  Will  you  come  with  us  ?  " 

Harley  looked  embarrassed.  Fie  thought  of  the  widow's 
agitation  at  his  name  ;  of  that  desire  to  shun  him,  which 
Leonard  had  confessed,  and  of  which  he  thought  he  had 
divined  the  cause.  And  so  divining,  he,  too,  shrank  from 
such  a  meeting. 

"  Another  time,  then,"  said  he,  after  a  pause. 

Helen  looked  disappointed,  but  said  no  more. 

Violante  was  surprised  at  this  ungracious  answer.  She 
would  have  blamed  it  as  unfeeling  in  another.  But  all 
that  Harley  did  was  right  in  her  eyes. 

"Cannot  I  go  with  Miss  Digby  ?  "  said  she;  "and  my 
mother  will  go  too.  We  both  know  Mrs.  Fairfielcl.  We 
shall  be  so  pleased  to  see  her  again." 

"  So  be  it,"  said  Harley  ;  "  I  will  wait  here  with  your 
father  till  you  come  back.  O,  as  to  my  mother,  she  will 
excuse  the — excuse  Madame  Riccabocca,  and  you  too. 
See  how  charmed  she  is  with  your  father.  I  must  stay  to 
watch  over  the  conjugal  interests  of  mine." 

But  Mrs.  Riccabocca  had  too  much  good  old  country 
breeding  to  leave  the  Countess  ;  and  Harley  was  forced 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  691 

himself  to  appeal  to  Lady  Lansmere.  When  he  had  ex- 
plained the  case  in  point,  the  Countess  rose,  and  said, — 

"  But  I  will  call  myself  with  Miss  Digby." 

"  No,"  said  Harley,  gravely,  but  in  a  whisper — "  no — I 
would  rather  not.  I  will  explain  later." 

"  Then,"  said  the  Countess  aloud,  after  a  glance  of  sur- 
prise at  her  son,  "  I  must  insist  on  your  performing  this 
visit,  my  dear  madam,  and  you,  Signorina.  In  truth,  I  have 
something  to  say  confidentially  to " 

"To  me!"  interrupted  Riccabocca.  "Ah,  Madame  la 
Comtesse,  you  restore  me  to  five-and-twenty.  Go,  quick — 
O  jealous  and  injured  wife  ;  go,  both  of  you — quick  ;  and 
you  too,  Harley." 

"Nay,"  said  Lady  Lansmere,  in  the  same  tone,  "  Harley 
must  stay,  for  my  design  is  not  at  present  upon  destroying 
your  matrimonial  happiness,  whatever  it  may  be  later.  It 
is  a  design  so  innocent,  that  my  son  will  be  a  partner  in 
it." 

Here  the  Countess  put  her  lips  to  Harley's  ear,  and 
whispered.  He  received  her  communication  in  attentive 
silence  ;  but  when  she  had  done,  pressed  her  hand,  and 
bowed  his  head,  as  if  in  assent  to  a  proposal. 

In  a  few  minutes  the  three  ladies  and  Leonard  were  on 
their  road  to  the  neighboring  cottage. 

Violante,  with  her  usual  delicate  intuition,  thought  that 
Leonard  and  Helen  must  have  much  to  say  to  each  other  ; 
and  (ignorant,  as  Leonard  himself  was,  of  Helen's  engage- 
ment to  Harley)  began  already,  in  the  romance  natural  to 
her  age,  to  predict  for  them  happy  and  united  days  in  the 
future.  So  she  took  her  step-mother's  arm,  and  left  Helen 
and  Leonard  to  follow. 

"I  wonder,"  she  said,  musingly,  "how  Miss  Digby  be- 
came Lord  L'Estrange's  ward.  I  hope  she  is  not  very  rich, 
nor  very  high-born." 

"  La,  my  love,"  said  the  good  Jemima,  "  that  is  not  like 
you  ;  you  are  not  envious  of  her,  poor  girl  ?" 

"  Envious  !  Dear  mamma,  what  a  word  !  But  don't 
you  think  Leonard  and  Miss  Digby  seem  born  for  each 
other  ?  And  then  the  recollections  of  their  childhood — the 
thoughts  of  childhood  are  so  deep,  and  its  memories  so 
strangely  soft !  "  The  long  lashes  drooped  over  Violante's 
musing  eyes  as  she  spoke.  "  And  therefore,"  she  said,  after 
a  pause — "  therefore  I  hoped  that  Miss  Digby  might  not  be 
very  rich  nor  very  high-born." 


692  MY  NOVEL;    OR, 

"  I  understand  you  now,  Violante,"  exclaimed  Jemima, 
her  own  early  passion  for  match-making  instantly  return- 
ing to  her;  "for  as  Leonard,  however  clever  and  distin- 
guished, is  still  the  son  of  Mark  Fairfield,  the  carpenter,  it 
would  spoil  all,  if  Miss  Digby  was,  as  you  say,  rich  and  high- 
born. I  agree  with  you — a  very  pretty  match — a  very 
pretty  match,  indeed.  I  wish  dear  Mrs.  Dale  were  here 
now — she  is  so  clever  in  settling  such  matters." 

Meanwhile  Leonard  and  Helen  walked  side  by  side  a 
few  paces  in  the  rear.  He  had  not  offered  her  his  arm. 
They  had  been  silent  hitherto  since  they  left  Riccabocca's 
house. 

Helen  now  spoke  first.  In  similiar  cases  it  is  generally 
the  woman,  be  she  ever  so  timid,  who  does  speak  first. 
And  here  Helen  was  the  bolder  ;  for  Leonard  did  not  dis- 
guise from  himself  the  nature  of  his  feelings,  and  Helen 
was  engaged  to  another  ;  and  her  pure  heart  was  fortified 
by  the  trust  reposed  in  it. 

"  And  have  you  ever  heard  more  of  the  good  Dr.  Mor- 
gan, who  had  powders  against  sorrow,  and  who  meant  to  be 
so  kind  to  us — though,"  she  added,  coloring,  "we  did  not 
think  so  then  ? " 

"  He  took  my  child-angel  from  me,"  said  Leonard,  with 
visible  emotion  ;  "  and  if  she  had  not  returned,  where  and 
"what  should  I  be  now  ?  But  I  have  forgiven  him.  No,  I 
have  never  met  him  since." 

"And  that  terrible  Mr.  Burley  ?  " 

"Poor,  poor  Burley!  He,  too,  is  vanished  out  of  my 
present  life.  I  have  made  many  inquiries  after  him  ;  all  I 
can  hear  is  that  he  went  abroad,  supposed  as  a  correspond- 
ent to  some  journal.  I  shall  like  so  much  to  see  him  again, 
now  that  perhaps  I  could  help  him  as  he  helped  me." 

"  Helped  you — ah  !  " 

Leonard  smiled  with  a  beating  heart,  as  he  saw  again 
the  dear  prudent,  warning  look,  and  involuntarily  drew 
closer  to  Helen.  She  seemed  more  restored  to  him  and  to 
her  former  self. 

"  Helped  me  much  by  his  instructions  ;  more,  perhaps, 
by  his  very  faults.  Y®u  cannot  guess,  Helen, — I  beg  par- 
don, Miss  Digby — but  I  forgot  that  we  are  no  longer  chil- 
dren :  you  cannot  guess  how  much  we  men,  and  more  than 
all  perhaps,  we  writers,  whose  task  it  is  to  unravel  the  web 
of  human  actions,  owe  even  to  our  own  past  errors ;  and 
if  we  learned  nothing  by  the  errors  of  others,  we  should 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  693 

be  dull  indeed.  We  must  know  where  the  roads  divide, 
and  have  marked  where  they  lead  to,  before  we  can  erect 
our  sign-post ;  and  books  are  the  sign-posts  in  human 
life." 

"  Books !  and  I  have  not  yet  read  yours.  And  Lord 
L'Estrange  tells  me  you  are  famous  now.  Yet  you  remem- 
ber me  still — the  poor  orphan  child,  whom  you  first  saw 
weeping  at  her  father's  grave,  and  with  whom  you  burdened 
your  own  young  life,  over-burdened  already.  No,  still  call 
me  Helen — you  must  always  be  to  me — a  brother !  Lord 
L'Estrange  feels  that ;  he  said  so  to  me  when  he  told  me 
that  we  were  to  meet  again.  He  is  so  generous,  so  noble. 
Brother ! "  cried  Helen,  suddenly,  and  extending  her  hand, 
with  a  sweet  but  sublime  look  in  her  gentle  face — "  brother, 
we  will  never  forfeit  his  esteem  ;  we  will  both  do  our  best 
to  repay  him  !  Will  we  not  ? — say  so  !  " 

Leonard  felt  overpowered  by  contending  and  unanalyzed 
emotions.  Touched  almost  to  tears  by  the  affectionate  ad- 
dress— thrilled  by  the  hand  that  pressed  his  own — and  yet 
with  a  vague  fear,  a  consciousness  that  something  more 
than  the  words  themselves  was  implied — something  that 
checked  all  hope.  And  this  word  "  brother,"  once  so  pre- 
cious and  so  dear,  why  did  he  shrink  from  it  now  ? — why 
could  he  not  too  say  the  sweet  word  "  sister  ?  " 

"She  is  above  me  now  and  evermore  !"  .he  thought, 
mournfully  ;  and  the  tones  of  his  voice,  when  he  spoke 
again,  were  changed.  The  appeal  to  renewed  intimacy  but 
made  him  more  distant  ;  and  to  that  appeal  itself  he  made 
no  direct  answer;  for  Mrs.  Riccabocca,  now  turning  round, 
and  pointing  to  the  cottage  which  came  in  view,  with  its 
picturesque  gable-ends,  cried  out — 

"  But  is  that  your  house,  Leonard?  I  never  saw  any- 
thing so  pretty." 

"  You  do  not  remember  it  then,"  said  Leonard  to  Helen, 
in  accents  of  melancholy  reproach — "there  where  I  saw  you 
last  !  I  doubted  whether  to  keep  it  exactly  as  it  was,  and  I 
said,  '  No  !  the  association  is  not  changed  because  we  try  to 
surround  it  with  whatever  beauty  we  can  create  ;  the  dearer 
the  association,  the  more  the  Beautiful  becomes  to  it  natu- 
ral.' Perhaps  you  don't  understand  this — perhaps  it  is 
only  we  poor  poets  who  do." 

"  I  understand  it,"  said  Helen,  gently.  She  looked 
wistfully  at  the  cottage. 

"  So  changed — I  have  so  often  pictured  it  to  myself — 


694  MY  NOVEL;    OR, 

never,  never  like  this  ;  yet  I  loved  it,  common-place  as  it 
was  to  my  recollection  ;  and  the  garret,  and  the  tree  in  the 
carpenter's  yard." 

She  did  not  give  these  thoughts  utterance.     And  they 
now  entered  the  garden. 


CHAPTER    IV. 

MRS.  FAIRFIELD  was  a  proud  woman  when  she  received 
Mrs.  Riccabocca  and  Violante  in  her  grand  house  ;  for  a 
grand  house  to  her  was  that  cottage  to  which  her  boy 
Lenny  had  brought  her  home.  Proud,  indeed,  ever  was 
Widow  Fail-field  ;  but  she  thought  then  in  her  secret  heart, 
that  if  ever  she  could  receive  in  the  drawing-room  of  that 
grand  house  the  great  Mrs.  Hazeldean,  who  had  so  lectured 
her  for  refusing  to  live  any  longer  in  the  humble  tenement 
rented  of  the  Squire,  the  cup  of  human  bliss  would  be  filled, 
and  she  could  contentedly  die  of  the  pride  of  it.  She  did 
not  much  notice  Helen— her  attention  was  too  absorbed  by 
the  ladies  who  renewed  their  old  acquaintance  with  her, 
and  she  carried  them  all  over  the  house,  yea,  into  the  very 
kitchen  ;  and  so,  somehow  or  other,  there  was  a  short  time 
when  Helen  and  Leonard  found  themselves  alone.  It  was 
in  the  study.  Helen  had  unconsciously  seated  herself  in 
Leonard's  own  chair,  and  she  was  gazing  with  anxious  and 
wistful  interest  on  the  scattered  papers,  looking  so  disor- 
derly (though,  in  truth,  in  that  disorder  there  was  method, 
but  method  only  known  to  the  owner),  and  at  the  venera- 
ble well-worn  books,  in  all  languages,  lying  on  the  floor,  on 
the  chairs — anywhere.  I  must  confess  that  Helen's  first 
tidy  woman-like  idea  was  a  great  desire  to  arrange  the  litter. 
"  Poor  Leonard,"  she  thought  to  herself — "  the  rest  of  the 
house  so  neat,  but  no  one  to  take  care  of  his  own  room  and 
of  him  ! " 

As  if  he  divined  her  thought,  Leonard  smiled  and  said, 
"  It  would  be  a  cruel  kindness  to  the  spider,  if  the  gentlest 
hand  in  the  world  tried  to  set  its  cobweb  to-rights. " 

HELEN. — You  were  not  quite  so  bad  in  the  old  days. 

LEONARD. — Yet  even  then,  you  were  obliged  to  take  care 
of  the  money.  I  have  more  books  now,  and  more  money. 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  695 

My  present  housekeeper  lets  me  take  care  of  the  books,  but 
she  is  less  indulgent  as  to  the  money. 

HELEN  (archly). — Are  you  as  absent  as  ever? 

LEONARD. — Much  more  so,  I  fear ;  the  habit  is  incor- 
rigible.— Miss  Digby 

HELEN. — Not  Miss  Digby — sister,  if  you  like. 

LEONARD  (evading  the  word  that  implied  so  forbidden  an 
affinity). — Helen,  will  you  grant  me  a  favor?  Your  eyes 
and  your  smile  say,  "  yes."  Will  you  lay  aside,  for  one 
minute,  your  shawl  and  bonnet?  What!  can  you  be  sur- 
prised that  I  ask  it  ?  Can  you  not  understand  that  I  wish 
for  one  minute  to  think  that  you  are  at  home  again  under 
this  roof  ? 

Helen  cast  down  her  eyes,  and  seemed  troubled  ;  then 
she  raised  them,  with  a  soft  angelic  candor  in  their  dove- 
like  blue,  and,  as  if  in  shelter  from  all  thoughts  of  more 
warm  affection,  again  murmured  "brother"  and  did  as  he 
asked  her. 

So  there  she  sate,  amongst  the  dull  books,  by  his  table, 
near  the  open  window — her  fair  hair  parted  on  her  fore- 
head— looking  so  good,  so  calm,  so  happy  !  Leonard  won- 
dered at  his  own  self-command.  His  heart  yearned  to  her 
with  such  inexpressible  love — his  lips  so  longed  to  murmur 
—  "Ah,  as  now  so  could  it  be  forever!  Is  the  home  too 
mean?"  But  that  word  "brother"  was  as  a  talisman  be- 
tween her  and  him. 

Yet  she  looked  so  at  home — perhaps  so  at  home  she  felt ! 
— more  certainly  than  she  had  yet  learned  to  do  in  that  stiff 
stately  house  in  which  she  was  soon  to  have  a  daughter's 
rights.  Was  she  suddenly  made  aware  of  this,  that  she  so 
suddenly  arose,  and  with  a  look  of  alarm  and  distress  on  her 
face — 

"  But — we  are  keeping  Lady  Lansmere  too  long,"  she 
said,  falteringly.  "  We  must  go  now,"  and  she  hastily  took 
up  her  shawl  and  bonnet. 

Just  then  Mrs.  Fairfield  entered  with  the  visitors,  and 
began  making  excuses  for  inattention  to  Miss  Digby,  whose 
identity  with  Leonard's  child-angel  she  had  not  yet  learned. 

Helen  received  these  apologies  with  her  usual  sweetness. 
"  Nay,"  she  said,  "  your  son  and  I  are  such  old  friends,  how 
could  you  stand  on  ceremony  with  me  ? " 

"  Old  friends  ! "  Mrs.  Fairfield  stared  amazed,  and  then 
surveyed  the  fair  speaker  more  curiously  than  she  had  yet 
done.  "  Pretty  nice-spoken  thing,"  thought  the  widow  ; 


696  MY  NOVEL;    OK, 

"as  nice-spoken  as  Miss  Violante,  and  humbler-looking  like 
— though,  as  to  dress,  I  never  see  anything  so  elegant  out 
of  a  picter." 

Helen  now  appropriated  Mrs.  Riccabocca's  arm  ;  and, 
after  a  kind  leave-taking  with  the  widow,  the  ladies  returned 
toward  Riceabocca's  house. 

Mrs.  Fairfield,  however,  ran  after  them  with  Leonard's 
hat  and  gloves,  which  he  had  forgotten. 

"'Deed,  boy,"  she  said,  kindly,  yet  scoldingly,  "but 
there'd  be  no  more  fine  books,  if  the  Lord  had  not  fixed 
your  head  on  your  shoulders.  You  would  not  think  it, 
inarm,"  she  added  to  Mrs.  Riccabocca,  "but  sin'  he  has  left 
you,  he's  not  the  'cute  lad  he  was  ;  very  helpless  at  times, 
marm  !  " 

Helen  could  not  resist  turning  round,  and  looking  at 
Leonard,  with  a  sly  smile. 

The  widow  saw  the  smile,  and  catching  Leonard  by  the 
arm,  whispered,  "  But,  where  before  have  you  seen  that 
pretty  young  lady  ?  Old  friends  !  " 

"Ah,  mother,"  said  Leonard,  sadly,  "it  is  a  long  tale  ; 
you  have  heard  the  beginning — who  can  guess  the  end  ? " — 
and  he  escaped.  But  Helen  still  leant  on  the  arm  of  Mrs. 
Riccabocca,  and,  in  the  walk  back,  it  seemed  to  Leonard  as 
if  the  winter  had  re-settled  in  the  sky. 

Yet  he  was  by  the  side  of  Violante,  and  she  spoke  to  him 
with  such  praise  of  Helen  !  Alas  !  it  is  not  always  so  sweet 
as  folks  say,  to  hear  the  praises  of  one  we  love.  Sometimes 
those  praises  seem  to  ask  ironically,  "  And  what  right  hast 
thou  to  hope  because  thou  lovest  ?  All  love  her." 


CHAPTER  V. 

No  sooner  had  Lady  Lansmere  found  herself  alone  with 
Riccabocca  and  Harley,  than  she  laid  her  hand  on  the  exile's 
arm,  and,  addressing  him  by  a  title  she  had  not  before  given 
him,  and  from  which  he  appeared  to  shrink  nervously,  said 
— "  Harley,  in  bringing  me  to  visit  you,  was  forced  to  reveal 
to  me  your  incognito,  for  I  should  have  discovered  it.  You 
may  not  remember  me,  in  spite  of  your  gallantry.  But  I 
mixed  more  in  the  world  than  I  do  now,  during  your  first 
visit  to  England,  and  once  sate  next  to  you  at  dinner  at 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  697 

Carlton  House.  Nay,  no  compliments,  but  listen  to  me. 
Harley  tells  me  you  have  cause  for  some  alarm  respecting 
the  designs  of  an  audacious  and  unprincipled  adventurer,  I 
may  call  him  ;  for  adventurers  are  of  all  ranks.  Suffer  your 
daughter  to  come  to  me,  on  a  visit,  as  long  as  you  please. 
With  me,  at  least,  she  will  be  safe  ;  and  if  you  too,  and 
the " 

"Stop,  my  dear  madam,"  interrupted  Riccabocca,  with 
great  vivacity,  "  your  kindness  overpowers  me.  I  thank  you 
most  gratefully  for  your  invitation  to  my  child  ;  but " 

"  Nay,"  in  his  turn  interrupted  Harley,  "  no  buts.  I 
was  not  aware  of  my  mother's  intention  when  she  entered 
this  room.  But  since  she  whispered  it  to  me,  I  have  reflected 
on  it,  and  am  convinced  that  it  is  but  a  prudent  precaution. 
Your  retreat  is  known  to  Mr.  Leslie — he  is  known  to  Pes- 
chiera.  Grant  that  no  indiscretion  of  Mr.  Leslie's  betrays 
the  secret ;  still  I  have  reason  to  believe  that  the  Count 
guesses  Randal's  acquaintance  with  you.  Audley  Egerton 
this  morning  told  me  he  had  gathered  that,  not  from  the 
young  man  himself,  but  from  questions  put  to  himself  by 
Madame  di  Negra  ;  and  Peschiera  might,  and  would,  set 
spies  to  track  Leslie  to  every  house  that  he  visits — might 
and  would,  still  more  naturally,  set  spies  to  track  myself. 
Were  this  man  an  Englishman,  I  should  laugh  at  his  machina- 
tions ;  but  he  is  an  Italian,  and  has  been  a  conspirator. 
What  he  could  do  I  know  not ;  but  an  assassin  can  penetrate 
into  a  camp,  and  a  traitor  can  creep  through  closed  walls  to 
one's  hearth.  With  my  mother,  Violante  must  be  safe  ;  that 
you  cannot  oppose.  And  why  not  come  yourself  ?" 

Riccabocca  had  no  reply  to  these  arguments,  so  far  as 
they  affected  Violante  ;  indeed,  they  awakened  the  almost 
superstitious  terror  with  which  he  regarded  his  enemy,  and 
he  consented  at  once  that  Violante  should  accept  the  invi- 
tation proffered.  But  he  refused  it  for  himself  and 
Jemima.  • 

<!  To  say  truth,"  said  he,  simply,  "  I  made  a  secret  vow, 
on  re-entering  England,  that  I  would  associate  with  none 
who  knew  the  rank  I  had  formerly  held  in  my  own  land.  I 
felt  that  all  my  philosophy  was  needed  to  reconcile  and 
habituate  myself  to  my  .altered  circumstances.  In  order  to 
find  in  my  present  existence,  however  humble,  those  bless- 
ings which  make  all  life  noble — dignity  and  peace — it  was 
necessary  for  poor  weak  human  nature  wholly  to  dismiss 
the  past.  It  would  unsettle  me  sadly,  could  I  come  to  your 

3° 


69S  MY  XOVEL;    OR, 

house,  renew  awhile,  in  your  kindness  and  respect — nay,  in 
the  very  atmosphere  of  your  society — the  sense  of  what  I 
have  been  ;  and  then  (should  the  more  than  doubtful  chance 
of  recall  from  my  exile  fail  me)  to  awake,  and  find  myself 
for  the  rest  of  life  what  I  am.  And  though,  were  I  alone,  I 
might  trust  myself  perhaps  to  the  danger — yet  my  wife  ;  she 
is  happy  and  contented  now  ;  would  she  be  so  if  you  had 
once  spoiled  her,  for  the  simple  position  of  Dr.  Riccabocca's 
wife  ?  Should  I  not  have  to  listen  to  regrets,  and  hopes,  and 
fears  that  would  prick  sharp  through  my  thin  cloak  of  phil- 
osophy ?  Even  as  it  is,  since  in  a  moment  of  weakness  I 
confided  my  secret  to  her,  I  have  had  'my  rank  'thrown  at 
me — with  a  careless  hand,  it  is  true — but  it  hits  hard  never- 
theless. No  stone  hurts  like  one  taken  from  the  ruins  of 
one's  own  home  ;  and  the  grander  the  home,  why,  the 
heavier  the  stone !  Protect,  dear  madame — protect  my 
daughter,  since  her  father  doubts  his  own  power  to  do  so. 
But — ask  no  more." 

Riccabocca  was  immovable  here.  And  the  matter  was 
settled  as  he  decided,  it  being  agreed  that  Violante  should 
be  still  styled  but  the  daughter  of  Dr.  Riccabocca. 

"And  now,  one  word  more,"  said  Harley.  "Do  not 
confide  to  Mr.  Leslie  these  arrangements  ;  do  not  let  him 
know  where  Violante  is  placed — at  least,  until  I  authorize 
such  confidence  in  him.  It  is  sufficient  excuse,  that  it  is  no 
use  to  know  unless  he  called  to  see  her,  and  his  movements, 
as  I  said  before,  may  be  watched.  You  can  give  the  same 
reason  to  suspend  his  visits  to  yourself.  Suffer  me,  mean- 
while, to  mature  my  judgment  on  this  young  man.  In  the 
meanwhile,  also,  I  think  that  I  shall  have  means  of  ascer- 
taining the  real  nature  of  Peschiera's  schemes.  His  sister 
has  sought  to  know  me  ;  I  will  give  her  the  occasion.  I 
have  heard  some  things  of  her  in  my  last  residence  abroad, 
which  make  me  believe  that  she  cannot  be  wholly  the 
Count's  tool  in  any  schemes  nakedly  villanous  ;  that  she  has 
some  finer  qualities  in  her  than  I  once  supposed  ;  and  that 
she  can  be  won  from  his  influence.  It  is  a  state  of  war  ;  we 
will  carry  it  into  the  enemy's  camp.  You  will  promise  me, 
then,  to  refrain  from  all  further  confidence  in  Mr.  Leslie." 

"  For  the  present,  yes,"  said  Riccabocca,  reluctantly. 

"  Do  not  even  say  that  you  have  seen  me,  unless  he  first 
tell  you  that  I  am  in  England,  and  wish  to  learn  your  resi- 
dence. I  will  give  him  full  occasion  to  do  so.  Pish  !  don't 
hesitate  ;  you  know  your  own  proverb — • 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  699 

'  Boccha  chiusa,  ed  occhio  aperto 
Non  fece  mai  nissun  deserto.' 

'The  close  mouth  and  the  open  eye,'  etc." 

"  That's  very  true,"  said  the  Doctor,  much  struck — "very 
true.  '  In  boccha  chiusa  non  c'entrano  mosche ' — one  can't  swal- 
low flies  if  one  keeps  one's  mouth  shut.  Corpo  di  J3acco  ! 
that's  very  true  indeed." 


CHAPTER  VI. 

VIOLANTE  and  Jemima  were  both  greatly  surprised,  as 
the  reader  may  suppose,  when  they  heard,  on  their  return, 
the  arrangements  already  made  for  the  former.  The  Count- 
ess insisted  on  taking  her  at  once,  and  Riccabocca  briefly 
said,  "  Certainly,  the  sooner  the  better."  Violante  was 
stunned  and  bewildered.  Jemima  hastened  to  make  up  a 
little  bundle  of  things  necessary,  with  many  a  woman's  sigh 
that  the  poor  wardrobe  contained  so  few  things  befitting. 
But  among  the  clothes  she  slipped  a  purse,  containing  the 
savings  of  months,  perhaps  of  years,  and  with  it  a  few  affec- 
tionate lines,  begging  Violante  to  ask  the  Countess  to  buy 
her  all  that  was  proper  for  her  father's  child.  There  is  al- 
ways something  hurried  and  uncomfortable  in  the  abrupt 
and  unexpected  withdrawal  of  any  member  from  a  quiet 
household.  The  small  party  broke  into  still  smaller  knots. 
Violante  hung  on  her  father,  and  listened  vaguely  to  his 
not  very  lucid  explanations.  The  Countess  approached 
Leonard,  and,  according  to  the  usual  mode  with  persons  of 
quality  addressing  young  authors,  complimented  him  highly 
on  the  books  she  had  not  read,  but  which  her  son  assured 
her  were  so  remarkable.  She  was  a  little  anxious  to  know 
where  Harley  had  first  met  with  Mr.  Oran,  whom  he  called 
his  friend  ;  but  she  was  too  high-bred  to  inquire  or  to  ex- 
press any  wonder  that  rank  should  be  friends  with  genius. 
She  took  it  for  granted  that  they  had  formed  their  acquaint- 
ance abroad. 

Harley  conversed  with  Helen. — "  You  are  not  sorry  that 
Violante  is  coming  to  us  ?  She  will  be  just  such  a  compan- 
ion for  you  as  I  could  desire  ;  of  your  own  years  too." 


700  MY  NOVEL;    OR, 

HELEN  (ingenuously). — It  is  hard  to  think  I  am  not 
younger  than  she  is. 

HARLEV. — Why,  my  dear  Helen  ? 

HELEN. — She  is  so  brilliant.  She  talks  so  beautifully. 
And  I 

HARLEY. — And  you  want  but  the  habit  of  talking,  to  do 
justice  to  your  own  beautiful  thoughts. 

Helen  looked  at  him  gratefully,  but  shook  her  head  :  it 
was  a  common  trick  of  hers,  and  always  when  she  was 
praised. 

A.t  last  the  preparations  were  made — the  farewell  was 
said.  Violante  was  in  the  carriage  by  Lady  Lansmere's 
side.  Slowly  moved  on  the  stately  equipage  with  its  four 
horses  and  trim  postilions,  heraldic  badges  on  their  shoul- 
ders, in  the  style  rarely  seen  in  the  neighborhood  of  the 
metropolis,  and  now  fast  vanishing  even  amidst  distant 
counties. 

Riccabocca,  Jemima,  and  Jackeymo,  continued  to  gaze 
after  it  from  the  gate. 

"  She  is  gone,"  said  Jackeymo,  brushing  his  eyes  with 
his  coat-sleeve.  "  But  it  is  a  load  off  one's  mind." 

"And  another  load  on  one's  heart,"  murmured  Ricca- 
bocca. "  Don't  cry,  Jemima;  it  may  be  bad  for  you,  and  bad 
for  him  that  is  to  come.  It  is  astonishing  how  the  humors 
of  the  mother  may  affect  the  unborn.  I  should  not  like  to 
have  a  son  who  has  a  more  than  usual  propensity  to  tears." 

The  poor  philosopher  tried  to  smile ;  but  it  was  a  bad 
attempt.  He  went  slowly  in,  and  shut  himself  with  his 
books.  But  he  could  not  read.  His  whole  mind  was 
unsettled.  And  though,  like  all  parents,  he  had  been 
anxious  to  rid  himself  of  a  beloved  daughter  for  life,  now 
that  she  was  gone  but  for  a  while,  a  string  seemed  broken 
in  the  Music  of  Home. 


CHAPTER  VII. 

THE  evening  of  the  same  day,  as  Egerton,  who  was  to 
entertain  a  large  party  at  dinner,  was  changing  his  dress, 
Harley  walked  into  his  room. 

Egerton  dismissed  his  valet  by  a  sign,  and  continued 
his  toilet. 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  701 

"  Excuse  me,  my  dear  Harley,  I  have  only  ten  minutes 
to  give  you.  I  expect  one  of  the  royal  dukes,  and  punc- 
tuality is  the  stern  virtue  of  men  of  business,  and  the  grace- 
ful courtesy  of  princes." 

Harley  had  usually  a  jest  for  his  friend's  aphorisms; 
but  he  had  none  now.  He  laid  his  hand  kindly  on  Eger- 
ton's  shoulder — "  Before  I  speak  of  my  business,  tell  me 
how  you  are — better  ? " 

"  Better — nay,  I  am  always  well.  Pooh !  I  may  look  a 
little  tired  —years  of  toil  will  tell  on  the  countenance.  But 
that  matters  little  ;  the  period  of  life  has  passed  with  me 
when  one  cares  how  one  looks  in  the  glass." 

As  he  spoke,  Egerton  completed  his  dress,  and  came  to 
the  hearth,  standing  there,  erect  and  dignified  as  usual,  still 
far  handsomer  than  many  a  younger  man,  and  with  a  form 
that  seemed  to  have  ample  vigor  to  support  for  many  a 
year  the  sad  and  glorious  burthen  of  power. 

"So  now  to  your  business,  Harley." 

"  In  the  first  place,  I  want  you  to  present  me,  at  the 
earliest  opportunity,  to  Madame  di  Negra.  You  say  she 
wished  to  know  me." 

•'  Are  you  serious  ?  " 

"Yes." 

"  Well,  then,  she  receives  this  evening.  I  did  not  mean 
to  go  ;  but  when  my  party  breaks  up " 

"  You  can  call  for  me  at  '  The  Travellers.'     Do!  " 

"  Next — you  knew  Lady  Jane  Horton  better  even  than 
I  did,  at  least  in  the  last  year  of  her  life."  Harley  sighed, 
and  Egerton  turned  and  stirred  the  fire. 

<:  Pray,  did  you  ever  see  at  her  house,  or  hear  her  speak 
of,  a  Mrs.  Bertram  ?" 

"Of  whom?"  said  Egerton,  in  a  hollow  voice,  his  face 
still  turned  toward  the  fire. 

"  A  Mrs.  Bertram  ;  but  Heavens !  my  dear  fellow,  what 
is  the  matter  ?  Are  you  ill  ?  " 

"A  spasm  at  the  heart,  that  is  all — don't  ring — I  shall 
be  better  presently— go  on  talking.  Mrs. —  — why  do  you 
ask  ? " 

"  Why  ?  I  have  hardly  time  to  explain  ;  but  I  am,  as  I 
told  you,  resolved  on  righting  my  old  Italian  friend,  if 
Heaven  will  help  me,  as  it  ever  does  help  the  just  when 
they  bestir  themselves  ;  and  this  Mrs.  Bertram  is  mixed  up 
in  my  friend's  affairs." 

"'His  !     How  is  that  possible  ? " 


702  MY  NOVEL;    OR, 

Harley  rapidly  and  succinctly  explained.  Audley  lis- 
tened attentively,  with  his  eyes  fixed  on  the  floor,  and  still 
seeming  to  labor  under  great  difficulty  of  breathing. 

At  last  he  answered,  "  I  remember  something  of  this 
Mrs. — :Mrs. — Bertram.  But  your  inquiries  after  her  would 
be  useless.  I  think  I  have  heard  that  she  is  long  since 
dead  ;  nay,  I  am  sure  of  it." 

"Dead? — that  is  most  unfortunate.  But  do  you  know 
any  of  her  relations  or  friends?  Can  you  suggest  any  mode 
of  tracing  this  packet,  if  it  came  to  her  hands  ?" 

"No." 

"  And  Lady  Jane  had  scarcely  any  friend  that  I  remem- 
ber, except  my  mother,  and  she  knows  nothing  of  this 
Mrs.  Bertram.  How  unlucky  !  I  think  I  shall  advertise. 
Yet,  no.  I  could  only  distinguish  this  Mrs.  Bertram  from 
any  other  of  the  same  name,  by  stating  with  whom  she  had 
gone  abroad,  and  that  would  catch  the  attention  of 
Peschiera,  and  set  him  to  counterwork  us." 

"And  what  avails  it?"  said  Egerton.  "  She  whom  you 
seek  is  no  more — no  more !  "  He  paused,  and  went  on  rapidly 
— "The  packet  did  not  arrive  in  England  till  years  after  her 
death— was  no  doubt  returned  to  the  post-office — is  de- 
stroyed long  ago." 

Harley  looked  very  much  disappointed.  Egerton  went 
on  in  a  sort  of  set  mechanical  voice,  as  if  not  thinking  of 
what  he  said,  but  speaking  from  the  dry  practical  mode  of 
reasoning  which  was  habitual  to  him,  and  by  which  the 
man  of  the  world  destroys  the  hopes  of  an  enthusiast. 
Then  starting  up  at  the  sound  of  the  first  thundering 
knock  at  the  street-door,  he  said,  "  Hark  !  you  must  excuse 
me." 

"  I  leave  you,  my  dear  Audley.  But  I  must  again  ask 
— Are  you  better  now  ? " 

"  Much,  much — quite  well.  I  will  call  for  you — pro- 
bably between  eleven  and  twelve." 


CHAPTER   VIII. 

IF  any  one  could  be  more  surprised  at  seeing  Lord 
L'Estrange  at  the  house  of  Madame  di  Negra  that  evening 
than  the  fair  hostess  herself,  it  was  Randal  Leslie.  Some- 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  703 

thing  instinctively  told  him  that  this  visit  threatened  inter- 
ference with  whatever  might  be  his  ultimate  projects  in 
regard  to  Riccabocca  and  Violante.  But  Randal  Leslie 
was  not  one  of  those  who  shrink  from  an  intellectual  com- 
bat. On  the  contrary,  he  was  too  confident  of  his  powers 
of  intrigue,  not  to  take  a  delight  in  their  exercise.  He 
could  not  conceive  that  the  indolent  Harley  could  be  a 
match  for  his  own  restless  activity  and  dogged  perseverance. 
But  in  a  very  few  moments  fear  crept  on  him.  No  man  of 
his  day  could  produce  a  more  brilliant  effect  than  Lord 
L'Estrange,  when  he  deigned  to  desire  it.  Without  much 
pretence  to  that  personal  beauty  which  strikes  at  first  sight, 
he  still  retained  all  the  charm  of  countenance,  and  all  the 
grace  of  manner,  which  had  made  him  in  boyhood  the 
spoiled  darling  of  Society.  Madame  di  Negra  had  collected 
but  a  small  circle  round  her,  still  it  was  of  the  elite  of  the 
great  world  ;  not,  indeed,  those  more  precise  and  reserved 
dames  de  chateau,  whom  the  lighter  and  easier  of  the  fair 
dispensers  of  fashion  ridicule  as  prudes  ;  but,  nevertheless, 
ladies  were  there,  as  unblemished  in  reputation  as  high  in 
rank  ;  flirts  and  coquettes,  perhaps — nothing  more  ;  in 
short,  "  charming  women  " — the  gay  butterflies  that  hover 
over  the  stiff  parterre.  And  there  were  ambassadors  and 
ministers,  and  wits  and  brilliant  debaters,  and  first-rate 
dandies  (dandies,  when  first-rate,  are  generally  very  agree- 
able men).  Amongst  all  these  various  persons,  Harley,  so 
long  a  stranger  to  the  London  world,  seemed  to  make  him- 
self at  home  with  the  ease  of  an  Alcibiades.  Many  of  the 
less  juvenile  ladies  remembered  him,  and  rushed  to  claim 
his  acquaintance,  with  nods,  and  becks,  and  wreathed 
smiles.  He  had  a  ready  compliment  for  each.  And  few 
indeed  were  there,  men  or  women,  for  whom  Harley 
L'Estrange  had  not  appropriate  attraction.  Distinguished 
reputation  as  soldier  and  scholar  for  the  grave  ;  whim  and 
pleasantry  for  the  gay  ;  novelty  for  the  sated  ;  and  for  the 
more  vulgar  natures  was  he  not  Lord  L'Estrange,  un- 
married, possessed  already  of  a  large  independence,  and 
heir  to  an  ancient  earldom,  and  some  fifty  thousands  a-year  ? 
Not  till  he  had  succeeded  in  the  general  effect — which, 
it  must  be  owned,  he  did  his  best  to  create -did  Harley 
seriously  and  especially  devote  himself  to  his  hostess.  And 
then  he  seated  himself  by  her  side  ;  and,  as  if  in  compliment 
to  both,  less  pressing  admirers  insensibly  slipped  away  and 
edged  off. 


704  MY  NOVEL;    OR, 

Frank  Hazeldean  was  the  last  to  quit  his  ground  behind 
Madame  di  Negra's  chair  ;  but  when  he  found  that  the  two 
began  to  talk  in  Italian,  and  he  could  not  understand  a 
word  they  said,  he  too — fancying,  poor  fellow,  that  he  looked 
foolish,  and  cursing  his  Eton  education  that  had  neglected, 
for  languages  spoken  by  the  dead,  of  which  he  had  learned 
little,  those  still  in  use  among  the  living,  of  which  he  had 
learned  naught — retreated  toward  Randal,  and  asked  wist- 
fully, "  Pray,  what  age  should  you  say  L'Estrange  was  ? 
He  must  be  devilish  old,  in  spite  of  his  looks.  Why,  he  was 
at  Waterloo  !  " 

"  He  is  young  enough  to  be  a  terrible  rival,"  answered 
Randal,  with  artful  truth. 

Frank  turned  pale,  and  began  to  meditate  dreadful  blood- 
thirsty thoughts,  of  which  hair-triggers  and  Lord's  cricket- 
ground  formed  the  staple. 

Certainly  there  was  apparent  ground  for  a  lover's  jeal- 
ousy, for  Harley  and  Beatrice  now  conversed  in  a  low  tone, 
and  Beatrice  seemed  agitated,  and  Harley  earnest.  Randal 
himself  grew  more  and  more  perplexed.  Was  Lord  L'Es- 
trange really  enamoured  of  the  Marchesa  ?  If  so,  farewell 
to  all  hopes  of  Frank's  marriage  with  her !  Or  was  he 
merely  playing  a  part  in  Riccabocca's  interest ;  pretending 
to  be  the  lover,  in  order  to  obtain  an  influence  over  her 
mind,  rule  her  through  her  ambition,  and  secure  an  ally 
against  her  brother  ?  Was  this  finesse  compatible  with  Ran- 
dal's notions  of  Harley's  character  ?  Was  it  consistent  with 
that  chivalric  and  soldierly  spirit  of  honor  which  the  frank 
nobleman  affected,  to  make  love  to  a  woman  in  mere  ruse 
de  guerre  ?  Could  mere  friendship  for  Riccabocca  be  a  suf- 
ficient inducement  to  a  man,  who,  whatever  his  weakness 
or  his  errors,  seemed  to  wear  on  his  very  forehead  a  soul 
above  deceit,  to  stoop  to  paltry  means,  even  for  a  worthy 
end  ?  At  this  question  a  new  thought  flashed  upon  Randal 
— might  not  Lord  L'Estrange  have  speculated  himself  upon 
winning  Violante  ? — would  not  that  account  for  all  the  ex- 
ertions he  had  made  on  behalf  of  her  inheritance  at  the 
court  of  Vienna — exertions  of  which  Peschiera  and  Beatrice 
had  both  complained  ?  Those  objections  which  the  Aus- 
trian government  might  take  to  Violante's  marriage  with 
some  obscure  Englishman  would  probably  not  exist  against 
a  man  like  Harley  L'Estrange,  whose  family  not  only  be- 
longed to  the  highest  aristocracy  of  England,  but  had  always 
supported  opinions  in  vogue  amongst  the  leading  govern- 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  705 

ments  of  Europe.  Harley  himself,  it  is  true,  had  never  ta- 
ken part  in  politics,  but  his  notions  were,  no  doubt,  those 
of  a  high-born  soldier,  who  had  fought,  in  alliance  with 
Austria,  for  the  restoration  of  the  Bourbons.  And  this  im- 
mense wealth — which  Violante  might  lose,  if  she  married 
one  like  Randal  himself — her  marriage  with  .the  heir  of  the 
Lansmeres  might  actually  tend  only  to  secure.  Could  Har- 
ley, with  all  his  own  expectations,  be  indifferent  to  such  a 
prize  ? — and  no  doubt  he  had  learned  Violante's  rare  beauty 
in  his  correspondence  with  Riccabocca. 

Thus  considered,  it  seemed  natural  to  Randal's  estimate 
of  human  nature,  that  Harley's  more  prudish  scruples  of 
honor,  as  regards  what  is  due  to  women,  could  not  resist  a 
temptation  so  strong.  Mere  friendship  was  not  a  motive 
powerful  enough  to  shake  them,  but  ambition  was. 

While  Randal  was  thus  cogitating,  Frank  thus  suffering, 
and  many  a  whisper,  in  comment  on  the  evident  flirtation 
between  the  beautiful  hostess  and  the  accomplished  guest, 
reached  the  ears  both  of  the  brooding  schemer  and  the  jeal- 
ous lover,  the  conversation  between  the  two  objects  of  re- 
mark and  gossip  had  taken  a  new  turn.  Indeed,  Beatrice 
had  made  an  effort  to  change  it. 

"  It  is  long,  my  lord,"  said  she,  still  speaking  Italian, 
"  since  I  have  heard  sentiments  like  those  you  address  to 
me  ;  and  if  I  do  not  feel  myself  wholly  unworthy  of  them, 
it  is  from  the  pleasure  I  have  felt  in  reading  sentiments 
equally  foreign  to  the  language  of  the  world  in  which  I 
live."  She  took  a  book  from  the  table  as  she  spoke  :  "  Have 
you  seen  this  work  ?  " 

Harley  glanced  at  the  title-page.  "  To  be  sure  I  have, 
and  I  know  the  author." 

"  I  envy  you  that  honor.  I  should  so  like  also  to  know 
one  who  has  discovered  to  me  deeps  in  my  own  heart 
which  I  had  never  explored." 

"Charming  Marchesa,  if  the  book  has  done  this,  believe 
me  that  I  have  paid  you  no  small  compliment — formed 
no  over-flattering  estimate  of  your  nature  ;  for  the  charm 
of  the  work  is  but  in  its  simple  appeal  to  good  and  gen- 
erous emotions,  and  it  can  charm  none  in  whom  those  emo- 
tions exist  not  !  " 

"  Nay,  that  cannot  be  true,  or  why  is  it  so  popular  ?  " 

"  Because  good  and  generous  emotions  are  more  com- 
mon to  the   human   heart  than  we  are  aware  of  till   the 
appeal  comes." 
30* 


706  MY  NOVEL;    OR, 

"  Don't  ask  me  to  think  that !  I  have  found  the  world 
so  base." 

"  Pardon  me  a  rude  question  ;  but  what  do  you  know 
of  the  world  ?  " 

Beatrice  looked  first  in  surprise  at  Harley,  then  glanced 
round  the  rooni  with  significant  irony. 

"As  I  thought;  you  call  this  little  room  'the  world.' 
Be  it  so.  I  will  venture  to  say,  that  if  the  people  in  this 
room  were  suddenly  converted  into  an  audience  before  a 
stage,  and  you  were  as  consummate  in  the  actor's  art  as 
you  are  in  all  others  that  please  and  command " 

"Well?" 

"  And  were  to  deliver  a  speech  full  of  sordid  and  base 
sentiments,  you  would  be  hissed.  But  let  any  other  wo- 
man, with  half  your  powers,  arise  and  utter  sentiments 
sweet  and  womanly,  or  honest  and  lofty — and  applause 
would  flow  from  every  lip,  and  tears  rush  to  many  a  worldly 
eye.  The  true  proof  of  the  inherent  nobleness  of  our  com- 
mon nature  is  in  the  sympathy  it>  betrays  with  what  is  noble 
wherever  crowds  are  collected.  Never  believe  the  world 
is  base  ; — if  it  were  so,  no  society  could  hold  together  for  a 
day.  But  you  would  know  the  author  of  this  book  ?  I 
will  bring  him  to  vou." 

"  Do." 

"  And  now,"  said  Harley,  rising,  and  with  his  candid, 
winning  smile,  "do  you  think  we  shall  ever  be  friends  ?  " 

"You  have  startled  me  so,  that  I  can  scarcely  answer. 
But  why  would  you  be  friends  with  me  ? " 

"  Because  you  need  a  friend.     You  have  none  !  " 

"  Strange  flatterer  !  "  said  Beatrice,  smiling,  though  very 
sadly  ;  and  looking  up,  her  eyes  caught  Randal's. 

"  Pooh,"  said  Harley,  "you  are  too  penetrating  to  believe 
that  you  inspire  friendship  there.  Ah,  do  you  suppose  that, 
all  the  while  I  have  been  conversing  with  you,  I  have  not 
noticed  the  watchful  gaze  of  Mr.  Randal  Leslie  ?  What  tie 
can  possibly  connect  you  together,  I  know  not  yet  ;  but  I 
soon  shall." 

"  Indeed  !  you  talk  like  one  of  the  old  Council  of  Ve- 
nice. You  try  hard  to  make  me  fear  you,"  said  Beatrice, 
seeking  to  escape  from  the  graver  kind  of  impression 
Harley  had  made  on  her  by  the  affectation  partly  of  co- 
quetry, partly  of  levity. 

"And  I,"  said  L'Estrange,  calmly,  "tell  you  already, 
that  I  fear  you  no  more."  He  bowed,  and  passed  through 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  707 

the  crowd  to  rejoin  Audley,  who  was  seated  in  a  corner 
whispering  with  some  of  his  political  colleagues.  Before 
Harley  reached  the  minister,  he  found  himself  close  to 
Randal  and  young  Hazeldean. 

He  bowed  to  the  first,  and  extended  his  hand  to  the  last. 
Randal  felt  the  distinction,  and  his  sullen,  bitter  pride  was 
deeply  galled — a  feeling  of  hate  toward  Harley  passed  into 
his  mind.  He  was  pleased  to  see  the  cold  hesitation  with 
which  Frank  just  touched  the  hand  offered  to  him.  But 
Randal  had  not  been  the  only  person  whose  watch  upon 
Beatrice  the  keen-eyed  Harley  had  noticed.  Harley  had  seen 
the  angry  looks  of  Frank  Hazeldean,  and  divined  the  cause. 
So  he  smiled  forgivingly  at  the  slight  he  had  received. 

"  You  are  like  me,  Mr.  Hazeldean,"  said  he.  You  think 
something  of  the  heart  should  go  with  all  courtesy  that 
bespeaks  friendship  — 

'  The  hand  of  Douglas  is  his  own."* 

Here  Harley  drew  aside  Randal.  "  Mr.  Leslie,  a  word 
with  you.  If  I  wished  to  know  the  retreat  of  Dr.  Ricca- 
bocca,  in  order  to  render  him  a  great  service,  would  you 
confide  to  me  that  secret?" 

"  That  woman  has  let  out  her  suspicions  that  I  know  the 
exile's  retreat,"  thought  Randal ;  and  with  quick  presence 
of  mind,  he  replied  at  once — 

"My  Lord,  yonder  stands  a  connection  of  Dr.  Ricca- 
bocca's.  Mr.  Hazeldean  is  surely  the  person  to  whom  you 
should  address  this  inquiry." 

"Not  so,  Mr.  Leslie  ;  for  I  suspect  that  he  cannot  an- 
swer it,  and  that  you  can.  Well,  I  will  ask  something  that 
it  seems  to  me  yju  may  grant  without  hesitation.  Should 
you  see  Dr.  Riccabocca,  tell  him  that  I  am  in  England,  and 
so  leave  it  to  him  to  communicate  with  me  or  not  ;  but 
perhaps  you  have  already  done  so  ?  " 

"Lord  L'Estrange,"  .said  Randal,  bowing  low,  with 
pointed  formality,  "  excuse  me  if  I  decline  either  to  dis- 
claim or  acquiesce  in  the  knowledge  you  impute  to  me.  If 
I  am  acquainted  with  any  secret  intrusted  to  me  by  Dr. 
Riccabocca,  it  is  for  me  to  use  my  own  discretion  how  best 
to  guard  it.  And  for  the  rest,  after  the  Scotch  earl,  whose 
words  your  lordship  has  just  quoted,  refused  to  touch  the 
hand  of  Marmion,  Douglas  could  scarcely  have  called  Mar- 
mion  back  in  order  to  give  him — a  message  !" 


708  MY  NOVEL;    OR, 

Harley  was  not  prepared  for  this  tone  in  Mr.  Egerton's 
protege,  and  his  own  gallant  nature  was  rather  pleased  than 
irritated  by  a  haughtiness  that  at  least  seemed  to  bespeak 
independence  of  spirit.  Nevertheless,  L'Estrange's  sus- 
picions of  Randal  were  too  strong  to  be  easily  set  aside, 
and  therefore  lie  replied,  civilly,  but  with  covert  taunt — 

"  I  submit  to  your  rebuke,  Mr.  Leslie,  though  I  meant 
not  the  offence  you  would  ascribe  to  me.  I  regret  my 
unlucky  quotation  yet  the  more,  since  the  wit  of  your  retort 
has  obliged  you  to  identify  yourself  with  Marmion,  who, 
though  a  clever  and  brave  fellow,  was  an  uncommonly — 
tricky  one."  And  so  Harley,  certainly  having  the  best 
of  it,  moved  on,  and  joining  Egerton,  in  a  few  minutes  more 
both  left  the  room. 

"  What  was  L'Estrange  saying  to  you  ?  "  asked  Frank  ; 
"something  about  Beatrice,  I  am  sure." 

"  No  ;  only  quoting  poetry." 

"  Then  what  made  you  look  so  angry,  my  dear  fellow  ? 
I  know  it  was  your  kind  feeling  for  me.  As  you  say,  he 
is  a  formidable  rival.  But  that  can't  be  his  own  hair.  Do 
you  think  he  wears  a  toupet?  I  am  sure  he  was  praising 
Beatrice.  He  is  evidently  very  much  smitten  with  her. 
But  I  don't  think  she  is  a  woman  to  be  caught  by  mere  rank 
and  fortune  !  Do  you  ?  Why  can't  you  speak  ?  " 

"  If  you  do  not  get  her  consent  soon,  I  think  she  is  lost 
to  you,"  said  Randal,  slowly  ;  and  before  Frank  could  re- 
cover his  dismay,  glided  from  the  house. 


CHAPTER  IX. 

VIOLANTE'S  first  evening  at  the  Lansmeres  had  passed 
more  happily  to  her  than  the  first  evening  under  the  same 
roof  had  done  to  Helen.  True  that  she  missed  her  father 
much — Jemima  somewhat ;  but  she  so  identified  her  father's 
cause  with  Harley,  that  she  had  a  sort  of  vague  feeling  that 
it  was  to  promote  the  cause  that  she  was  on  this  visit  to 
Harley's  parents.  And  the  Countess,  it  must  be  owned, 
was  more  emphatically  cordial  to  her  than  she  had  ever 
been  to  Captain  Digby's  orphan.  But  perhaps  the  real 
difference  in  the  heart  of  either  girl  was  this,  that  Helen 
felt  awe  of  Lady  Lansmere,  and  Violante  felt  only  love  for 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  709 

Lord  L'Estrange's  mother.  Violante,  too,  was  one  of  those 
persons  whom  a  reserved  and  formal  person,  like  the 
Countess,  "  can  get  on  with,"  as  the  phrase  goes.  Not  so 
poor  little  Helen  — so  shy  herself,  and  so  hard  to  coax  into 
more  than  gentle  monosyllables.  And  Lady  Lansmere's 
favorite  talk  was  always  of  Harley.  Helen  had  listened  to 
such  talk  with  respect  and  interest.  Violante  listened  to 
it  with  inquisitive  eagerness — with  blushing  delight.  The 
mother's  heart  noticed  the  distinction  between  the  two,  and 
no  wonder  that  that  heart  moved  more  to  Violante  than  to 
Helen.  Lord  Lansmere,  too,  like  most  gentlemen  of  his 
age,  clumped  all  young  ladies  together,  as  a  harmless,  ami- 
able, but  singularly  stupid  class  of  the  genus  Petticoat, 
meant  to  look  pretty,  play  the  piano,  and  talk  to  each  other 
about  frocks  and  sweethearts.  Therefore  this  animated 
dazzling  creature,  with  her  infinite  variety  of  look  and  play 
of  mind,  took  him  by  surprise,  charmed  him  into  attention, 
and  warmed  him  into  gallantry.  Helen  sat  in  her  quiet 
corner,  at  her  work,  sometimes  listening  with  almost  mourn- 
ful, though  certainly  unenvious,  admiration  at  Violante's 
vivid,  yet  ever  unconscious,  eloquence  of  word  and  thought 
— sometimes  plunged  deep  into  her  own  secret  meditations. 
And  all  the  while  the  work  went  on  the  same,  under  the 
small  noiseless  fingers.  This  was  one  of  Helen's  habits 
that  irritated  the  nerves  of  Lady  Lansmere.  She  despised 
young  ladies  who  were  fond  of  work.  She  did  not  com- 
prehend how  often  it  is  the  resource  of  the  sweet  womanly 
mind,  not  from  want  of  thought,  but  from  silence  and  the 
depth  of  it.  Violante  wras  surprised,  and  perhaps  disap- 
pointed, that  Harley  had  left  the  house  before  dinner,  and 
did  not  return  all  the  evening.  But  Lady  Lansmere,  in 
making  excuses  for  his  absence,  on  the  plea  of  engage- 
ments, found  so  good  an  opportunity  to  talk  of  his  ways  in 
general — of  his  rare  promise  in  boyhood — of  her  regret  at 
the  inaction  of  his  maturity — of  her  hope  to  see  him  yet  do 
justice  to  his  natural  powers,  that  Violante  almost  ceased 
to  miss  him. 

And  then  Lady  Lansmere  conducted  her  to  her  room, 
and,  kissing  her  cheek  tenderly,  said,  "  But  you  are  just 
the  person  Harley  admires — just  the  person  to  rouse  him 
from  his  melancholy  dreams,  of  which  his  wild  humors  are 
now  but  the  vain  disguise  " — Violante  crossed  her  arms  on 
her  bosom,  and  her  bright  eyes,  deepened  into  tenderness, 
seemed  to  ask,  "  He  melancholy — and  why  I " 


7io  MY  NOVEL;    OR, 

On  leaving  Violante's  room,  Lady  Lansmere  paused 
before  the  door  of  Helen's  ;  and,  after  musing  a  little  while, 
entered  softly. 

Helen  had  dismissed  her  maid  ;  and,  at  the  moment 
Lady  Lansmere  entered,  she  was  kneeling  at  the  foot  of  the 
bed,  her  hands  clasped  before  her  face. 

Her  form,  thus  seen,  looked  so  youthful  and  child-like 
— the  attitude  itself  was  so  holy  and  so  touching,  that 
the  proud  and  cold  expression  on  Lady  Lansmere's  face 
changed.  She  shaded  the  light  involuntarily,  and  seated 
herself  in  silence  that  she  might  not  disturb  the  act  of 
prayer. 

When  Helen  rose,  she  was  startled  to  see  the  Countess 
seated  by  the  fire  ;  and  hastily  drew  her  hand  across  her 
eyes.  She  had  been  weeping. 

Lady  Lansmere  did  not,  however,  turn  to  observe  those 
traces  of  tears,  which  Helen  feared  were  too  visible.  The 
Countess  was  too  absorbed  in  her  own  thoughts  ;  and  as 
Helen  timidly  approached,  she  said — still  with  her  eyes  on 
the  clear  low  fire — "I  beg  your  pardon,  Miss  Digby,  for 
my  intrusion  ;  but  my  son  has  left  it  to  me  to  prepare  Lord 
Lansmere  to  learn  the  offer  you  have  done  Harleythe  honor 
to  accept.  I  have  not  yet  spoken  to  my  lord  ;  it  may  be 
days  before  I  find  a  fitting  occasion  to  do  so  ;  meanwhile, 
I  feel  assured  that  your  sense  of  propriety  will  make  you 
agree  with  me  that  it  is  due  to  Lord  L'Estrange's  father, 
that  strangers  should  not  learn  arrangements  of  such  mo- 
ment in  his  family,  before  his  own  consent  be  obtained." 

Here  the  Countess  came  to  a  full  pause ;  and  poor 
Helen,  finding  herself  called  upon  for  some  reply  to  this 
chilling  speech,  stammered  out,  scarcely  audibly — 

"  Certainly,  madam,  I  never  dreamed  of — 

"That  is  right,  my  dear,"  interrupted  Lady  Lansmere, 
rising  suddenly,  and  as  if  greatly  relieved.  "  I  could  not 
doubt  your  superiority  to  ordinary  girls  of  your  age,  with 
whom  these  matters  are  never  secret  for  a  moment.  There- 
fore, of  course,  you  will  not  mention,  at  present,  what  has 
passed  between  you  and  Harley,  to  any  of  the  friends  with 
whom  you  may  correspond." 

"I  have  no  correspondents — no  friends,  Lady  Lans- 
mere," said  Helen,  deprecatingly,  and  trying  hard  not  to 
cry. 

"  I  am  very  glad  to  hear  it,  my  dear;  young  ladies  never 
should  have.  Friends,  especially  friends  who  correspond, 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  711 

are  the  worst  enemies  they  can  have.  Good  night,  Miss 
Digby.  I  need  not  add,  by  the  way,  that  though  we  are 
bound  to  show  all  kindness  to  this  young  Italian  lady,  still 
she  is  wholly  unconnected  with  our  family,  and  you  will  be 
as  prudent  with  her  as  you  would  have  been  with  your  cor- 
respondents— had  you  had  the  misfortune  to  have  any." 

Lady  Lansmere  said  the  last  words  with  a  smile,  and 
left  an  ungenial  kiss  (the  stepmother's  kiss)  on  Helen's 
bended  brow.  She  then  left  the  room,  and  Helen  sat  on 
the  seat  vacated  by  the  stately  unloving  form,  and  again 
covered  her  face  with  her  hands,  and  again  wept.  But 
when  she  rose  at  last,  and  the  light  fell  upon  her  face,  that 
soft  face  was  sad  indeed,  but  serene — serene,  as  if  with  some 
inward  sense  of  duty — sad,  as  with  the  resignation  which 
accepts  patience  instead  of  hope. 


CHAPTER  X. 

THE  next  morning  Harley  appeared  at  breakfast.  He 
was  in  gay  spirits,  and  conversed  more  freely  with  Violante 
than  he  had  yet  done.  He  seemed  to  amuse  himself  by 
attacking  all  she  said,  and  provoking  her  to  argument. 
Violante  was  naturally  a  very  earnest  person  ;  whether 
grave  or  gay,  she  spoke  with  her  heart  on  her  lips,  and  her 
soul  in  her  eyes.  She  did  not  yet  comprehend  the  light 
vein  of  Harley's  irony,  so  she  grew  piqued  and  chafed ;  and 
she  was  so  lovely  in  anger  ;  it  so  brightened  her  beauty 
and  animated  her  words,  that  no  wonder  Harley  thus  mali- 
ciously teased  her.  But  what,  perhaps,  she  liked  still  less 
than  the  teasing — though  she,  could  not  tell  why — was  the 
kind  of  familiarity  that  Harley  assumed  with  her — a  famili- 
arity as  if  he  had  known  her  all  her  life — that  of  a  good- 
humored  elder  brother,  or  a  bachelor  uncle.  To  Helen,  on 
the  contrary,  when  he  did  not  address  her  apart,  his  man- 
ner was  more  respectful.  He  did  not  call  her  by  her  Chris- 
tian name,  as  he  did  Violante,  but  "Miss  Digby,"  and  soft- 
ened his  tone  and  inclined  his  head  when  he  spoke  to  her. 
Nor  did  he  presume  to  jest  at  the  very  few  and  brief  sen- 
tences he  drew  from  Helen,  but  rather  listened  to  them 
with  deference,  and  invariably  honored  them  with  approval. 
After  breakfast  he  asked  Violante  to  play  or  sing  ;  and 


712  MY  NOVEL;    OR, 

when  she  frankly  owned  how  little  she  had  cultivated  those 
accomplishments,  he  persuaded  Helen  to  sit  down  to  the 
piano,  and  stood  by  her  side  while  she  did  so,  turning  over 
the  leaves  of  her  music-book  with  the  ready  devotion  of  an 
admiring  amateur.  Helen  always  played  well,  but  less  well 
than  usual  that  day,  for  her  generous  nature  felt  abashed. 
It  was  as  if  she  were  showing  off  to  mortify  Violante.  But 
Violante,  on  the  other  hand,  was  so  passionately  fond  of 
music,  that  she  had  no  feeling  left  for  the  sense  of  her  own 
inferiority.  Yet  she  sighed  when  Helen  rose  and  Harley 
thanked  Miss  Digby  for  the  delight  she  had  given  him. 

The  day  was  fine.  Lady  Lansmere  proposed  to  walk  in 
the  garden.  While  the  ladies  went  up-stairs  for  their  shawls 
and  bonnets,  Harley  lighted  his  cigar,  and  stepped  from  the 
window  upon  the  lawn.  Lady  Lansmere  joined  him  before 
the  girls  came  out. 

"Harley,"  said  she,  taking  his  arm,  "what  a  charming 
companion  you  have  introduced  to  us  !  I  never  met  with 
any  that  both  pleased  and  delighted  me  like  this  dear  Vio- 
lante. Most  girls  who  possess  some  power  of  conversation, 
and  who  have  dared  to  think  for  themselves,  are  so  pedan- 
tic, or  so  masculine  ;  but  she  is  always  so  simple,  and  always 
still  the  girl.  Ah,  Harley  !  " 

"  Why  that  sigh,  my  dear  mother  ?  " 

"  I  was  thinking  how  exactly  she  would  have  suited 
you — how  proud  I  should  have  been  of  such  a  daughter-in- 
law — and  how  happy  you  would  have  been  with  such  a 
wife." 

Harley  started.  "  Tut,"  said  he,  peevishly,  "  she  is  a 
mere  child  ;  you  forget  my  years." 

"Why,"  said  Lady  Lansmere,  surprised,  "Helen  is  quite 
as  young  as  Violante." 

"In  dates — yes.  But  Helen's  character  is  so  staid  ; — 
what  it  is  now  it  will  be  ever  ;  and  Helen,  from  gratitude, 
respect,  or  pity,  condescends  to  accept  the  ruins  of  my 
heart  ; — while  this  bright  Italian  has  the  soul  of  a  Juliet, 
and  would  expect  in  a  husband  all  the  passion  of  a  Romeo. 
Nay,  mother,  hush.  Do  not  forget  that  I  am  engaged — 
and  of  my  own  free  will  and  choice  !  Poor  dear  Helen  ! 
Apropos,  have  you  spoken  to  my  father,  as  you  undertook 
to  do  ? " 

"  Not  yet.  I  must  seize  the  right  moment.  You  know 
that  my  lord  requires  management." 

"  My  dear  mother,  that  female  notion  of  marrying  us 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  713 

men,  costs  you  ladies  a  great  waste  of  time,  and  occasions 
us  a  great  deal  of  sorrow.  Men  are  easily  managed  by 
plain  truth.  We  are  brought  up  to  respect  it,  strange  as  it 
may  seem  to  you  !  " 

Lady  Lansmere  smiled  with  the  air  of  superior  wisdom, 
and  the  experience  of  an  accomplished  wife.  "  Leave  it  to 
me,  Harley,  and  rely  on  my  lord's  consent." 

Harley  knew  that  Lady  Lansmere  always  succeeded  in 
obtaining  her  way  with  his  father  ;  and  he  felt  that  the 
Earl  might  naturally  be  disappointed  in  such  an  alliance, 
and,  without  due  propitiation,  evince  that  disappointment 
in  his  manner  to  Helen.  Harley  was  bound  to  save  her 
from  all  chance  of  such  humiliation.  He  did  not  wish  her 
to  think  that  she  was  not  welcomed  into  his  family  ;  there- 
fore he  said,  "  I  resign  myself  to  your  promise  and  your 
diplomacy.  Meanwhile,  as  you  love  me,  be  kind  to  my 
betrothed." 

"  Am  I  not  so  ? " 

"  Hem.  Are  you  as  kind  as  if  she  were  the  great  heiress 
you  believe  Violante  to  be  ? " 

"  Is  it,"  answered  Lady  Lansmere,  evading  the  question, 
"  is  it  because  one  is  an  heiress  and  the  other  is  not  that 
you  make  so  marked  a  difference  in  your  own  manner  to 
the  two  ;  treating  Violante  as  a  spoiled  child, .and  Miss 
Digby  as " 

"  The  destined  wife  of  Lord  L'Estrange,  and  the  daugh- 
ter-in-law of  Lady  Lansmere — yes." 

The  Countess  suppressed  an  impatient  exclamation  that 
rose  to  her  lips,  for  Harley's  brow  wore  that  serious  aspect 
which  it  rarely  assumed,  save  when  he  was  in  those  moods 
in  which  men  must  be  soothed,  not  resisted.  And  after  a 
pause  he  went  on — "  I  am  going  to  leave  you  to-day.  I 
have  engaged  apartments  at  the  Clarendon.  I  intended  to 
gratify  your  wish,  so  often  expressed,  that  I  should  enjoy 
what  are  called  the  pleasures  of  my  rank,  and  the  privileges 
of  single-blessedness — celebrate  my  adieu  to  celibacy,  and 
blaze  once  more,  with  the  splendor  of  a  setting  sun,  upon 
Hyde  Park  and  May  Fair." 

"  You  are  a  positive  enigma.  Leave  our  house,  just 
when  you  are  betrothed  to  its  inmate  !  Is  that  the  natural 
conduct  of  a  lover  ? " 

"  How  can  your  woman  eyes  be  so  dull,  and  your 
woman  heart  so  obtuse  ?  "  answered  Harley,  half-laughing, 
half-scolding.  "  Can  you  not  guess  that  I  wish  that  Helen 


7H  MY  NOVEL;    OR, 

and  myself  should  both  lose  the  association  of  mere  ward 
and  guardian  ;  that  the  very  familiarity  of  our  intercourse 
under  the  same  roof  almost  forbids  us  to  be  lovers  ;  that  we 
lose  the  joy  to  meet,  and  the  pang  to  part.  Don't  you 
remember  the  story  of  the  Frenchman,  who  for  twenty 
years  loved  a  lady,  and  never  missed  passing  his  evening  at 
her  house.  She  became  a  widow.  'I  wish  you  joy,'  cried 
his  friend  :  'you  may  now  marry  the  woman  you  have  so 
long  adored.'  '  Alas,'  said  the  poor  Frenchman,  profoundly 
dejected  ;  'and  if  so,  where  shall  I  spend  my  evenings  ?" 

Here  Violante  and  Helen  were  seen  in  the  garden, 
walking  affectionately  arm-in-arm. 

"  I  don't  perceive  the  point  of  your  witty,  heartless 
anecdote,"  said  Lady  Lansmere,  obstinately.  "Settle  that, 
however,  with  Miss  Digby.  But,  to  leave  the  very  day  after 
your  friend's  daughter  comes  as  a  guest  ! — what  will  :>he 
think  of  it  ?  " 

Lord  L'Estrange  looked  steadfastly  at  his  mother. 
"  Does  it  matter  much  what  she  thinks  of  me  ? — of  a  man 
engaged  to  another ;  and  old  enough  to  be " 

"  I  wish  to  Heaven  you  would  not  talk  of  your  age, 
Harley  ;  it  is  a  reflection  upon  mine  ;  and  I  never  saw  you 
look  so  well  nor  so  handsome."  With  that  she  drew  him 
on  toward  the  young  ladies ;  and,  taking  Helen's  arm, 
asked  her,  aside,  "  If  she  knew  that  Lord  L'Estrange  had 
engaged  rooms  at  the  Clarendon  ;  and  if  she  understood 
why?"  As  while  she  said  this  she  moved  on,  Harley  was 
left  by  Violante's  side. 

"You  will  be  very  dull  here,  I  fear,  my  poor  child,"  said 
he. 

"  Dull !  But  why  will  you  call  me  child  ?  Am  I  so 
very — very  child-like  ?  " 

"  Certainly  you  are  to  me — a  mere  infant.  Have  I  not 
seen  you  one  ;  have  I  not  held  you  in  my  arms  ? " 

VIOLANTE. — But  that  was  a  long  time  ago  ! 

HARLEY. — True.  But  if  years  have  not  stood  still  for 
you,  they  have  not  been  stationary  for  me.  There  is  the 
same  difference  between  us  now  that  there  was  then.  And, 
therefore,  permit  me  still  to  call  you  child,  and  as  child  to 
treat  you  ! 

VIOLANTE. — I  will  do  no  such  thing..  Do  you  know 
that  I  always  thought  I  was  good-tempered  till  this  morn- 
ing ? 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  715 

HARLEY. — And  what  undeceived  you  ?  Did  you  break 
your  doll  ? 

VIOLANTE  (with  an  indignant  flash  from  her  dark  eyes). 
— There  ! — again  ! — you  delight  in  provoking  me  ! 

HARLEY. — It  was  the  doll,  then.  Don't  cry  ;  I  will  get 
you  another. 

Violante  plucked  her  arm  from  him,  and  walked  away 
toward  the  Countess  in  speechless  scorn.  Barley's  brow 
contracted,  in  thought  and  in  gloom.  He  stood  still  for  a 
moment  or  so,  and  then  joined  the  ladies. 

"  I  am  trespassing  sadly  on  your  morning  ;  but  I  wait 
for  a  visitor,  whom  I  sent  to  before  you  were  up.  He  is  to 
be  here  at  twelve.  With  your  permission,  I  will  dine  with 
you  to-morrow,  and  you  will  invite  him  to  meet  me." 

"  Certainly.  And  who  is  your  friend  ?  I  guess — the 
young  author?" 

"Leonard  Fairfield,"  cried  Violante,  who  had  conquered, 
or  felt  ashamed  of  her  short-lived  anger. 

"  Fairfield  !  "  repeated  Lady  Lansmere.  "  I  thought, 
Harley,  you  said  the  name  was  Oran  ?" 

"  He  has  assumed  the  latter  name.  He  is  the  son  of 
Mark  Fairfield,  who  married  an  Avenel.  Did  you  recog- 
nize no  family  likeness? — none  in  those  eyes — mother?" 
said  Harley,  sinking  his  voice  into  a  whisper. 

"No,"  answered  the  Countess,  falteringly. 

Harley,  observing  that  Violante  was  now  speaking  to 
Helen  about  Leonard,  and  that  neither  was  listening  to 
him,  resumed  in  the  same  low  tone, — "And  his  mother 
— Nora's  sister — shrank  from  seeing  me  !  That  is  the  rea- 
son why  I  wished  you  not  to  call.  She  has  not  told  the 
young  man  why  she  shrank  from  seeing  me  ;  nor  have  I  ex- 
plained it  to  him  as  yet.  Perhaps  I  never  shall." 

"  Indeed,  dearest  Harley,"  said  the  Countess,  with  great 
gentleness,  "  I  wish  you  too  much  to  forget  the  folly — well, 
I  will  not  say  that  word: — the  sorrows  of  your  boyhood,  not 
to  hope  that  you  will  rather  strive  against  such  painful 
memories  than  renew  them  by  unnecessary  confidence  to  any 
one  ;  least  of  all  to  the  relation  of " 

"Enough! — don't  name  her  ;  the  very  name  pains  me. 
And  as  to  confidence,  there  are  but  two  persons  in  the 
world  to  whom  I  ever  bare  the  old  wounds — yourself  and 
Egerton.  Let  this  pass.  Ha  ! — a  ring  at  the  bell  ;  that  is 
he!" 


716  MY  NOVEL;    OK, 


CHAPTER  XI. 

LEONARD  entered  on  the  scene,  and  joined  the  party  in 
the  garden.  The  Countess,  perhaps  to  please  her  son,  was 
more  than  civil — she  was  markedly  kind  to  him.  She  no- 
ticed him  more  attentively  than  she  had  hitherto  done  ;  and, 
with  all  her  prejudices  of  birth,  was  struck  to  find  the  son 
of  Mark  Fairfield  the  carpenter  so  thoroughly  the  gentle- 
man. He  might  not  have  the  exact  tone  and  phrase  by 
which  Convention  stereotypes  those  born  and  schooled  in  a 
certain  world  ;  but  the  aristocrats  of  Nature  can  dispense 
with  such  trite  minutiae.  And  Leonard  had  lived — of  late 
at  least — in  the  best  society  that  exists  for  the  polish  of 
language  and  the  refinement  of  manners, — the  society  in 
which  the  most  graceful  ideas  are  clothed  in  the  most  grace- 
ful forms, — the  society  which  really,  though  indirectly, 
gives  the  law  to  courts, — the  society  of  the  most  classic  au- 
thors in  the  various  ages  in  which  literature  has  flowered 
forth  from  civilization.  And  if  there  was  something  in  the 
exquisite  sweetness  of  Leonard's  voice,  look,  and  manner, 
which  the  Countess  acknowledged  to  attain  that  perfection 
in  high  breeding,  which,  under  the  name  of  "suavity," 
steals  its  way  into  the  heart,  so  her  interest  in  him  was 
aroused  by  a  certain  subdued  melancholy  which  is  rarely 
without  distinction,  and  never  without  charm.  He  and 
Helen  exchanged  but  few  words.  There  was  but  one  occa- 
sion in  which  they  could  have  spoken  apart,  and  Helen  her- 
self contrived  to  elude  it.  His  face  brightened  at  Lady 
Lansmere's  cordial  invitation,  and  he  glanced  at  Helen  as 
he  accepted  it ;  but  her  eye  did  not  meet  his  own. 

"And  now,"  said  Harley,  whistling  to  Nero,  whom  his 
ward  was  silently  caressing,  "  I  must  take  Leonard  away. 
Adieu  !  all  of  you,  till  to-morrow  at  dinner.  Miss  Violante, 
is  the  doll  to  have  blue  eyes  or  black  ?  " 

Violante  turned  her  own  black  eyes  in  mute  appeal  to 
Lady  Lansmere,  and  nestled  to  that  lady's  side,  as  if  in  re- 
fuge from  unworthy  insult. 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  717 


CHAPTER   XII. 

"  LET  the  carriage  go  to  the  Clarendon,"  said  Harley  to 
his  servant ;  "  I  and  Mr.  Oran  will  walk  to  town.  Leonard, 
I  think  you  would  rejoice  at  an  occasion  to  serve  your  old 
friends,  Dr.  Riccabocca  and  his  daughter?" 

"Serve  them! — O  yes."  And  there  instantly  returned 
to  Leonard  the  recollection  of  Violante's  words  when,  on 
leaving  his  quiet  village,  he  had  sighed  to  part  from  all 
those  he  loved  ;  and  the  little  dark-eyed  girl  had  said, 
proudly,  yet  consolingly,  "  But  to  SERVE  those  you  love  !  " 
He  turned  to  L'Estrange  with  beaming,  inquisitive  eyes. 

''I  said  to  our  friend,"  resumed  Harley,  "that  I  would 
vouch  for  your  honor  as  my  own.  I  am  about  to  prove  my 
words,  and  to  confide  the  secrets  which  your  penetration 
has  indeed  divined  ;  our  friend  is  not  what  he  seems."  Har- 
ley then  briefly  related  to  Leonard  the  particulars  of  the 
exile's  history,  the  rank  he  had  held  in  his  native  land,  the 
manner  in  which,  partly  through  the  misrepresentations  of 
a  kinsman  he  had  trusted,  partly  through  the  influence  of  a 
wife  he  had  loved,  he  had  been  drawn  into  schemes  which 
be  believed  bounded  to  the  emancipation  of  Italy  from  a 
foreign  yoke,  by  the  united  exertions  of  her  best  and  bravest 
sons. 

"A  noble  ambition,"  interrupted  Leonard,  manfully. 
"  And  pardon  me,  my  Lord,  I  should  not  have  thought  that 
you  would  speak  of  it  in  a  tone  that  implies  blame." 

"  The  ambition  in  itself  was  noble,"  answered  Harley ; 
"  but  the  cause  to  which  it  was  devoted  became  defiled  in 
this  instance  in  its  dark  channel  through  Secret  Societies. 
It  is  the  misfortune  of  all  miscellaneous  political  combina- 
tions, that  with  the  purest  motives  of  their  more  generous 
members  are  ever  mixed  the  most  sordid  interests  and  the 
fiercest  passions  of  mean  confederates.  When  those  com- 
binations act  openly,  and  in  daylight,  under  the  eye  of  Pub- 
lic Opinion,  the  healthier  elements  usually  prevail  ;  where 
they  are  shrouded  in  mystery, — where  they  are  subjected  to 
no  censor  in  the  discussion  of  the  impartial  and  dispas- 
sionate,— where  chiefs  working  in  the  dark  exact  blind  obe- 
dience, and  every  man  who  is  at  war  with  law  is  at  once 


718  MY  NOVEL;    OR, 

admitted  as  a  friend  of  freedom, — the  history  of  the  world 
tells  us  that  patriotism  soon  passes  away.  Where  all  is  in 
public,  public  virtue,  by  the  natural  sympathies  of  the  com- 
mon mind,  and  by  the  wholesome  control  of  shame,  is  likely 
to  obtain  ascendency ;  where  all  is  in  private,  and  shame  is 
but  for  him  who  refuses  the  abnegation  of  his  conscience, 
each  man  seeks  the  indulgence  of  his  private  vice.  And 
hence,  in  Secret  Societies  (from  which  may  yet  proceed 
great  danger  to  all  Europe),  we  find  but  foul  and  hateful 
Eleusinia,  affording  pretexts  to  the  ambition  of  the  great, 
to  the  license  of  the  penniless,  to  the  passions  of  the  re- 
vengeful, to  the  anarchy  of  the  ignorant.  In  a  word,  the 
societies  of  these  Italian  Carbonari  did  but  engender 
schemes  in  which  the  abjer  chiefs  disguised  new  forms  of 
despotism,  and  in  which  the  revolutionary  many  looked  for- 
ward to  the  overthrow  of  all  the  institutions  that  stand  be- 
tween Law  and  Chaos.  Naturally,  therefore,"  (added 
L'Estrangc,  dryly),  "when  their  schemes  were  detected,  and 
the  conspiracy  foiled,  it  was  for  the  silly  honest  men  en- 
trapped into  the  league  to  suffer — the  leaders  turned  king's 
evidence,  and  the  common  mercenaries  became — banditti." 
Harley  then  proceeded  to  state  that  it  was  just  when  the 
soi-disant  Riccabocca  had  discovered  the  true  nature  and 
ulterior  views  of  the  conspirators  he  had  joined,  and  actu- 
ally withdrawn  from  their  councils,  that  he  was  denounced 
by  the  kinsman  who  had  duped  him  into  the  enterprise  and 
who  now  profited  by  his  treason.  Harley  next  spoke  of 
the  packet  despatched  by  Riccabocca's  dying  wife,  as  it 
was  supposed  to  Mrs.  Bertram  ;  and  of  the  hopes  he  founded 
on  the  contents  of  that  packet,  if  discovered.  He  then  re- 
ferred to  the  design  which  had  brought  Peschiera  to  Eng- 
land— a  design  which  that  personage  had  avowed  with  such 
effrontery  to  his  companions  at  Vienna,  that  he  had  pub- 
licly laid  wagers  on  his  success. 

"But  these  men  can  know  nothing  of  England — of  the 
safety  of  English  laws,"  said  Leonard,  naturally.  "We 
take  it  for  granted  that  Riccabocca,  if  I  am  still  so  to  call 
him,  refuses  his  consent  to  the  marriage  between  his  daugh- 
ter and  his  foe.  Where,  then,  the  danger  ?  This  Count, 
even  if  Violante  were  not  under  your  mother's  roof,  could 
not  get  an  opportunity  to  see  her.  He  could  not  attack 
the  house  and  carry  her  off  like  a  feudal  baron  in  the  mid- 
dle ages." 

"All  this  is  very  true,"  answered  Harley.     "Yet  I  have 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  719 

found  through  life  that  we  cannot  estimate  danger  by  ex- 
ternal circumstances,  but  by  the  character  of  those  from 
whom  it  is  threatened.  This  Count  is  a  man  of  singular 
audacity,  of  no  mean  natural  talents — talents  practised  in 
every  art  of  duplicity  and  intrigue  ;  one  of  those  men  whose 
boast  it  is  that  they  succeed  in  whatever  they  undertake  ; 
and  he  is,  here,  urged  on  the  one  hand  by  all  that  can  whet 
the  avarice,  and  on  the  other,  by  all  that  can  give  invention 
to  despair.  Therefore,  though  I  cannot  guess  what  plan  he 
may  possibly  adopt,  I  never  doubt  that  some  plan,  formed 
with  cunning  and  pursued  with  daring,  will  be  embraced 
the  moment  he  discovers  Violante's  retreat,  unless,  indeed, 
we  can  forestall  all  peril  by  the  restoration  of  her  father, 
and  the  detection  of  the  fraud  and  falsehood  to  which 
Peschiera  owes  the  fortune  he  appropriates.  Thus,  while 
we  must  prosecute  to  the  utmost  our  inquiries  for  the  miss- 
ing documents,  so  it  should  be  our  care  to  possess  ourselves, 
if  possible,  of  such  knowledge  of  the  Count's  machinations 
as  may  enable  us  to  defeat  them.  Now,  it  was  with  satis- 
faction that  I  learned  in  Germany  that  Peschiera's  sister 
was  in  London.  I  knew  enough  both  of  his  disposition  and 
of  the  intimacy  between  himself  and  this  lady,  to  make  me 
think  it  probable  he  will  seek  to  make  her  his  instrument 
and  accomplice,  should  he  require  one.  Peschiera  (as  you 
may  suppose  by  his  audacious  wager)  is  not  one  of  those 
secret  villains  who  would  cut  off  their  right  hand  if  it  could 
betray  the  knowledge  of  what  was  done  by  the  left — rather 
one  of  those  self-confident,  vaunting  knaves  of  high  animal 
spirits,  and  conscience  so  obtuse  that  it  clouds  their  intel- 
lect— who  must  have  some  one  to  whom  they  can  boast  of 
their  abilities  and  confide  .their  projects.  And  Peschiera 
has  done  all  he  can  to  render  this  poor  woman  so  wholly 
dependent  on  him,  as  to  be  his  slave  and  his  tool.  But  I 
have  learned  certain  traits  in  her  character  that  show  it  to 
be  impressionable  to  good,  and  with  tendencies  to  honor. 
Peschiera  had  taken  advantage  of  the  admiration  she  ex- 
cited, some  years  ago,  in  a  rich  young  Englishman,  to  entice 
this  admirer  into  gambling,  and  sought  to  make  his  sister 
both  a  decoy  and  an  instrument  in  his  designs  of  plunder. 
She  did  not  encourage  the  addresses  of  our  countryman, 
but  she  warned  him  of  the  snare  laid  for  him,  and  entreated 
him  to  leave  the  place,  lest  her  brother  should  discover  and 
punish  her  honesty. 

<;  The  Englishman  told  me  this  himself.    In  fine,  my  hope 


720  MY  NOVEL;    OR, 

of  detaching  this  lady  from  Peschiera's  interests,  and  inducing 
her  to  forewarn  us  of  his  purpose,  consists  but  in  the  inno- 
cent, and,  I  hope,  laudable  artifice,  of  redeeming  herself — 
of  appealing  to,  and  calling  into  disused  exercise,  the  better 
springs  of  her  nature." 

Leonard  listened  with  admiration  and  some  surprise  to 
the  singularly  subtle  and  sagacious  insight  into  character 
which  Harley  evinced  in  the  brief  clear  strokes  by  which 
he  had  thus  depicted  Peschiera  and  Beatrice,  and  was  struck 
by  the  boldness  with  which  Harley  rested  a  whole  system 
of  action  upon  a  few  deductions  drawn  from  his  reasonings 
on  human  motive  and  characteristic  bias.  Leonard  had  not 
expected  to  find  so  much  practical  acuteness  in  a  man  v/ho, 
however  accomplished,  usually  seemed  indifferent,  dreamy, 
and  abstracted  to  the  ordinary  things  of  life.  But  Harley 
L'Estrange  was  one  of  those  whose  powers  lie  dormant  till 
circumstance  supplies  to  them  all  they  need  for  activity — 
the  stimulant  of  a  motive. 

Harley  resumed — "After  a  conversation  I  had  with  the 
lady  last  night,  it  occurred  to  me  that  in  this  part  of  our 
diplomacy  you  could  render  us  essential  service.  Madame 
di  Negra — such  is  the  sister's  name — has  conceived  an  ad- 
miration for  your  genius,  and  a  strong  desire  to  know  you 
personally.  I  have  promised  to  present  you  to  her;  and  I 
shall  do  so  after  a  preliminary  caution.  The  lady  is  very 
handsome  and  very  fascinating.  It  is  possible  that  your 
heart  and  your  senses  may  not  be  proof  against  her 
attractions." 

"  Oh,  do  not  fear  that !  "  exclaimed  Leonard,  with  a  tone 
of  conviction  so  earnest  that  Harley  smiled. 

"  Forewarned  is  not  always  forearmed  against  the  might 
of  beauty,  my  dear  Leonard;  so  I  cannot  at  once  accept 
your  assurance.  But  listen  to  me  !  Watch  yourself  nar- 
rowly, and  if  you  find  that  you  are  likely  to  be  captivated, 
promise,  on  your  honor,  to  retreat  at  once  from  the  field. 
I  have  no  right,  for  the  sake  of  another,  to  expose  you  to 
danger  ;  and  Madame  di  Negra,  whatever  may  be  her  good 
qualities,  is  the  last  person  I  should  wish  to  see  you  in  love 
with." 

"  In  love  with  her  !     Impossible  !  " 

"Impossible  is  a  strong  word,"  returned  Harley;  "still, 
I  own  fairly  (and  this  belief  alone  warrants  me  in  trusting 
you  to  her  fascinations)  that  I  do  think,  as  far  as  one  man 
can  judge  of  another,  that  she  is  not  the  woman  to  attract 


VARIETIES   IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  721 

you ;  and,  if  filled  by  one  pure  and  generous  object  in  your 
intercourse  with  her,  you  will  see  her  with  purged  eyes. 
Still  I  claim  your  promise  as  one  of  honor." 

"I  give  it,"  said  Leonard,  positively.  "  But  how  can  I 
serve  Riccabocca  ?  How  aid  in " 

"Thus,"  interrupted  Harley. — "The  spell  of  your  writ- 
ings is  that,  unconsciously  to  ourselves,  they  make  us  bet- 
ter and  nobler.  And  your  writings  are  but  the  impressions 
struck  off  from  your  mind.  Your  conversation,  when  you  are 
aroused,  has  the  same  effect.  And  as  you  grow  more  famil- 
iar with  Madame  di  Negra,  I  wish,  you  to  speak  of  your 
boyhood,  your  youth.  Describe  the  exile  as  you  have  seen 
him — so  touching  amidst  his  foibles,  so  grand  amidst  the 
petty  privations  of  his  fallen  fortunes,  so  benevolent  while 
poring  over  his  hateful  Machiavelli,  so  stingless  in  his  wis- 
dom of  the  serpent,  so  playfully  astute  in  his  innocence  of 
the  dove — I  leave  the  picture  to  your  knowledge  of  humor 
and  pathos.  Describe  Violante  brooding  over  her  Italian 
poets,  and  filled  with  dreams  of  her  fatherland  ;  describe 
her  with  all  the  flashes  of  her  princely  nature,  shining  forth 
through  humble  circumstance  and  obscure  position  ;  waken 
in  your  listener  compassion,  respect,  admiration  for  her 
kindred  exiles  ; — and  I  think  our  work  is  done.  She  will 
recognize  evidently  those  whom  her  brother  seeks.  She 
will  question  you  closely  where  you  met  with  them — where 
they  now  are.  Protect  that  secret ;  say  at  once  that  it  is 
not  your  own.  Against  your  descriptions  and  the  feelings 
they  excite,  she  will  not  be  guarded  as  against  mine. 
And  there  are  other  reasons  why  your  influence  over  this 
woman  of  mixed  nature  may  be  more  direct  and  effectual 
than  my  own." 

"  Nay,  I  cannot  conceive  that." 

"  Believe  it,  without  asking  me  to  explain,"  answered 
Harley.  For  he  did  not  judge  it  necessary  to  say  to  Leon- 
ard, "  I  am  high-born  and  wealthy — you  a  peasant's  son, 
and  living  by  your  exertions.  This  woman  is  ambitious 
and  distressed.  She  might  have  projects  on  me  that  would 
counteract  mine  on  her.  You  she  would  but  listen  to,  and 
receive,  through  the  sentiments  of  good  or  of  poetical  that 
are  in  her — you  she  would  have  no  interest  to  subjugate,  no 
motive  to  ensnare. 

"And  now,"  said  Harley,  turning  the  subject,  "1  have 
another  object  in  view.  This  foolish  sage  friend  of  ours,  in 
his  bewilderment  and  fear,  has  sought  to  save  Violante  from 

3' 


722  MY  NOVEL;    OA\ 

one  rogue  by  promising  her  hand  to  a  man  who,  unless  my 
instincts  deceive  me,  I  suspect  much  disposed  to  be  an- 
other. Sacrifice  such  exuberance  of  life  and  spirit  to  that 
bloodless  heart,  to  that  cold  and  earthward  intellect !  By 
Heaven,  it  shall  not  be  !  " 

"  But  whom  can  the  exile  possibly  have  seen  of  birth  and 
fortunes  to  render  him  a  fitting  spouse  for  his  daughter  } 
Whom,  my  lord,  except  yourself  ?  " 

"Me!"  exclaimed  Harley,  angrily,  and  changing  color. 
"I  worthy  of  such  a  creature  ?  I— with  my  habits!  I — 
silken  egotist  that  I  am  !  And  you,  a  poet,  to  form  such 
an  estimate  of  one  who  might  be  the  queen  of  a  poet's 
dream  ?" 

"My  lord,  when  we  sat  the  other  night  round  Ricca- 
bocca's  hearth — when  I  heard  her  speak,  and  observed  you 
listen,  I  said  to  myself,  from  such  knowledge  of  human  na- 
ture as  comes,  we  know  not  how,  to  us  poets — I  said,  '  Har- 
ley L' Estrange  has  looked  long  and  wistfully  on  the  heavens, 
and  he  now  hears  the  murmur  of  the  wings  that  can  waft 
him  toward  them.'  And  then  I  sighed,  for  I  thought  how 
the  world  rules  us  all  in  spite  of  ourselves,  and  I  said, 
4  What  pity  for  both  that  the  exile's  daughter  is  not  the 
worldly  equal  of  the  peer's  son  ! '  And  you  too  sighed,  as 
I  thus  thought ;  and  I  fancied  that,  while  you  listened  to 
the  music  of  the  wing,  you  felt  the  iron  of  the  chain.  But 
the  exile's  daughter  is.your  equal  in  birth,  and  you  are  her 
equal  in  heart  and  in  soul." 

"  My  poor  Leonard,  you  rave,"  answered  Harley,  calmly  ; 
"  and  if  Violante  is  not  to  be  some  young  prince's  bride, 
she  should  be  some  young  poet's." 

"  Poet's  !  O,  no  !  "  said  Leonard,  with  a  gentle  laugh. 
"  Poets  need  repose  where  they  love  !  " 

Harley  was  struck  by  the  answer,  and  mused  over  it  in 
silence.  "I  comprehend,"  thought  he;  "it  is  a  new  light 
that  dawns  on  me.  What  is  needed  by  the  man,  whose 
whole  life  is  one  strain  after  glory — whose  soul  sinks,  in 
fatigue,  to  the  companionship  of  earth — is  not  the  love  of 
a  nature  like  his  own.  He  is  right — it  is  repose  !  While 
I  ! — it  is  true — boy  that  he  is,  his  intuitions  are  wiser  than 
all  my  experience  !  It  is  excitement — energy — elevation, 
that  Love  should  bestow  on  me.  But  I  have  chosen  ;  and, 
at  least,  with  Helen,  my  life  will  be  calm,  and  my  hearth 
sacred.  Let  the  rest  sleep  in  the  same  grave  as  my 
youth." 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  723 

"  But,"  said  Leonard,  wishing  kindly  to  arouse  his 
noble  friend  from  a  reverie  which  he  felt  was  mournful, 
though  he  did  not  divine  its  true  cause — "  but  you  have 
not  yet  told  me  the  name  of  the  signorina's  suitor.  May  I 
know  ?" 

"  Probably  one  you  never  heard  of.  Randal  Leslie — a 
placeman.  You  refused  a  place  ; — you  were  right." 

"  Randal  Leslie  ?  Heaven  forbid  !  "  cried  Leonard,  re- 
vealing his  surprise  at  the  name. 

"  Amen  !     But  what  do  you  know  of  him  ? " 

Leonard  related  the  story  of  Burley's  pamphlet. 

Harley  seemed  delighted  to  hear  his  suspicions  of  Ran- 
dal confirmed.  "  The  paltry  pretender  ! — and  yet  I  fancied 
that  he  might  be  formidable  !  However,  we  must  dismiss 
him  for  the  present  ; — we  are  approaching  Madame  di  Ne- 
gra's  house.  Prepare  yourself,  and  remember  your  prom- 
ise." 


CHAPTER   XIII. 

SOME  days  have  passed  by.  Leonard  and  Beatrice  di 
Negra  have  already  made  friends.  Harley  is  satisfied  with 
his  young  friend's  report.  He  himself  has  been  actively 
occupied.  He  has  sought,  but  hitherto  in  vain,  all  trace  of 
Mrs.  Bertram  ;  he  has  put  that  investigation  into  the  hands 
of  his  lawyer,  and  his  lawyer  has  not  been  more  fortunate 
than  himself.  Moreover,  Harley  has  blazed  forth  again  in 
the  London  world,  and  promises  again  de  fair  e  fur eur  ;  but 
he  has  always  found  time  to  spend  some  hours  in  the 
twenty-four  at  his  father's  house.  He  has  continued  much 
the  same  tone  with  Violarite,  and  she  begins  to  accustom  her- 
self to  it,  and  reply  saucily.  His  calm  courtship  to  Helen 
flows  on  in  silence.  Leonard,  too,  has  been  a  frequent 
guest  at  the  Lansmeres  :  all  welcome  and  like  him  there. 
Peschiera  has  not  evinced  any  signs  of  the  deadly  machina- 
tions ascribed  to  him.  He  goes  less  into  the  drawing-room 
world  ;  for  in  that  world  he  meets  Lord  L'Estrange  ;  and 
brilliant  and  handsome  though  Peschiera  be,  Lord  L'Es- 
trange, like  Rob  Roy  Macgregor,  is  "on  his  native  heath/' 
and  has  the  decided  advantage  over  the  foreigner.  Pes- 
chiera, however,  shines  in  the  clubs,  and  plays  high.  Still 
scarcely  an  evening  passes  in  which  he  and  Baron  Levy  do 
not  meet. 


724  MY  NOVEL;    OK, 

Audlcy  Egerton  has  been  intensely  occupied  with  affairs. 
Only  seen  once  by  Harley.  Harley  then  was  about  to  de- 
liver himself  of  his  sentiments  respecting  Randal  Leslie, 
and  to  communicate  the  story  of  Burley  and  the  pamphlet. 
Egerton  stopped  him  short. 

"  My  dear  Harley,  don't  try  to  set  me  against  this  young 
man.  I  wish  to  hear  nothing  in  his  disfavor.  In  the  first 
place,  it  would  not  alter  the  line  of  conduct  I  mean  to  adopt 
with  regard  to  him.  He  is  my  wife's  kinsman  ;  I  charged 
myself  with  his  career,  as  a  wish  of  hers,  and  therefore  as  a 
duty  to  myself.  In  attaching  him  so  young  to  my  own  fate, 
I  drew  him  necessarily  away  from  the  professions  in  which 
his  industry  and  talents  (for  he  has  both  in  no  common  de- 
gree) would  have  secured  his  fortunes  ;  therefore,  be  he 
bad,  be  he  good,  I  shall  try  to  provide  for  him  as  I  best 
can  ;  and,  moreover,  cold  as  I  am  to  him,  and  worldly 
though  herhaps  he  be,  I  have  somehow  or  other  conceived 
an  interest  in  him — a  liking  to  him.  He  has  been  under  my 
roof,  he  is  dependent  on  me  ;  he  has  been  docile  and  pru- 
dent, and  I  am  a  lone  childless  man  ;  therefore,  spare  him, 
since  in  so  doing  you  spare  me  ;  and  ah,  Harley,  I  have  so 
many  cares  on  me  now,  that " 

"  O,  say  no  more,  my  dear,  dear  Audley,"  cried  the  gen- 
erous friend  ;  "  how  little  people  know  you  ! " 

Audley 's  hand  trembled.  Certainly  his  nerves  began  to 
show  wear  and  tear. 

Meanwhile,  the  object  of  this  dialogue — the  type  of  per- 
verted intellect — of  mind  without  heart  —  of  knowledge 
which  had  no  aim  but  power — was  in  a  state  of  anxious 
perturbed  gloom.  He  did  not  know  whether  wholly  to  be- 
lieve Levy's  assurance  of  his  patron's  ruin.  He  could  not 
believe  it  when  he  saw  that  great  house  in  Grosvenor 
Square,  its  hall  crowded  with  lacqueys,  its  sideboard  blaz- 
ing with  plate  ;  when  no  dun  was  ever  seen  in  the  ante- 
chamber ;  when  not  a  tradesman  was  ever  known  to  call 
twice  for  a  bill.  He  hinted  to  Levy  the  doubts  all  these 
phenomena  suggested  to  him  ;  but  the  Baron  only  smiled 
ominously,  and  said — 

"True,  the  tradesmen  are  always  paid  ;  but  the  how  is 
the  question  !  Randal,  mon  cher,  you  are  too  innocent.  I 
have  but  two  pieces  of  advice  to  suggest,  in  the  shape  of  two 
proverbs — '  Wise  rats  run  from  a  failing  house,'  and,  '  Make 
hay  while  the  sun  shines.'  Apropos,  Mr.  Avenel  likes  you 
greatly,  and  has  been  talking  of  the  borough  of  Lansmere 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  723 

for  you.  He  has  contrived  to  get  together  a  great  interest 
there.  Make  much  of  him." 

Randal  had  indeed  been  to  Mrs.  Avenel's  soiree  dansante, 
and  called  twice  and  found  her  at  home,  and  been  very  bland 
and  civil,  and  admired  the  children.  She  had  two,  a  boy 
and  a  girl,  very  like  their  father,  with  open  faces  as  bold  as 
brass.  And  as  all  this  had  won  Mrs.  Avenel's  good  graces, 
so  it  had  propitiated  her  husband's.  Avenel  was  shrewd 
enough  to  see  how  clever  Randal  was.  He  called  him 
"  smart/'  and  said  "he  would  have  got  on  in  America," 
which  was  the  highest  praise  Dick  Avenel  ever  accorded  to 
any  man.  But  Dick  himself  looked  a  little  care-worn  ;  and 
this  was  the  first  year  in  which  he  had  murmured  at  the 
bills  of  his  wife's  dressmaker,  and  said  with  an  oath,  that 
"  there  was  such  a  thing  as  going  too  much  ahead." 

Randal  had  visited  Dr.  Riccabocca,  and  found  Violante 
flown.  True  to  his  promise  to  Harley,  the  Italian  refused 
to  say  where,  and  suggested,  as  was  agreed,  that  for  the 
present  it  would  be  more  prudent  if  Randal  suspended  his 
visits  to  himself.  Leslie,  not  liking  this  proposition,  at- 
tempted to  make  himself  still  necessary,  by  working  on 
Riccabocca's  fears  as  to  that  espionage  on  his  retreat,  which 
had  been  among  the  reasons  that  had  hurried  the  sage  into 
offering  Randal  Violante's  hand.  But  Riccabocca  had  al- 
ready learned  that  the  fancied  spy  was  but  his  neighbor 
Leonard  ;  and,  without  so  saying,  he  cleverly  contrived  to 
make  the  supposition  of  such  espionage  an  additional  reason 
for  the  cessation  of  Leslie's  visits.  Randal  then,  in  his  own 
artful,  quiet,  roundabout  way,  had  sought  to  find  out  if  any 
communication  had  passed  between  L'Estrange  and  Ricca- 
bocca. Brooding  over  Harley's  words  to  him,  he  suspected 
there  had  been  such  communication,  with  his  usual  pene- 
trating astuteness.  Riccabocca,  here,  was  less  on  his  guard, 
and  rather  parried  the  sidelong  questions  than  denied  their 
inferences. 

Randal  began  already  to  surmise  the  truth.  Where  was 
it  likely  Violante  should  go  but  to  the  Lansmeres  ?  This 
confirmed  his  idea  of  Harley's  pretensions  to  her  hand. 
With  such  a  rival,  what  chance  had  he  ?  Randal  never 
doubted  for  a  moment  that  the  pupil  of  Machiavelli  would 
"  throw  him  over,"  if  such  an  alliance  to  his  daughter  really 
presented  itself.  The  schemer  at  once  discarded  from  his 
projects  all  further  aim  on  Violante  ;  either  she  would  be 
poor,  and  he  would  not  have  her ;  or  she  would  be  rich, 


726  MV  NOVEL;    OR, 

and  her  father  would  give  her  to  another.  As  his  heart  had 
never  been  touched  by  the  fair  Italian,  so  the  moment  her 
inheritance  became  more  doubtful,  it  gave  him  no  pang  to 
lose  her  ;  but  he  did  feel  very  sore  and  resentful  at  the 
thought  of  being  supplanted  by  Lord  L'Estrange, — the  man 
who  had  insulted  him. 

Neither,  as  yet,  had  Randal  made  anyway  in  his  designs 
on  Frank.  For  several  days  Madame  di  Negra  had  not  been 
at  home  either  to  himself  or  young  Hazeldean  ;  and  Frank, 
though  very  unhappy,  was  piqued  and  angry  ;  and  Randal 
suspected,  and  suspected,  and  suspected,  he  knew  not  ex- 
actly what,  but  that  the  devil  was  not  so  kind  to  him  there 
as  that  father  of  lies  ought  to  have  been  to  a  son  so  dutiful. 
Yet,  with  all  these  discouragements,  there  was  in  Randal 
Leslie  so  dogged  and  determined  a  conviction  of  his  own 
success — there  was  so  great  a  tenacity  of  purpose  under  ob- 
stacles, and  so  vigilant  an  eye  upon  all  chances  that  could 
be  turned  to  his  favor,  that  he  never  once  abandoned  hope, 
nor  did  more  than  change  the  details  in  his  main  schemes. 
Out  of  calculations  apparently  the  most  far-fetched  and  im- 
probable, he  had  constructed  a  patient  policy  to  which  he 
obstinately  clung.  How  far  his  reasonings  and  patience 
served  to  his  ends,  remains  yet  to  be  seen.  But  could  our 
contempt  for  the  baseness  of  Randal  himself  be  separated 
from  the  faculties  which  he  elaborately  degraded  to  the  ser- 
vice of  that  baseness,  one  might  allow  that  there  was  some- 
tiling  one  could  scarcely  despise  in  this  still  self-reliance, 
this  inflexible  resolve.  Had  such  qualities,  aided  as  they 
were  by  abilities  of  no  ordinary  acuteness,  been  applied  to 
objects  commonly  honest,  one  would  have  backed  Randal 
Leslie  against  any  fifty  picked  prize-men  from  the  colleges. 
But  there  are  judges  of  weight  and  metal  who  do  that  now, 
especially  Baron  Levy,  who  says  to  himself,  as  he  eyes  that 
pale  face  all  intellect,  and  that  spare  form  all  nerve,  "  This 
is  a  man  who  must  make  way  in  life  ;  he  is  worth  helping." 

By  the  words  "worth  helping,"  Baron  Levy  meant 
"  worth  getting  into  my  power,  that  he  may  help  me." 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  727 


CHAPTER   XIV. 

BUT  Parliament  had  met.  Events  that  belonged  to  his- 
tory had  contributed  yet  more  to  weaken  the  administra- 
tion. Randal  Leslie's  interest  became  absorbed  in  politics  ; 
for  the  stake  to  him  was  his  whole  political  career.  Should 
Audley  lose  office,  and  for  good,  Audley  could  aid  him  no 
more  ;  but  to  abandon  his  patron,  as  Levy  recommended, 
and  pin  himself,  in  the  hope  of  a  seat  in  Parliament,  to  a 
stranger — an  obscure  stranger,  like  Dick  Avenel  — that  was 
a  policy  not  to  be  adopted  at  a  breath.  Meanwhile,  almost 
every  night,  when  the  House  met,  that  pale  face  and  spare 
form,  which  Levy  so  identified  with  shrewdness  and  energy, 
might  be  seen  amongt  the  benches  appropriated  to  those 
more  select  strangers  who  obtain  the  Speaker's  order  of  ad- 
mission. There,  Randal  heard  the  great  men  of  that  day, 
and  with  the  half-contemptuous  surprise  at  their  fame, 
which  is  common  enough  amongst  clever  well-educated 
young  men,  who  know  not  what  it  is  to  speak  in  the  House 
of  Commons.  He  heard  much  slovenly  English,  much  trite 
reasoning,  some  eloquent  thoughts,  and  close  argument, 
often  delivered  in  a  jerking  tone  of  voice  (properly  called 
the  Parliamentary  twang))  and  often  accompanied  by  gestic- 
ulations that  would  have  shocked  the  manager  of  a  provin- 
cial theatre.  He  thought  how  much  better  than  these  great 
dons  (with  but  one  or  two  exceptions)  he  himself  could  speak 
— with  what  more  refined  logic — with -what  more  polished 
periods— how  much  more  like  Cicero  and  Burke  !  Very 
probably  he  might  have  so*  spoken,  and  for  that  very  reason 
have  made  that  deadest  of  all  dead  failures — a  pretentious 
imitation  of  Burke  and  Cicero.  One  thing,  however,  he 
was  obliged  to  own,  viz.,  that  in  a  popular  representative 
assembly  it  is  not  precisely  knowledge  which  is  power,  or  if 
knowledge,  it  is  but  the  knowledge  of  that  particular  as- 
sembly, and  what  wilt  best  take  with  it  ; — passion,  invective, 
sarcasm,  bold  declamation,  shrewd  common  sense,  the  read- 
iness so  rarely  found  in  a  veiy  profound  mind — he  owned 
that  all  these  were  the  qualities  that  told  ;  when  a  man  who 
exhibited  nothing  but  "  knowledge,"  in  the  ordinary  sense 
of  the  word,  stood  an  imminent  chance  of  being  coughed 
down. 


728  MY  NOVEL;    OR, 

There  at  his  left — last  but  one  in  the  row  of  the  minis- 
terial chiefs— Randal  watched  Audley  Egerton,  his  arms 
folded  on  his  breast,  his  hat  drawn  over  his  brows,  his  eyes 
fixed  with  steady  courage  on  whatever  speaker  in  the  Op- 
position held  possession  of  the  floor.  And  twice  Randal 
heard  Egerton  speak,  and  marvelled  much  at  the  effect 
that  minister  produced.  For  of  those  qualities  enumerated 
above,  and  which  Randal  had  observed  to  be  more  sure  of 
success,  Audley  Egerton  only  exhibited  to  a  marked  degree 
— the  common  sense  and  the  readiness.  And  yet,  though 
but  little  applauded  by  noisy  cheers,  no  speaker  seemed 
more  to  satisfy  friends,  and  command  respect  from  foes. 
The  true  secret  was  this,  which  Randal  might  well  not 
divine,  since  that  young  person,  despite  his  ancient  birth, 
his  Eton  rearing,  and  his  refined  air,  was  not  one  of  Na- 
ture's gentlemen  ;— the  true  secret  was,  that  Audley  Eger- 
ton moved,  looked,  and  spoke  like  a  thorough  gentleman  of 
England.  A  gentleman  of  more  than  average  talents  and 
of  long  experience,  speaking  his  sincere  opinions — not  a 
rhetorician  aiming  at  effect.  Moreover,  Egerton  was  a 
consummate  man  of  the  world.  He  said,  with  nervous  sim- 
plicity, what  his  party  desired  to  be  said,  and  put  what  his 
opponents  felt  to  be  the  strong  points  of  the  case.  Calm 
and  decorous,  yet  spirited  and  energetic,  with  little  variety 
of  tone,  and  action  subdued  and  rare,  but  yet  signalized  by 
earness  vigor,  Audley  Egerton  impressed  the  understand- 
ing of  the  dullest,  and  pleased  the  taste  of  the  most  fas- 
tidious. 

But  once,  when  allusions  were  made  to  a  certain  popu- 
lar question,  on  which  the  premier  had  announced  his  reso- 
lution to  refuse  all  concession,  and  on  the  expediency  of 
which  it  was  announced  that  the  cabinet  was  nevertheless 
divided — and  when  such  allusions  were  coupled  with  di- 
rect appeals  to  Mr.  Egerton,  as  "the  enlightened  member 
of  a  great  commercial  constituency,"  and  with  a  flattering 
doubt  that  "that  Right  Honorable  gentleman,  member  for 
that  great  city,  identified  with  the  cause  of  the  Burgher 
class,  could  be  so  far  behind  the  spirit  of  the  age  as  his 
official  chief," — Randal  observed  that  Egerton  drew  his  hat 
still  more  closely  over  his  brows,  and  turned  to  whisper 
with  one  of  his  colleagues.  He  could  not  be  got  up  to  speak. 

That  evening  Randal  walked  home  with  Egerton,  and 
intimated  his  surprise  that  the  minister  had  declined  what 
seemed  to  him  a  good  occasion  for  one  of  those  brief, 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  729 

weighty  replies  by  which  Audley  was  chiefly  distinguished 
— an  occasion  to  which  he  had  been  loudly  invited  by  the 
"  hears  "  of  the  House. 

"  Leslie,"  answered  the  statesman,  briefly,  "  I  owe  all  my 
success  in  Parliament  to  this  rule — I  have  never  spoken 
against  my  convictions.  I  intend  to  abide  by  it  to  the  last." 

"  But  if  the  question  at  issue  comes  before  the  House, 
you  will  vote  against  it  ?  " 

"Certainly,  I  vote  as  a  member  of  the  cabinet.  But 
since  I  am  not  leader  and  mouthpiece  of  the  party,  I  retain 
as  an  individual  the  privilege  to  speak  or  keep  silence." 

"  Ah,  my  dear  Mr.  Egerton,"  exclaimed  Randal,  "forgive 
me.  But  this  question,  right  or  wrong,  has  got  such  hold 
of  the  public  mind.  So  little,  if  conceded  in  time,  would 
give  content  ;  and  it  is  so  clear  (if  I  rnay  judge  by  the  talk 
I  hear  everywhere  I  go)  that  by  refusing  all  concession,  the 
Government  must  fall,  that  I  wish " 

"  So  do  I  wish,"  interrupted  Egerton,  with  a  gloomy,  im- 
patient sigh — "  so  do  I  wish  !  But  what  avails  it  ?  If  my 
advice  had  been  taken  but  three  weeks  ago — now  it  is  too 
late — we  could  have  doubled  the  rock  ;  we  refused,  we  must 
split  upon  it." 

This  speech  was  so  unlike  the  discreet  and  reserved 
minister,  that  Randal  gathered  courage  to  proceed  with  an 
idea  that  had  occurred  to  his  own  sagacity.  And  before  I 
state  it,  I  must, add  that  Egerton  had  of  late  shown  much 
more  personal  kindness  to  his  protege ;  whether  his  spirits 
were  broken,  or  that  at  last,  close  and  compact  as  his  nature 
of  bronze  was,  he  felt  the  imperious  want  to  groan  aloud  in 
some  loving  ear,  the  stern  Audley  seemed  tamed  and  soft- 
ened. So  Randal  went  on% 

"  May  I  say  what  I  have  heard  expressed  with  regard  to 
you  and  your  position — in  the  streets — in  the  clubs  ?" 

"  Yes,  it  is  in  the  streets  and  the  clubs  that  statesmen 
should  go  to  school.  Say  on." 

"  Well,  then,  I  have  heard  it  made  a  matter  of  wonder 
why  you,  and  one  or  two  others  I  will  not  name,  do  not  at 
once  retire  from  the  ministry,  and  on  the  avowed  ground 
that  you  side  with  the  public  feeling  on  this  irresistible 
question." 

"  Eh  ! " 

"It  is  clear  that  in  so  doing  you  would  become  the  most 
popular  man  in  the  country — clear  that  you  would  be  sum- 
moned back  to  power  on  the  shoulders  of  the  people.  No 


730  MY  NOVEL;   OR, 

new  cabinet  could  be  formed  without  you,  and  your  station 
in  it  would  perhaps  be  higher,  for  life,  than  that  which  you 
may  now  retain  but  for  a  few  weeks  longer.  Has  not  this 
ever  occurred  to  you  ?  " 

"  Never,"  said  Audley,  with  dry  composure. 

Amazed  at  such  obtuseness,  Randal  exclaimed,  "  Is  it 
possible  !  And  yet,  forgive  me  if  I  say  I  think  you  are 
ambitious,  and  love  power." 

"  No  man  more  ambitious  ;  and  if  by  power  you  mean 
office,  it  has  grown  the  habit  of  my  life,  and  I  shall  not  know 
what  to  do  without  it." 

"  And  how,  then,  has  what  seems  to  me  so  obvious  never 
occurred  to  you  ?" 

"  Because  you  are  young,  and  therefore  I  forgive  you  ; 
but  not  the  gossips  who  could  wonder  why  Audley  Egerton 
refused  to  betray  the  friends  of  his  whole  career,  and  to 
profit  by  the  treason." 

"  But  one  should  love  one's  country  before  a  party." 

"  No  doubt  of  that ;  and  the  first  interest  of  a  country  is 
the  honor  of  its  public  men." 

"  But  men  may  leave  their  party  without  dishonor  !  " 

"  Who  doubts  that  ?  Do  you  suppose  that  if  I  were  an 
ordinary  independent  member  of  Parliament,  loaded  with 
no  obligations,  charged  with  no  trust,  I  could  hesitate  for  a 
moment  what  course  to  pursue  ?  Oh,  that  I  were  but  the 

member  for !  Oh,  that  I  had  the  full  right  to  be  a  free 

agent !  But  if  a  member  of  a  cabinet,  a  chief  in  whom 
thousands  confide,  because  he  is  outvoted  in  a  council  of 
his  colleagues,  suddenly  retires,  and  by  so  doing  breaks  up 
the  whole  party  whose  confidence  he  has  enjoyed,  whose 
rewards  he  has  reaped,  to  whom  he  owes  the  very  position 
which  he  employs  to  their  ruin — own  that  though  his  choice 
may  be  honest,  it  is  one  which  requires  all  the  consolations 
of  conscience." 

"  But  you  will  have  those  consolations.  And,"  added 
Randal  energetically,  "  the  gain  to  your  career  will  be  so 
immense  !  " 

"  That  is  precisely  what  it  cannot  be,"  answered  Egerton, 
gloomily.  "  I  grant  that  I  may,  if  I  choose,  resign  office 
with  the  present  Government,  and  so  at  once  destroy  that 
government  ;  for  my  resignation  on  such  ground  would 
suffice  to  do  it.  I  grant  this  ;  but  for  that  very  reason  I 
could  not  the  next  day  take  office  with  another  administra- 
tion. I  could  not  accept  wages  for  desertion.  No  gentleman 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  731 

could  !  and  therefore "  Audley  stopped  short,  and  but- 
toned his  coat  over  his  broad  breast.  The  action  was  signi- 
ficant ;  ->t  said  that  the  man's  mind  was  made  up. 

In  fact,  whether  Audley  Egerton  was  right  or  wrong  in 
his  theory,  depends  upon  much  subtler,  and  perhaps  loftier 
views  in  the  casuistry  of  political  duties,  than  it  was  in  his 
character  to  take.  And  I  guard  myself  from  saying  any- 
thing in  praise  or  disfavor  of  his  notions,  or  implying  that 
he  is  a  fit  or  unfit  example  in  a  parallel  case.  I  am  but 
describing  the  man  as  he  was,  and  as  a  man  like  him  would 
inevitably  be,  under  the  influences  in  which  he  lived,  and  in 
that  peculiar  world  of  which  he  was  so  emphatically  a 
member.  "  Ce  n'est pas  moi  qui parle,  c'est  Marc  Aurcle." 

He  speaks,  not  I. 

Randal  had  no  time  for  further  discussion.  They  now 
reached  Egerton's  house,  and  the  minister,  taking  the 
chamber  candlestick  from  his  servant's  hand,  nodded  a 
silent  good-night  to  Leslie,  and  with  a  jaded  look  retired  to 
his  room. 


CHAPTER  XV. 

BUT  not  on  the  threatened  question  was  that  eventful 
campaign  of  Party  decided.  The  Government  fell  less  in 
battle  than  skirmish.  It  was  one  fatal  Monday — a  dull 
question  of  finance  and  figures.  Prosy  and  few  were  the 
speakers.  All  the  Government  silent,  save  the  Chancellor 
of  the  Exchequer,  and  another  business-like  personage 
connected  with  the  Board  of  Trade,  whom  the  House  would 
hardly  condescend  to  hear.  The  House  was  in  no  mood  to 
think  of  facts  and  figures.  Early  in  the  evening,  between 
nine  and  ten,  the  Speaker's  sonorous  voice  sounded, 
"  Strangers  must  withdraw  !  "  And  Randal,  anxious  and 
foreboding,  descended  from  his  seat  and  went  out  of  the 
fatal  doors.  He  turned  to  take  a  last  glance  at  Audley 
Egerton.  The  whipper-in  was  whispering  to  Audley  ;  and 
the  minister  pushed  back  his  hat  from  his  brows,  and 
glanced  round  the  House,  and  up  into  the  galleries,  as  if  to 
calculate  rapidly  the  relative  numbers  of  the  two  armies  in 
the  field  ;  then  he  smiled  bitterly,  and  threw  himself  back 
into  his  seat.  That  smile  long  haunted  Leslie. 

Amongst  the  strangers  thus  banished  with  Randal,  while 


732  MY  NOVEL;    OA\ 

the  division  was  being  taken,  were  many  young  men,  like 
himself  connected  with  the  administration — some  by  blood, 
some  by  place.  Hearts  beat  loud  in  the  swarming  lobbies. 
Ominous  mournful  whispers  were  exchanged.  "  They  say 
the  Government  will  have  a  majority  of  ten."  "  No  ;  I  hear 

they  will  certainly  be  beaten."  "  H says  by  fifty."  "  I 

don't  believe  it,"  said  a  Lord  of  the  Bedchamber  ;  "it  is  im- 
possible. I  left  five  Government  members  dining  at  the 
'  Travellers.'  "  "  No  one  thought  ths  division  would  be  so 
early."  "A  trick  of  the  Whigs— shameful."  "Wonder 

some  one  was  not  set  up  to  talk  for  time  ;  very  odd  P 

did  not  speak  ;  however,  he  is  so  cursedly  rich,  he  does  not 
care  whether  he  is  out  or  in."  "  Yes  ;  and  Audley  Egerton 
too,  just  such  another  ;  glad,  no  doubt,  to  be  set  free  to 
look  after  his  property  ;  very  different  tactics  if  we  had 
men  to  whom  office  was  as  necessary  as  it  is — to  me  !  "  said 
a  candid  young  placeman.  Suddenly  the  silent  Leslie  felt 
a  friendly  grasp  on  his  arm.  He  turned  and  saw  Levy. 

"  Did  I  not  tell  you  ?  "  said  the  Baron,  with  an  exulting 
smile. 

"  You  are  sure,  then,  that  the  Government  will  be  out- 
voted ? " 

"  I  spent  the  morning  in  going  over  the  list  of  members 
with  a  parliamentary  client  of  mine, 'who  knows  them  all  as 
a  shepherd  does  his  sheep.  Majority  for  the  Opposition  at 
least  twenty-five." 

"And  in  that  case  must  the  Government  resign,  sir?" 
asked  the  candid  young  placeman,  who  had  been  listening  to 
the  smart  well-dressed  Baron,  "  his  soul  planted  in  his  ears." 

"  Of  course,  sir,"  replied  the  Baron,  blandly,  and  offer- 
ing his  snuff-box  (true  Louis  Quinze,  with  a  miniature  of 
Madame  de  Pompadour,  set  in  pearls).  "You  are  a  friend 
to  the  present  ministers  ?  You  could  not  wish  them  to  be 
mean  enough  to  stay  in  ? "  Randal  drew  aside  the  Baron. 

"  If  Audley's  affairs  are  as  you  state,  what  can  he  do  ?  " 

"  I  shall  ask  him  that  question  to-morrow,"  answered  the 
Baron,  with  a  look  of  visible  hate.  "  And  I  have  come  here 
just  to  see  how  he  bears  the  prospect  before  him." 

"  You  will  not  discover  that  in  his  face.  And  those  ab- 
surd scruples  of  his  !  If  he  had  but  gone  out  in  time — to 
come  in  again  with  the  New  Men ! " 

"  Oh,  of  course,  our  Right  Honorable  is  too  punctilious 
for  that !"  answering  the  Baron,  sneering. 

Suddenly  the  doors   opened — in  rushed   the  breathless 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  733 

expectants.  "  What  are  the  numbers  ?  What  is  the 
division  ?" 

"  Majority  against  ministers,"  said  a  member  of  Oppo- 
sition, peeling  an  orange,  "twenty-nine." 

The  Baron,  too,  had  a  Speaker's  order  ;  and  he  came  into 
the  House  with  Randal,  and  sat  by  his  side.  But,  to  their 
disgust,  some  member  was  talking  about  the  other  motions 
before  the  House. 

"What!  has  nothing  been  said  as  to  the  division?" 
asked  the  Baron  of  a  young  county  member,  who  was  talk- 
ing to  some  non-parliamentary  friend  in  the  bench  before 
Levy.  The  county  member  was  one  of  the  Baron's  pet 
eldest  sons — had  dined  often  with  Levy — was  under  "obli- 
gations" to  him.  The  young  legislator  looked  very  much 
ashamed  of  Levy's  friendly  pat  on  his  shoulder,  and  an- 
swered, hurriedly,  "  O  yes  ;  H asked,  '  if,  after  such  an 

expression  of  the  House,  it  was  the  intention  of  ministers 
to  retain  their  places,  and  carry  on  the  business  of  the 
Government?'" 

"  Just  like  H !  Very  inquisitive  mind  !  And  what 

was  the  answer  he  got  ?  " 

"  None,"  said  the  county  member  ;  and  returned  in  haste 
to  his  proper  seat  in  the  body  of  the  House. 

"  There  comes  Egerton,"  said  the  Baron.  And,  indeed,  as 
most  of  the  members  were  now  leaving  the  House,  to  talk 
over  affairs  at  clubs  or  in  saloons,  and  spread  through  town 
the  great  tidings,  Audley  Egerton's  tall  head  was  seen 
towering  above  the  rest.  And  Levy  turned  away  disap- 
pointed. For  not  only  was  the  minister's  handsome  face, 
though  pale,  serene  and  cheerful,  but  there  was  an  obvious 
courtesy,  a  marked  respect,  in  the  mode  in  which  that  as- 
sembly— heated  though -it  was — made  way  for  the  fallen 
minister  as  he  passed  through  the  jostling  crowd.  And  the 
frank,  urbane  nobleman  who  afterward,  from  the  force, 
not  of  talent  but  of  character,  became  the  leader  in  that 
House,  pressed  the  hand  of  his  old  opponent,  as  they  met 
in  the  throng  near  the  doors,  and  said  aloud,  "I  shall  not 
be  a  proud  man  if  ever  I  live  to  have  office  ;  but  I  shall  be 
proud  if  ever  I  leave  it  with  as  little  to  be  said  against  me 
as  your  bitterest  opponents  can  say  against  you,  Egerton." 

"  I  wonder,"  exclaimed  the  Baron  aloud,  and  leaning 
over  the  partition  that  divided  him  from  the  throng  below, 
so  that  his  voice  reached  Egerton — and  there  was  a  cry 


734  MY  NOVEL;    OR, 

from  formal  indignant  members,  "  Order  in  the  strangers' 
gallery  !  "  "I  wonder  what  Lord  L'Estrange  will  say  !  " 

Audley  lifted  his  dark  brows,  surveyed  the  Baron  for  an 
instant  with  flashing  eyes,  then  walked  down  the  narrow 
defile  between  the  last  benches,  and  vanished  from  the  scene 
in  which,  alas  !  so  few  of  the  most  admired  performers  leave 
more  than  an  actor's  short-lived  name  ! 


CHAPTER   XVI. 

BARON  LEVY  did  not  execute  his  threat  of  calling  on 
Egerton  the  next  morning.  Perhaps  he  shrank  from  again 
meeting  the  flash  of  those  indignant  eyes.  And  indeed 
Egerton  was  too  busied  all  the  forenoon  to  see  any  one 
upon  public  affairs,  except  Harley,  who  hastened  to  console 
or  cheer  him.  When  the  House  met,  it  was  announced 
that  the  ministers  had  resigned,  only  holding  their  offices 
till  their  successors  were  appointed.  But  already  there 
was  some  reaction  in  their  favor  ;  and  when  it  became  gen- 
erally known  that  the  new  administration  was  to  be  formed 
of  men,  few  indeed  of  whom  had  ever  before  held  office,  the 
common  superstition  in  the  public  mind,  that  the  govern- 
ment is  like  a  trade,  in  which  a  regular  apprenticeship 
must  be  served,  began  to  prevail  ;  and  the  talk  at  the  clubs 
was,  that  the  new  men  could  not  stand  ;  that  the  former 
ministry,  with  some  modification,  would  be  back  in  a  month. 
Perhaps  that  too  might  be  a  reason  why  Baron  Levy 
thought  it  prudent  not  prematurely  to  offer  vindictive  con- 
dolences to  Mr.  Egerton.  Randal  spent  part  of  his  morn- 
ing in  inquiries  as  to  what  gentlemen  in  his  situation 
meant  to  do  with  regard  to  their  places  ;  he  heard  with 
great  satisfaction  that  very  few  intended  to  volunteer  retire- 
ment from  their  desks.  As  Randal  himself  had  observed  to 
Egerton,  "  their  country  before  their  party  !  " 

Randal's  place  was  of  great  moment  to  him  ;  its  duties 
were  easy,  its  salary  amply  sufficient  for  his  wants,  and  suf- 
ficed to  defray  such  expenses  as  were  bestowed  on  the  edu- 
cation of  Oliver  and  his  sister.  For  I  am  bound  to  do  justice 
to  this  young  man — indifferent  as  he  was  toward  his  species 
in  general,  the  ties  of  family  were  strong  with  him  ;  and  he 
stinted  himself  in  many  temptations  most  alluring  to  his 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  735 

age,  in  the  endeavor  to  raise  the  dull  honest  Oliver  and  the . 
loose-haired  pretty  Juliet  somewhat  more  to  his  own  level 
of  culture  and  refinement.  Men  essentially  griping  and 
unscrupulous  often  do  make  the  care  for  their  family  an 
apology  for  their  sins  against  the  world.  Even  Richard 
III.,  if  the  chroniclers  are  to  be  trusted,  excused  the  murder 
of  his  nephews  by  his  passionate  affection  for  his  son.  With 
the  loss  of  that  place,  Randal  lost  all  means  of  support, 
save  what  Audley  could  give  him  ;  and  if  Audley  were  in 
truth  ruined  !  Moreover,  Randal  had  already  established 
at  the  office  a  reputation  for  ability  and  industry.  It  was  a 
career  in  which,  if  he  abstained  from  party  politics,  he 
might  rise  to  a  fair  station  and  to  a  considerable  income. 
Therefore,  much  contented  with  what  he  learned  as  to  the 
general  determination  of  his  fellow-officials,  a  determination 
warranted  by  ordinary  precedent  in  such  cases,  Randal 
dined  at  a  club  with  good  relish,  and  much  Christian  resig- 
nation for  the  reverse  of  his  patron,  and  then  walked  to 
Grosvenor  Square,  on  the  chance  of  finding  Audley  within. 
Learning  that  he  was  so,  from  the  porter  who  opened  the 
door,  Randal  entered  the  library.  Three  gentlemen  were 
seated  there  with  Egerton  ;  one  of  the  three  was  Lord 
L' Estrange,  the  other  two  were  members  of  the  really 
defunct,  though  nominally  still  existing,  Government.  He 
was  about  to  withdraw  from  intruding  on  this  conclave, 
when  Egerton  said  to  him  gently,  "Come  in,  Leslie  ;  I  was 
just  speaking  about  yourself." 

"  About  me,  sir  ?  " 

"  Yes  ;  about  you  and  the  place  you  hold.  I  had  asked 
Sir—  -  (pointing  to  a  fellow-minister)  whether  I  might  not, 
with  propriety,  request  your  chief  to  leave  some  note  of 
his  opinion  of  your  talents,  which  I  know  is  high,  and  which 
might  serve  you  with  his  successor." 

"  Oh,  sir,  at  such  a  time  to  think  of  me ! "  exclaimed 
might  serve  Randal,  and  he  was  genuinelv  touched. 

"But,"  resumed  Audley,  with  his  usual  dryness,  "Sir 

— ,  to  my  surprise,  thinks  that  it  would  better  become  you 

that  you  should  resign.     Unless  his  reasons,  which  he  has 

not   yet   stated,   are  very  strong,  such  would   not  be   my 

advice." 

"  My  reasons,"  said  Sir ,  with  official  formality,  "  are 

simply  these  :  I  have  a  nephew  in  a  similar  situation  ;  he 
will  resign,  as  a  matter  of  course.  Every  one  in  the  public 
offices  whose  relations  and  near  connections  hold  high  ap- 


736  MY  NOVEL:    OR, 

pointments  in  the  Government,  will  do  so.  I  do  not  think 
Mr.  Leslie  will  like  to  feel  himself  a  solitary  exception." 

"  Mr.  Leslie  is  no  relation  of  mine — not  even  a  near  con- 
nection," answered  Egerton. 

"  But  his  name  is  so  associated  with  your  own — he  has 
resided  so  long  in  your  house — is  so  well  known  in  society 
(and  don't  think  I  compliment  when  I  add,  that  we  hope  so 
well  of  him),  that  I  can't  think  it  worth  his  while  to  keep 
this  paltry  place,  which  incapacitates  him  too  from  a  seat 
in  Parliament." 

Sir was  one  of  those  terribly  rich  men,  to  whom  all 

considerations  of  mere  bread  and  cheese  are  paltry.  But  I 
must  add  that  he  supposed  Egerton  to  be  still  wealthier 
than  himself,  and  sure  to  provide  handsomely  for  Randal, 

whom  Sir rather  liked  than  not ;  and  for  Randal's  own 

sake,  Sir  —  —  thought  it  would  lower  him  in  the  estimation 
of  Egerton  himself,  despite  that  gentleman's  advocacy,  if  he 
did  not  follow  the  example  of  his  avowed  and  notorious 
patron. 

"  You  see,  Leslie,"  said  Egerton,  checking  Randal's 
meditated  reply,  "  that  nothing  can  be  said  against  your 
honor  if  you  stay  where  you  are  ;  it  is  a  mere  question  of 
expediency  ;  I  will  judge  that  for  you  ;  keep  your  place." 

Unhappily  the  other  member  of  the  Government,  who 
had  hitherto  been  silent,  was  a  literary  man.  Unhappily, 
while  this  talk  had  proceeded,  he  had  placed  his  hand  upon 
Randal  Leslie's  celebrated  pamphlet,  which  lay  on  the 
library  table  ;  and,  turning  over  the  leaves,  the  whole  spirit 
and  matter  of  that  masterly  composition  in  defence  of  the 
administration  (a  composition  steeped  in  all  the  essence  of 
party)  recurred  to  his  too  faithful  recollection.  He,  too, 
liked  Randal  ;  he  did  more — he  admired  the  author  of  that 
striking  and  effective  pamphlet.  And  therefore,  rousing 
himself  from  the  sublime  indifference  he  had  before  felt 
for  the  fate  of  a  subaltern,  he  said,  with  a  bland  and  com- 
plimentary smile,  "  No  ;  the  writer  of  this  most  able  publi- 
cation is  no  ordinary  placeman.  His  opinions  also  are  too 
vigorously  stated  ;  this  fine  irony  on  the  very  person  who  in 
all  probability  will  be  the  chief  in  his  office,  has  excited  too 
lively  an  attention  to  allow  him  the  sedet  ceternumque  sedebit 
on  an  official  stool.  Ha,  ha !  this  is  so  good !  Read  it, 
L'Estrange.  What  say  you  ?" 

Harley  glanced  over  the  page  pointed  out  to  him.  The 
original  was  in  one  of  Burley's  broad,  coarse,  but  telling 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  737 

burlesques,  strained  fine  through  Randal's  more  polished 
satire.  It  was  capital.  Harley  smiled,  and  lifted  his  eyes 
to  Randal.  The  unlucky  plagiarist's  face  was  flushed — the 
beads  stood  on  his  brow.  Harley  was  a  good  hater;  he 
loved  too  warmly  not  to  err  on  the  opposite  side  ;  but  he 
was  one  of  those  men  who  forget  hate  when  its  object  is 
distressed  and  humbled.  He  put  down  the  pamphlet  and 
said,  "  I  am  no  politician  ;  but  Egerton  is  so  well  known  to 
be  fastidious  and  over-scrupulous  in  all  points  of  official 
etiquette,  that  Mr.  Leslie  cannot  follow  a  safer  counsellor." 

"  Read  that  yourself,  Egerton,"  said  Sir ;  and  he 

pushed  the  pamphlet  to  Audley. 

Now  Egerton  had  a  dim  recollection  that  that  pamphlet 
was  unlucky  ;  but  he  had  skimmed  over  its  contents  hastily, 
and  at  that  moment  had  forgotten  all  about  it.  He  took 
up  the  too  famous  work  with  a  reluctant  hand,  but  he  read 
attentively  the  passages  pointed  out  to  him,  and  then  said 
gravely  and  sadly — 

"  Mr.  Leslie,  I  retract  my  advice.  I  believe  Sir is 

right  ;  that  the  nobleman  here  so  keenly  satirized  will  be 
the  chief  in  your  office.  I  doubt  whether  he  will  not  com- 
pel your  dismissal  ;  at  all  events,  he  could  scarcely  be 
expected  to  promote  your  advancement.  Under  the  cir- 
cumstances, 1  fear  you  have  no  option  as  a "  Egerton 

paused  a  moment,  and,  with  a  sigh  that  seemed  to  settle  the 
question,  concluded  with — "  as  a  gentleman." 

Never  did  Jack  Cade,  never  did  Wat  Tyler,  feel  a  more 
deadly  hate  to  that  word  "gentleman,"  than  the  well-born 
Leslie  felt  then  ;  but  he  bowed  his  head,  and  answered  with 
his  usual  presence  of  mind  — 

"  You  utter  my  own  .sentiment." 

"  You  think  we  are  right,  Harley?"  asked  Egerton,  with 
an  irresolution  that  surprised  all  present. 

"I  think,"  answered  Harley,  with  a  compassion  for  Ran- 
dal that  was  almost  over-generous,  and  yet  with  an  equivoque 
on  the  words,  despite  the  compassion — "  I  think  whoever 
has  served  Audley  Egerton,  never  yet  has  been  a  loser  by 
it  ;  and  if  Mr.  Leslie  wrote  this  pamphlet,  he  must  have 
well  served  Audley  Egerton.  If  he  undergoes  the  penalty, 
we  may  safely  trust  to  Egerton  for  the  compensation." 

"  My  compensation  has  long  since  been  made,"  answered 
Randal,  with  grace;  "and  that  Mr.  Egerton  could  thus 
have  cared  for  my  fortunes,  at  an  hour  so  occupied,  is  a 
thought  of  pride  which — 


738  MY  NOVEL;    OR, 

"  Enough,  Leslie  !  enough  !  "  interrupted  Egerton,  rising 
and  pressing  \\\?>  protege"  s  hand.  "  See  me  before  you  go  to 
bed." 

Then  the  two  other  ministers  rose  also  and  shook  hands 
with  Lesli.e,  and  told  him  he  had  done  the  right  thing,  and 
that  they  hoped  soon  to  see  him  in  Parliament ;  and  hinted, 
smilingly,  that  the  next  administration  did  not  promise  to 
be  very  long-lived  ;  and  one  asked  him  to  dinner,  and  the 
other  to  spend  a  week  at  his  country  seat.  And  amidst  these 
congratulations  at  the  stroke  that  left  him  penniless,  the 
distinguished  Pamphleteer  left  the  room.  How  he  cursed 
big  John  Burley ! 


CHAPTER  XVII. 

IT  was  past  midnight  when  Audley  Egerton  summoned 
Randal.  The  statesman  was  then  alone,  seated  before  his 
great  desk,  with  its  manifold  compartments,  and  engaged 
on  the  task  of  transferring  various  papers  and  letters,  some 
to  the  waste-basket,  some  to  the  flames,  some  to  two  great 
iron  chests,  with  patent  locks,  that  stood,  open-mouthed,  at 
his  feet.  Strong,  stern,  and  grim,  looked  those  iron  chests, 
silently  receiving  the  relics  of  power  departed  ;  strong, 
stern,  and  grim  as  the  grave.  Audley  lifted  his  eyes  at 
Randal's  entrance,  signed  to  him  to  take  a  chair,  continued 
his  task  for  a  few  moments,  and  then  turning  round,  as  if 
by  an  effort,  he  plucked  himself  from  his  master-passion — 
Public  Life, — he  said,  with  deliberate  tones — 

"  I  know  not,  Randal  Leslie,  whether  you  thought  me 
needlessly  cautious,  or  wantonly  unkind,  when  I  told  you 
never  to  expect  from  me  more  than  such  advance  to  your 
career  as  my  then  position  could  effect — never  to  expect 
from  my  liberality  in  life,  nor  from  my  testament  in  death — 
an  addition  to  your  private  fortunes.  I  see  by  your  gesture 
what  would  be  your  reply,  and  I  thank  you  for  it.  I  now 
tell  you,  as  yet  in  confidence,  though  before  long  it  can  be 
no  secret  to  the  world,  that  my  pecuniary  affairs  have  been 
so  neglected  by  me  in  my  devotion  to  those  of  the  State, 
that  I  am  somewhat  like  the  man  who  portioned  out  his 
capital  at  so  much  a  day,  calculating  to  live  just  long  enough 
to  make  it  last.  Unfortunately  he  lived  too  long."  Audley 
smiled — but  the  smile  was  as  cold  as  a  sunbeam  npon  ice — 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  739 

and  went  on  with  the  same  firm  unfaltering  accents  :  "  The 
prospects  that  face  me  I  am  prepared  for  ;  they  do  not  take 
me  by  surprise.  I  knew  long  since  how  this  would  end,  if 
I  survived  the  loss  of  office.  I  knew  it  before  you  came  to 
me,  and  therefore  I  spoke  to  you  as  I  did,  judging  it  manful 
and  right  to  guard  you  against  hopes  which  you  might 
otherwise  have  naturally  entertained.  On  this  head,  I  need 
.say  no  more.  It  may  excite  your  surprise,  possibly  your 
blame,  that  I,  esteemed  methodical  and  practical  enough  in 
the  affairs  of  the  State,  should  be  so  imprudent  as  to  my 
own." 

"  Oh,  sir  !  you  owe  no  account  to  me." 

"  To  you,  at  least,  as  much  as  to  any  one.  I  am  a  soli- 
tary man  ;  my  few  relations  need  nothing  from  me.  I  had 
a  right  to  spend  what  I  possessed  as  I  pleased  ;  and  if  I 
have  spent  it  recklessly  as  regards  myself,  I  have  not  spent 
it  ill  in  its  effect  on  others.  It  has  been  my  object  for  many 
years  to  have  no  Private  Life — to  dispense  with  its  sorrows, 
joys,  affections  ;  and  as  to  its  duties,  they  did  not  exist  for 
me. — I  have  said."  Mechanically,  as  he  ended,  the  minis- 
ter's hand  closed  the  lid  of  one  of  the  iron  boxes,  and  on 
the  closed  lid  he  rested  his  firm  foot.  "  But  now,  he  re- 
sumed, "  I  have  failed  to  advance  your  career.  True,  I 
warned  you  that  you  drew  into  a  lottery  ;  but  you  had 
more  chance  of  a  prize  than  a  blank.  A  blank,  however,  it 
has  turned  out,  and  the  question  becomes  grave — What  are 
you  to  do  ?  " 

Here,  seeing  that  Egerton  came  to  a  full  pause,  Randal 
answered,  readily — 

"  Still,  sir,  to  go  by  your  advice." 

,"  My  advice,"  said  A-udley,  with  a  softened  look,  "would 
perhaps  be  rude  and  unpalatable.  I  would  rather  place  be- 
fore you  an  option.  On  the  one  hand,  recommence  life 
again.  I  told  you  that  I  would  keep  your  name  on  your 
college  books.  You  can  return — you  can  take  your  degree 
— after  that,  you  can  go  to  the  bar — you  have  just  the  tal- 
ents calculated  to  succeed  in  that  profession.  Success  will 
be  slow,  it  is  true  ;  but,  with  perseverance,  it  will  be  sure. 
And,  believe  me,  Leslie,  Ambition  is  only  sweet  while  it  is 
but  the  loftier  name  for  Hope.  Who  would  care  for  a  fox's 
brush  if  it  had  not  been  rendered  a  prize  by  the  excitement 
of  the  chase  ?  " 

"Oxford — again!  It  is  a  long  step  back  in  life,"  said 
Randal,  drearily,  and  little  heeding  Egcrton's  unusual  in- 


740  MY  NOVEL;    OR, 

diligence  of  illustration.  "  A  long  step  back — and  to  what  ? 
To  a  profession  in  which  one  never  begins  to  rise  till  one's 
hair  is  gray  ?  Besides,  how  live  in  the  meanwhile  ?  " 

"  Do  not  let  that  thought  disturb  you.  The  modest  in- 
come that  suffices  for  a  student  at  the  bar,  I  trust,  at  least, 
to  insure  you  from  the  wrecks  of  my  fortune." 

"Ah,  sir,  I  would  not  burthen  you  farther.  What  right 
have  I  to  such  kindness,  save  my  name  of  Leslie?"  And 
in  spite  of  himself,  as  Randal  concluded,  a  tone  of  bitter-" 
ness,  that  betrayed  reproach,  broke  forth.  Egerton  was 
too  much  the  man  of  the  world  not  to  comprehend  the  re- 
proach, and  not  to  pardon  it. 

"  Certainly,"  he  answered,  calmly,  "  as  a  Leslie  you  are 
entitled  to  my  consideration,  and  would  have  been  enti- 
tled perhaps  to  more,  had  I  not  so  explicitly  warned  you  to 
the  contrary.  But  the  bar  does  not  seem  to  please  you  ?" 

"  What  is  the  alternative,  sir?  Let  me  decide  when  I 
hear  it,"  answered  Randal,  sullenly.  He  began  to  lose 
respsct  for  the  man  who  owned  he  could  do  so  little  for 
him,  and  who  evidently  recommended  him  to  shift  for  him- 
self. 

If  one  could  have  pierced  into  Egerton's  gloomy  heart 
as  he  noted  the  young  man's  change  of  tone,  it  may  be  a 
doubt  whether  one  would  have  seen  there  pain  or  pleasure 
— pain,  for  merely  from  the  force  of  habit  he  had  begun  to 
like  Randal — or  pleasure,  at  the  thought  that  he  might 
have  reason  to  withdraw  that  liking.  So  lone  and  stoical 
had  grown  the  man,  who  had  made  it  his  object  to  have  no 
private  life  !  Revealing,  however,  neither  pleasure  nor  pain, 
but  with  the  composed  calmness  of  a  judge  upon  the  bench, 
Egerton  replied  — 

"  The  alternative  is  to  continue  in  the  course  you  have 
begun,  and  still  to  rely  on  me." 

"  Sir,  my  dear  Mr.  Egerton,"  exclaimed  Randal,  regain- 
ing all  his  usual  tenderness  of  look  and  voice,  "  rely  on 
you  !  But  that  is  all  I  ask  !  Only " 

"  Only,  you  would  say,  I  am  going  out  of  power,  and 
you  don't  see  the  chance  of  my  return  ?" 

"  I  did  not  mean  that." 

"  Permit  me  to  suppose  that  you  did  :  very  true  ;  but  the 
party  I  belong  to  is  as  sure  of  return  as  the  pendulum  of 
that  clock  is  sure  to  obey  the  mechanism  that  moves  it  from 
left  to  right.  Our  successors  profess  to  come  in  upon  a  pop- 
ular question.  All  administrations  who  do  that  are  neces- 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  741 

sarily  short-lived.  Either  they  do  not  go  far  enough  to 
please  present  supporters,  or  they  go  so  far  as  to  arm  new 
enemies  in  the  rivals  who  outbid  them  with  the  people.  'Tis 
the  history  of  all  revolutions,  and  of  all  reforms.  Our  own 
administration  in  reality  is  destroyed  for  having  passed  what 
was  called  a  popular  measure  a  year  ago,  which  lost  us  half 
our  friends,  and  refusing  to  propose  another  popular  meas- 
ure this  year,  in  the  which  we  are  outstripped  by  the  man  who 
halloo'd  us  on  to  the  last.  Therefore,  whatever  our  succes- 
sors do,  we  shall,  by  the  law  of  reaction,  have  another  ex- 
periment of  power  afforded  to  ourselves.  It  is  but  a  question 
of  time  ;  you  can  wait  for  it  ;  whether  I  can  is  uncertain. 
But  if  I  die  before  that  day  arrives,  I  have  influence  enough 
still  left  with  those  who  will  come  in,  to  obtain  a  promise  of 
a  better  provision  for  you  than  that  which  you  have  lost. 
The  promises  of  public  men  are  proverbially  uncertain. 
But  I  shall  intrust  your  cause  to  a  man  who  never  failed  a 
friend,  and  whose  rank  will  enable  him  to  see  that  justice  is 
done  to  you — I  speak  of  Lord  L'Estrange." 

"  Oh,  not  him  ;  he  is  unjust  to  me  ;  he  dislikes  me  ; 
he 

"  May  dislike  you  (he  has  his  whims),  but  he  loves  me  ; 
and  though  for  no  other  human  being  but  you  would  I  ask 
Harley  L'Estrange  a  favor,  yetforj>,?#  I  will,"  said  Egerton, 
betraying,  for  the  first  time  in  that  dialogue,  a  visible  emo- 
tion— <(for  you,  a  Leslie,  a  kinsman,  however  remote,  to  the 
wife  from  whom  I  received  my  fortune  !  And  despite  of  all 
my  cautions,  it  is  possible  that  in  wasting  that  fortune  I 
may  have  wronged  you.  Enough  !  You  have  now  before 
you  the  two  options,  much  as  you  had  at  first ;  but  you  have 
at  present  more  experience  to  aid  you  in  your  choice.  You 
are  a  man,  and  with  more  brains  than  most  men  ;  think  over 
it  well,  and  decide  for  yourself.  Now  to  bed,  and  postpone 
thought  till  the  morrow.  Poor  Randal,  you  look  pale  !  " 

Audley,  as  he  said  the  last  words,  put  his  hand  on  Ran- 
dal's shoulder,  almost  with  a  father's  gentleness  ;  and  then 
suddenly  drawing  himself  up,  as  the  hard  inflexible  expres- 
sion, stamped  on  that  face  by  years,  returned,  he  moved  away 
and  resettled  to  Public  Life  and  the  iron  box. 


742  MY  NO  I7 EL;    OR, 


CHAPTER  XVIII. 

EARLY  the  next  day,  Randal  Leslie  was  in  the  luxurious 
business-room  of  Baron  Levy.  How  unlike  the  cold  Doric 
simplicity  of  the  statesman's  library  !  Axminster  carpets 
three  inches  thick,  portieres  a  la  Franfmse  before  the  doors  ; 
Parisian  bronzes  on  the  chimney-piece  ;  and  all  the  recepta- 
cles that  lined  the  room,  and  contained  title  deeds,  and 
post-obits,  and  bills,  and  promises  to  pay,  and  lawyer-like 
japan  boxes,  with  many  a  noble  name  written  thereon  in 
large  white  capitals — "  making  ruin  pompous  " — all  these 
sepulchres  of  departed  patrimonies  veneered  in  rosewood 
that  gleamed  with  French  polish,  and  blazed  with  ormolu. 
There  was  a  coquetry,  an  air  of  petit-maitre,  so  diffused  over 
the  whole  room,  that  you  could  not,  for  the  life  of  you,  re- 
collect you  were  with  an  usurer  !  Plutus  wore  the  aspect 
of  his  enemy  Cupid  ;  and  how  realize  your  idea  of  Harpa- 
gon  in  that  Baron,  with  his  easy  French  "  Man  c/ier,"  and 
his  white  warm  hands  that  pressed  yours  so  genially,  and 
his  dress  so  exquisite,  even  at  the  earliest  morn  ?  No  man 
ever  yet  saw  that  Baron  in  a  dressing-gown  and  slippers  ! 
As  one  fancies  some  feudal  baron  of  old  (not  half  so  terri- 
ble) everlastingly  clad  in  mail,  so  all  one's  notions  of  this 
grand  marauder  of  civilization  were  inseparably  associated 
with  varnished  boots  and  a  camelia  in  the  button-hole. 

"And  this  is  all  that  he  does  for  you  !  "  cried  the  Baron, 
pressing  together  the  points  of  his  ten  taper  fingers.  "  Had 
he  but  let  you  conclude  your  career  at  Oxford,  I  have  heard 
enough  of  your  scholarship  to  know  that  you  would  have 
taken  high  honors — been  secure  of  a  fellowship — have  be- 
taken yourself  with  content  to  a  slow  and  laborious  profes- 
sion, and  prepared  yourself  to  die  on  the  woolsack." 

"  He  proposes  to  me  now  to  return  to  Oxford,"  said 
Randal.  "  It  is  not  too  late  ! " 

"Yes,  it  is,"  said  the  Baron.  "Neither  individuals  nor 
nations  ever  go  back  of  their  own  accord.  There  must  be 
an  earthquake  before  a  river  recedes  to  its  source." 

"You  speak  well,"  answered  Randal,  "and  I  cannot 
gainsay  you.  But  now  !  " 

"Ah,  the  «0w  is  the  grand  question   in  life — the  then  is 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  743 

obsolete,  gone  by — out  of  fashion  ;  and  now,  won  chcr,  you 
come  to  ask  my  advice  ?  " 

"No,  Baron,  I  come  to  ask  your  explanation." 

"Of  what?" 

"  I  want  to  know  why  you  spoke  to  me  of  Mr.  Egerton's 
ruin  ;  why  you  spoke  to  me  of  the  lands  to  be  sold  by  Mr. 
Thornhill ;  and  why  you  spoke  to  me  of  Count  Peschiera. 
You  touched  on  each  of  those  points  within  ten  minutes — 
you  omitted  to  indicate  what  link  can  connect  them." 

"  By  Jove,"  said  the  Baron,  rising,  and  with  more  admi- 
ration in  his  face  than  you  could  have  conceived  that  face, 
so  smiling  and  so  cynical,  could  exhibit—"  by  Jove,  Randal 
Leslie,  but  your  shrewdness  is  wonderful.  You  really  are 
the  first  young  man  of  your  day  ;  and  I  will  'help  you,'  as  I 
helped  Audley  Egerton.  Pdrhaps  you  will  be  more  grateful. " 

Randal  thought  of  Egerton's  ruin.  The  parallel  implied 
by  the  Baron  did  not  suggest  to  him  the  rare  enthusiasm  of 
gratitude.  However,  he  merely  said,  "Pray,  proceed — I 
listen  to  you  with  interest." 

"As  for  politics,  then,"  said  the  Baron,  "we  will  discuss 
that  topic  later.  I  am  waiting  myself  to  see  how  these  new 
men  get  on.  The  first  consideration  is  for  your  private  for- 
tunes. You  should  buy  this  ancient  Leslie  property — Rood 
and  Dulmansberry — only  ^20,000  down  ;  the  rest  may  re- 
main on  mortgage  for  ever — or  at  least  till  I  find  you  a  rich 
wife — as  in  fact  I  did  for  Egerton.  Thornhill  wants  the 
^20,000  now — wants  them  very  much." 

"And  where,"  said  Randal,  with  an  iron  smile,  "are  the 
^£20,000  you  ascribe  to  me  to  come  from  ?" 

"  Ten  thousand  shall  come  to  you  the  day  Count  Pes- 
chiera marries  the  daughter  of  his  kinsman  with  your  help 
and  aid — the  remaining  ten  thousand  I  will  lend  you.  No 
scruple — I  shall  hazard  nothing — the  estates  will  bear  that 
additional  burden.  What  say  you — shall  it  be  so  ?" 

"Ten  thousand  pounds  from  Count  Peschiera!"  said 
Randal,  breathing  hard.  "You  cannot  be  serious!  Such 
a  sum — for  what  ? — for  a  mere  piece  of  information  ?  How 
otherwise  can  I  aid  him  ?  There  must  be  trick  and  decep- 
tion intended  here." 

"  My  dear  fellow,"  answered  Levy,  "  I  will  give  you  a 
hint.  There  is  such  a  thing  in  life  as  being  over-suspicious. 
If  you  have  a  fault,  it  is  that.  The  information  you  allude 
to  is,  of  course,  the  first  assistance  you  are  to  give.  Per- 
haps more  may  be  needed — perhaps  not.  Of  that  you  will 


744  MY  NOVEL;    OR, 

judge  yourself,  since   the  ^£10,000  are   contingent  on  the 
marriage  aforesaid." 

"Over-suspicious  or  not,  "answered  Randal,  '-'the  amount 
of  the  sum  is  too  improbable,  and  the  security  too  bad,  for 
me  to  listen  to  this  proposition,  even  if  I  could  descend 
to " 

"Stop,  mon  cher.  Business  first,  scruples  afterward. 
The  security  too  bad — what  security  ? " 

"  The  word  of  Count  Peschiera." 

"  He  has  nothing  to  do  with  it — he  need  know  nothing 
about  it.  'Tis  my  word  you  doubt.  I  am  your  security." 

Randal  thought  of  that  dry  witticism  in  Gibbon,  "  Abu 
Rafe  says  he  will  be  witness  for  this  fact,  but  who  will  be 
witness  for  Abu  Rafe  ? "  but  he  remained  silent,  only  fixing 
on  Levy  those  dark  observant  eyes,  with  their  contracted 
wary  pupils. 

"The  fact  is  simply  this,"  resumed  Levy:  "Count  di 
Peschiera  has  promised  to  pay  his  sister  a  dowry  of  ^20,000, 
in  case  he  has  the  money  to  spare.  He  can  only  have  it  to 
spare  by  the  marriage  we  are  discussing.  On  my  part,  as 
I  manage  his  affairs  in  England  for  him,  I  have  promised 
that,  for  the  said  sum  of  ^20,000,  I  will  guarantee  the  ex- 
penses in  the  way  of  that  marriage,  and  settle  with  Madame 
di  Negra.  Now,  though  Peschiera  is  a  very  liberal,  warm- 
hearted fellow,  I  don't  say  that  he  would  have  named  so 
large  a  sum  for  his  sister's  dowry,  if  in  strict  truth  he  did 
not  owe  it  to  her.  It  is  the  amount  of  her  own  fortune, 
which,  by  some  arrangements  with  her  late  husband,  not 
exactly  legal,  he  possessed  himself  of.  If  Madame  di  Negra 
went  to  law  with  him  for  it,  she  could  get  it  back.  I  have 
explained  this  to  him  ;  and,  in  short,  you  now  understand 
why  the  sum  is  thus  assessed.  But  I  have  bought  up  Ma- 
dame di  Negra's  debts.  I  have  bought  up  young  Hazeldean's 
(for  we  must  make  a  match  between  these  two  a  part  of  our 
arrangements)  ;  I  shall  present  to  Peschiera,  and  to  those 
excellent  young  persons,  an  account  that  will  absorb  the 
whole  ^£20,000.  That  sum  will  come  into  my  hands.  If  I 
settle  the  claims  against  them  for  half  the  money,  which, 
making  myself  the  sole  creditor,  I  have  the  right  to  do,  the 
moiety  will  remain.  And  if  I  choose  to  give  it  to  you  in 
return  for  the  services  which  provide  Peschiera  with  a 
princely  fortune — discharge  the  debts  of  his  sister — and  se- 
cure her  a  husband  in  my  promising  young  client,  Mr. 
Hazeldean,  that  is  my  look-out—all  parties  are  satisfied,  and 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  745 

no  one  need  ever  be  the  wiser.  The  sum  is  large,  no  doubt ; 
it  answers  to  me  to  give  it  to  you ;  does  it  answer  to  you  to 
receive  it  ? " 

Randal  was  greatly  agitated  ;  but,  vile  as  he  was  and 
systematically  as  in  thought  he  had  brought  himself  to 
regard  others  merely  as  they  could  be  made  subservient 
to  his  own  interest,  still  with  all  who  have  not  hardened 
themselves  in  actual  crime,  there  is  a  wide  distinction  be- 
tween the  thought  and  the  act  ;  and  though,  in  the  exercise 
of  ingenuity  and  cunning,  he  would  have  had  few  scruples 
in  that  moral  swindling  which  is  mildly  called  "  outwitting 
another,"  yet  thus  nakedly  and  openly  to  accept  a  bribe 
for  a  deed  of  treachery  toward  the  poor  Italian  who  had 
so  generously  trusted  him — he  recoiled.  He  was  nerving 
himself  to  refuse,  when  Levy,  opening  his  pocket-book, 
glanced  over  the  memoranda  therein,  and  said,  as  to  him- 
self, "  Rood  Manor — Dulmansberry,  sold  to  the  Thornhills 
by  Sir  Gilbert  Leslie,  knight  of  the  shire  ;  estimated  pres- 
ent net  rental  ^2,250.  75.  od.  It  is  the  greatest  bargain  I 
ever  knew.  And  with  this  estate  in  hand,  and  your  talents, 
Leslie,  I  don't  see  why  you  should  not  rise  higher  than 
Audley  Egerton.  He  was  poorer  than  you  once  !  " 

The  old  Leslie  lands — a  positive  stake  in  the  country — 
the  restoration  of  the  fallen  family ;  and,  on  the  other  hand, 
either  long  drudgery  at  the  bar, — a  scanty  allowance  on 
Egerton's  bounty — his  sister  wasting  her  youth  at  slovenly, 
dismal  Rood — Oliver  debased  into  a  boor ! — or  a  mendi- 
cant's dependence  on  the  contemptuous  pity  of  Harley 
L'Estrange — Harley,  who  had  refused  his  hand  to  him — 
Harley,  who  perhaps  wTould  become  the  husband  of  Vio- 
lante  !  Rage  seized  him  as  these  contrasting  pictures  rose 
before  his  view.  He  walked  to  and  fro  in  disorder,  striving 
to  recollect  his  thoughts,  and  reduce  himself  from  the  pas- 
sions of  the  human  heart  into  the  mere  mechanism  of  cal- 
culating intellect.  "  I  cannot  conceive,"  said  he,  abruptly, 
"  why  you  should  tempt  me  thus — what  interest  it  is  to 
you  ! " 

Baron  Levy  smiled,  and  put  up  his  pocket-book.  He 
saw  from  that  moment  that  the  victory  was  gained. 

"  My  dear  boy,"  said  he,  with  the  most  agreeable  bon- 
homie, "  it  is  very  natural  that  you  should  think  a  man 
would  have  a  personal  interest  in  whatever  he  does  for  an- 
other. I  believe  that  view  of  human  nature  is  called  utili- 
tarian philosophy,  and  is  much  in  fashion  at  present.  Let 
32 


?46  MY  NOVEL;    OK, 

me  try  and  explain  to  you.  In  this  affair  I  shan't  injure 
myself.  True,  you  will  say,  I  will  settle  claims,  which 
amount  to  ^20,000,  for  ^10,000,  I  might  put  the  surplus 
into  my  own  pocket  instead  of  yours.  Agreed.  But  I 
shall  not  get  the  ^20,000,  nor  repay  myself  Madame  di 
Negra's  debts  (whatever  I  may  do  as  to  Hazeldean's),  unless 
the  Count  gets  this  heiress.  You  can  help  in  this.  I  want 
you  ;  and  I  don't  think  I  could  get  you  by  a  less  offer  than 
I  make.  I  shall  soon  pay  myself  back  the  ^"10,000  if  the 
Count  get  hold  of  the  lady  and  her  fortune.  Brief — I  see 
my  way  here  to  my  own  interests.  Do  you  want  more  rea- 
sons— you  shall  have  them.  I  am  now  a  very  rich  man. 
How  have  I  become  so  ?  Through  attaching  myself  from 
the  first  to  persons  of  expectations,  whether  from  fortune 
or  talent.  I  have  made  connections  in  society,  and  society 
has  enriched  me.  I  have  still  a  passion  for  making  money. 
Que  voulez-vous ?  It  is  my  profession,  my  hobby.  It  will  be 
useful  to  me  in  a  thousand  ways,  to  secure  as  a  friend  a 
young  man  who  will  have  influence  with  other  young  men, 
heirs  to  something  better  than  Rood  Hall.  You  may  suc- 
ceed in  public  life.  A  man  in  public  life  may  attain  to  the 
knowledge  of  state  secrets  that  are  very  profitable  to  one 
who  dabbles  a  little  in  the  Funds.  We  can  perhaps  here- 
after do  business  together  that  may  put  yourself  in  a  way 
of  clearing  off  all  mortgages  on  these  estates — on  the  en- 
cumbered possession  of  which  I  shall  soon  congratulate 
you.  You  see  I  am  frank  ;  'tis  the  only  way  of  coming  to 
the  point  with  so  clever  a  fellow  as  you.  And  now,  since 
the  less  we  rake  up  the  mud  in  a  pond  from  which  we  have 
resolved  to  drink,  the  better,  let  us  dismiss  all  other  thoughts 
but  that  of  securing  our  end.  Will  you  tell  Peschiera  where 
the  young  lady  is,  or  shall  I  ?  Better  do  it  yourself  ;  reason 
enough  for  it,  that  he  has  confided  to  you  his  hope,  and 
asked  you  to  help  him  ;  why  should  not  you  ?  Not  a  word 
to  him  about  our  little  arrangement  ;  he  need  never  know 
it.  You  need  never  be  troubled."  Levy  rang  the  bell  : 
"Order  my  carriage  round." 

Randal  made  no  objection.  He  was  death-like  pale, 
but  there  was  a  sinister  expression  of  firmness  on  his  thin 
bloodless  lips. 

"  The  next  point,"  Levy  resumed,  "  is  to  hasten  the 
match  between  Frank  and  the  fair  widow.  How  does  that 
stand  ?  " 

"  She  will  not  see  me,  nor  receive  him." 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  747 

"  Oh,  learn  why  !  And  if  you  find  on  either  side  there 
is  a  hitch,  just  let  me  know ;  I  will  soon  remove  it." 

"  Has  Hazeldean  consented  to  the  post-obit  ?  " 

"  Not  yet  ;  I  have  not  pressed  it ;  I  wait  the  right  mo- 
ment, if  necessary." 

"  It  will  be  necessary." 

"  Ah,  you  wish  it.     It  shall  be  so." 

Randal  Leslie  again  paced  the  room,  and  after  a  silent 
self-commune,  came  up  close  to  the  Baron,  and  said — 

"  Look  you,  sir,  I  am  poor  and  ambitious ;  you  have 
tempted  me  at  the  right  moment,  and  with  the  right  induce- 
ment. I  succumb.  But  what  guarantee  have  I  that  this 
money  will  be  paid — these  estates  made  mine  upon  the  con- 
dition stipulated  ? " 

"  Before  anything  is  settled,"  replied  the  Baron,  "  go 
and  ask  my  character  of  any  of  our  young  friends,  Borro- 
well,  Spendquick — whom  you  please  ;  you  will  hear  me 
abused,  of  course  ;  but  they  will  all  say  this  of  me,  that 
when  I  pass  my  word,  I  keep  it.  If  I  say,  '  Mm  cher,  you 
shall  have  the  money,'  a  man  has  it ;  if  I  say,  '  I  renew  your 
bill  for  six  months/  it  is  renewed.  Tis  my  way  of  doing 
business.  In  all  cases  my  word  is  my  bond.  In  this  case, 
where  no  writing  can  pass  between  us,  my  only  bond  must 
be  my  word.  Go,  then,  make  your  mind  clear  as  to  your 
security,  and  come  here  and  dine  at  eight.  We  will  call  on 
Peschiera  afterward." 

"  Yes,"  said  Randal,  "  I  will  at  all  events  take  the  day 
to  consider.  Meanwhile,  I  say  this — I  do  not  disguise  from 
myself  the  nature  of  the  proposed  transaction,  but  what  I 
have  once  resolved  I  go  through  with.  My  sole  vindication 
to  myself  is,  that  if  I  play  here  with  a  false  die,  it  will  be 
for  a  stake  so  grand,  as,  once  won,  the  magnitude  of  the 
prize  will  cancel  the  ignominy  of  the  play.  It  is  not  this 
sum  of  money  for  which  -I  sell  myself — it  is  for  what  that 
sum  will  aid  me  to  achieve.  And  in  the  marriage  of  young 
Hazeldean  with  the  Italian  woman,  I  have  another,  and  it 
may  be,  a  larger  interest.  I  have  slept  on  it  lately — I  wake 
to  it  now.  Insure  that  marriage,  obtain  the  post-obit  from 
Hazeldean,  and  whatever  the  issue  of  the  more  direct  scheme 
for  which  you  seek  my  services,  rely  on  my  gratitude,  and 
believe  that  you  will  have  put  me  in  the  way  to  render 
gratitude  of  avail.  At  eight  I  will  be  with  you." 

Randal  left  the  room. 

The    Baron  sat  thoughtful.      "  It  is  true,"  said  he  to 


^48  MY  NOVEL;    OR, 

himself,  "  this  young  man  is  the  next  of  kin  to  the  Hazel- 
dean  estate,  if  Frank  displease  his  father  sufficiently  to  lose 
his  inheritance ;  that  must  be  the  clever  boy's  design. 
Well,  in  the  long  run,  I  should  make  as  much,  or  more,  out 
of  him  than  out  of  the  spendthrift  Frank.  Frank's  faults 
are  those  of  youth.  He  will  reform  and  retrench.  But  this 
man  !  No,  I  shall  have  him  for  life.  And  should  he  fail 
in  this  project,  and  have  but  this  encumbered  property—  a 
landed  proprietor  mortgaged  up  to  his  ears — why,  he  is  my 
slave,  and  I  shall  foreclose  when  I  wish,  or  if  he  prove  use- 
less ; — no,  I  risk  nothing.  And  if  I  did — if  I  lost  ten  thou- 
sand pounds — what  then  ?  I  can  afford  it  for  revenge  ! — 
afford  it  for  the  luxury  of  leaving  Audley  Egerton  alone 
with  penury  and  ruin,  deserted,  in  his  hour  of  need,  by  the 
pensioner  of  his  bounty — as  he  will  be  by  the  last  friend  of 
his  youth — when  it  so  pleases  me — me  whom  he  has  called 

'  scoundrel ! '  and  whom  he "     Levy's  soliloquy  halted 

there,  for  the  servant  entered  to  announce  the  carriage. 
And  the  Baron  hurried  his  hand  over  his  features,  as  if  to 
sweep  away  all  trace  of  the  passions  that  distorted  their 
smiling  effrontery.  And  so,  as  he  took  up  his  cane  and  his 
gloves,  and  glanced  at  the  glass,  the  face  of  the  fashionable 
usurer  was  once  more  as  varnished  as  his  boots. 


CHAPTER  XIX. 

WHEN  a  clever  man  resolves  on  a  villanous  action,  he 
hastens,  by  the  exercise  of  his  cleverness,  to  get  rid  of  the 
sense  of  his  villany.  With  more  than  his  usual  alertness, 
Randal  employed  the  next  hour  or  two  in  ascertaining  how 
far  Baron  Levy  merited  the  character  he  boasted,  and  how 
far  his  word  might  be  his  bond.  He  repaired  to  young  men 
whom  he  esteemed  better  judges  on  these  points  than 
Spendquick  and  Borrowell — young  men  who  resembled  the 
Merry  Monarch,  inasmuch  as 

"  They  never  said  a  foolish  thing, 
And  never  did  a  wise  one." 

There  are  many  such  young  men  about  town — sharp  and 
able  in  all  affairs  except  their  own.  No  one  knows  the 
world  better,  nor  judges  of  character  more  truly,  than  your 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  749 

half-beggared  roue*.  From  all  these  Baron  Levy  obtained 
much  the  same  testimonials  ;  he  was  ridiculed  as  a  would- 
be  dandy,  but  respected  as  a  very  responsible  man  of  busi- 
ness, and  rather  liked  as  a  friendly,  accommodating  species 
of  the  Sir  Epicure  Mammon,  who  very  often  did  what  were 
thought  handsome,  liberal  things  ;  and,  "  in  short,"  said  one 
of  these  experienced  referees,  "  he  is  the  best  fellow  going 
- — for  a  money-lender  !  You  may  always  rely  on  what  he 
promises,  and  he  is  generally  very  forbearing  and  indulgent 
to  us  of  good  society  ;  perhaps  for  the  same  reason  that  our 
tailors  are  ; — to  send  one  of  us  to  prison  would  hurt  his  cus- 
tom. His  foible  is  to  be  thought  a  gentleman.  I  believe, 
much  as  I  suppose  he  loves  money,  he  would  give  up  half 
his  fortune  rather  than  do  anything  for  which  we  could  cut 
him.  He  allows  a  pension  of  three  hundred  a-year  to  Lord 

S .  True  ;  he  was  his  man  of  business  for  twenty  years, 

and  before  then  S was  rather  a  prudent  fellow,  and  had 

fifteen  thousand  a-year.  He  has  helped  on,  too,  many  a 
clever  young  man  ; — the  best  boroughmonger  you  ever 
knew.  He  likes  having  friends  in  Parliament.  In  fact,  of 
course,  he  is  a  rogue  ;  but  if  one  wants  a  rogue,  one  can't 
find  a  pleasanter.  I  should  like  to  see  him  on  the  French 
stage — a  prosperous  Macaire ;  Le  Maitre  could  hit  him  off 
to  the  life." 

From  information  in  these  more  fashionable  quarters, 
gleaned  with  his  usual  tact,  Randal  turned  to  a  source  less 
elevated,  but  to  which  he  attached  more  importance.  Dick 
Avenel  associated  with  the  Baron — Dick  Avenel  must  be  in 
his  clutches.  Now  Randal  did  justice  to  that  gentleman's 
practical  shrewdness.  Moreover,  Avenel  was  by  profession 
a  man  of  business.  He  must  know  more  of  Levy  than  these 
men  of  pleasure  could  ;  and,  as  he  was  a  plain-spoken  per- 
son, and  evidently  honest,  in  the  ordinary  acceptation  of  the 
word,  Randal  did  not  doubt  that  out  of  Dick  Avenel  he 
should  get  the  truth. 

On  arriving  in  Eton  Square,  and  asking  for  Mr.  Avenel, 
Randal  was  at  once  ushered  into  the  drawing-room.  The 
apartment  was  not  in  such  good,  solid,  mercantile  taste  as 
had  characterized  Avenel's  more  humble  bachelor's  residence 
at  Screwstown.  The  taste  now  was  the  Honorable  Mrs.  Aven- 
el's ;  and,  truth  to  say,  no  taste  could  be  worse.  Furniture 
of  all  epochs  heterogeneously  clumped  together — here  a 
sofa  a  la  renaissance  in  Gobelin — there  a  rosewood  console 
from  Gillovv — a  tall  mock-Elizabethan  chair  in  black  oak, 


7so  MY  NOVEL;    OR, 

by  the  side  of  a  modern  Florentine  table  of  mosaic  marbles. 
All  kinds  of  colors  in  the  room,  and  all  at  war  with  each 
other.  Very  bad  copies  of  the  best-known  pictures  in  the 
world,  in  the  most  gaudy  frames,  and  imprudently  labelled 
by  the  names  of  their  murdered  originals — "Raffaele," 
"Corregio,"  "Titian,"  Sebastian  del  Piombo."  Neverthe- 
less, there  had  been  plenty  of  money  spent,  and  there  was 
plenty  to  show  for  it.  Mrs.  Avenel  was  seated  on  her  sofa 
a  la  renaissance,  with  one  of  her  children  at  her  feet,  who 
was  employed  in  reading  a  nej(v  Annual  in  crimson  silk  bind- 
ing. Mrs.  Avenel  was  in  an  attitude  as  if  sitting  for  her 
portrait. 

Polite  society  is  most  capricious  in  its  adoptions  or  re- 
jections. You  see  many  a  vulgar  person  firmly  established 
in  the  beau  monde ;  others,  with  very  good  pretensions  as  to 
birth,  fortune,  etc.,  either  rigorously  excluded,  or  only  per- 
mitted a  peep  over  the  pales.  The  Honorable  Mrs.  Avenel 
belonged  to  families  unquestionably  noble,  both  by  her  own 
descent  and  by  her  first  marriage  ;  and  if  poverty  had  kept 
her  down  in  her  earlier  career,  she  now,  at  least,  did  not 
want  wealth  to  back  her  pretensions.  Nevertheless,  all  the 
dispensers  of  fashion  concurred  in  refusing  their  support  to 
the  Honorable  Mrs.  Avenel.  One  might  suppose  it  was 
solely  on  account  of  her  plebeian  husband ;  but  indeed  it 
was  not  so.  Many  a  woman  of  high  family  can  marry  a 
low-born  man  not  so  presentable  as  Avenel,  and,  by  the  help 
of  his  money,  get  the  fine  world  at  her  feet.  But  Mrs. 
Avenel  had  not  that  art.  She  was  still  a  very  handsome 
showy  woman  ;  and  as  for  dress,  no  duchess  could  be  more 
extravagant.  Yet  these  very  circumstances  had  perhaps 
gone  against  her  ambition ;  for  your  quiet  little  plain 
woman,  provoking  no  envy,  slips  into  the  coteries,  when  a 
handsome  flaunting  lady — who,  once  seen  in  your  drawing- 
ing-room,  can  be  no  more  overlooked  than  a  scarlet  poppy 
amidst  a  violet  bed — is  pretty  sure  to  be  weeded  out  as  ruth- 
lessly as  a  poppy  would  be  in  a  similar  position. 

Mr.  Avenel  was  sitting  by  the  fire,  rather  moodily,  his 
hands  in  his  pockets,  and  whistling  to  himself.  To  say 
truth,  that  active  mind  of  his  was  very  much  bored  in  Lon- 
don, at  least  during  the  fore  part  of  the  day.  He  hailed 
Randal's  entrance  with  a  smile  of  relief,  and  rising  and  post- 
ing himself  before  the  fire — a  coat-tail  under  each  arm — he 
scarcely  allowed  Randal  to  shake  hands  with  Mrs.  Avenel, 
and  pat  the  child  on  the  head,  murmuring,  "  Beautiful 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  75! 

creature."  (Randal  was  ever  civil  to  children — that  sort  of 
wolf  in  sheep's  clothing  always  is — don't  be  taken  in,  O  you 
foolish  young  mothers !)  Dick,  I  say,  scarcely  allowed  his 
visitor  these  preliminary  courtesies,  before  he  plunged  far 
beyond  depth  of  wife  and  child,  into  the  political  ocean. 
"  Things  now  were  coming  right — a  vile  oligarchy  was  to  be 
destroyed.  British  respectability  and  British  talent  were  to 
have  fair  play."  To  have  heard  him,  you  would  have  thought 
the  day  fixed  for  the  millennium  !  "And  what  is  more," 
said  Avenel,  bringing  down  the  fist  of  his  right  hand  upon 
the  palm  of  his  left,  "  if  there  is  to  be  a  new  parliament,  we 
must  have  new  men — not  worn-out  old  brooms  that  never 
sweep  clean,  but  men  who  understand  how  to  govern  the 
country,  sir.  I  INTEND  TO  COME  IN  MYSELF  !  " 

"Yes,"  said  Mrs.  Avenel,  hooking  in  a  word  at  last,  "  I 
am  sure,  Mr.  Leslie,  you  will  think  I  did  right.  I  persuaded 
Mr.  Avenel  that,  with  his  talents  and  property,  he  ought, 
for  the  sake  of  his  country,  to  make  a  sacrifice  ;  and  then 
you  know  his  opinions  now  are  all  the  fashion,  Mr.  Leslie  ; 
formerly  they  would  have  been  called  shocking  and  vulgar ! " 

Thus  saying,  she  looked  with  fond  pride  at  Dick's  comely 
face,  which  at  that  moment,  however,  was  all  scowl  and 
frown.  I  must  do  justice  to  Mrs.  Avenel  ;  she  was  a  weak, 
silly  woman  in  some  things,  and  a  cunning  one  in  others  ; 
but  she  was  a  good  wife,  as  wives  go.  Scotchwomen  gen- 
erally are. 

"Bother!"  said  Dick;  "what  do  women  know  about 
politics  ?  I  wish  you'd  mind  the  child — it  is  crumpling  up, 
and  playing  almighty  smash  with  that  flim-flam  book,  which 
cost  me  one  pound  one." 

Mrs.  Avenel  submissively  bowed  her  head,  and  removed 
the  Annual  from  the  hands  of  the  young  destructive ;  the 
destructive  set  up  a  squall,  as  destructives  usually  do  when 
they  don't  have  their  own  way.  Dick  clapped  his  hand  to 
his  ears.  "Whe-e-ew,  I  can't  stand  this;  come  and  take  a 
walk,  Leslie  ;  I  want  stretching  ! "  He  stretched  himself  as 
he  spoke,  first  half-way  up  to  the  ceiling,  and  then  fairly 
out  of  the  room. 

Randal,  with  his  May  Fair  manner,  turned  toward  Mrs. 
Avenel  as  if  to  apologize  for  her  husband  and  himself. 

"  Poor  Richard  !  "  said  she,  "he  is  in  one  of  his  humors 
— all  men  have  them.  Come  and  see  me  again  soon.  When 
does  Almack's  open  ?  " 

"  Nay,  I  ought  to  ask  you  that  question,  you  who  know 


752  My  NOVEL;    OK, 

everything  that  goes  on  in  our  set,"  said  the  young  serpent 
Any  tree  planted  in  "  our  set,"  if  it  had  been  but  a  crab-tree, 
would  have  tempted  Mr.  Avenel's  Eve  to  jump  at  its 
boughs. 

"  Are  you  coming,  there  ? "  cried  Dick,  from  the  foot  of 
the  stairs. 


CHAPTER  XX. 

"  I  HAVE  just  been  at  our  friend  Levy's,"  said  Randal, 
when  he  and  Dick  were  outside  the  street-door.  "  He,  like 
you,  is  full  of  politics — pleasant  man — for  the  business  he 
is  said  to  do." 

"  Well,"  said  Dick,  slowly,  "  I  suppose  he  is  pleasant, 
but  make  the  best  of  it — and  still " 

"  Still  what,  my  dear  Avenel  ? '.'  (Randal  here  for  the  first 
time  discarded  the  formal  Mister.) 

MR.  AVENEL. — Still  the  thing  itself  is  not  pleasant. 

RANDAL  (with  his  soft  hollow  laugh). — You  mean  borrow- 
ing money  upon  more  than  five  per  cent. 

"  Oh,  curse  the  per-centage.  I  agree  with  Bentham  on 
the  Usury  Laws — no  shackles  in  trade  for  me,  whether  in 
money  or  anything  else.  That's  not  it.  But  when  one 
owes  a  fellow  money  even  at  two  percent.,  and  'tis  not  con- 
venient to  pay  him,  why,  somehow  or  other,  it  makes  one 
feel  small  ;  it  takes  the  British  Liberty  out  of  a  man  !  " 

"  I  should  have  thought  you  more  likely  to  lend  money 
than  to  borrow  it." 

"'Well,  I  guess  you  are  right  there,  as  a  general  rule. 
But  I  tell  you  what  it  is,  sir  ;  there  is  too  great  a  mania 
for  competition  getting  up  in  this  old  rotten  country  of 
ours.  I  am  as  liberal  as  most  men.  I  like  competition  to  a 
certain  extent,  but  there  is  too  much  of  it,  sir — too  much 
of  it." 

Randal  looked  sad  and  convinced.  But  if  Leonard  had 
heard  Dick  Avenel,  what  would  have  been  his  amaze  ?  Dick 
Avenel  rail  against  competition  !  Think  there  could  be  too 
much  of  it  !  Of  course,  "  heaven  aud  earth  are  coming 
together,"  said  the  spider,  when  the  housemaid's  broom 
invaded  its  cobweb.  Dick  was  all  for  sweeping  away  other 
cobwebs  ;  but  he  certainly  thought  heaven  and  earth  com- 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  753 

ing  together  when  he  saw  a  great  Turk's-head  besom  poked 
up  at  his  own. 

Mr.  Avenel,  in  his  genius  for  speculation  and  improve- 
ment, had  established  a  factory  at  Screwstown,  the  first 
which  had  ever  eclipsed  the  church  spire  with  its  Titanic 
chimney.  It  succeeded  well  at  first.  Mr.  Avenel  trans- 
ferred to  this  speculation  nearly  all  his  capital.  "  Nothing," 
quoth  he,  "  paid  such  an  interest.  Manchester  was  getting 
worn  out — time  to  show  what  Screwstown  could  do. 
Nothing  like  competition."  But  by-and-by  a  still  greater 
capitalist  than  Dick  Avenel,  finding  out  that  Screwstown 
was  at  the  mouth  of  a  coal-mine,  and  that  Dick's  profits 
were  great,  erected  a  still  uglier  edifice,  with  a  still  taller 
chimney.  And  having  been  brought  up  to  the  business, 
and  making  his  residence  in  the  town,  while  Dick  employed 
a  foreman  and  flourished  in  London,  this  infamous  com- 
petitor so  managed  first  to  share,  and  then  gradually  to 
sequester,  the  profits  which  Dick  had  hitherto  monopolized, 
that  no  wonder  Mr.  Avenel  thought  competition  should 
have  its  limits.  "  The  tongue  touches  where  the  tooth 
aches,"  as  Dr.  Riccabocca  would  tell  us.  By  little  and 
little  our  juvenile  Talleyrand  (I  beg  the  elder  great  man's 
pardon)  wormed  out  from  Dick  this  grievance,  and  in  the 
grievance  discovered  the  origin  of  Dick's  connection  with 
the  money-lender. 

"  But  Levy,"  said  Avenel,  candidly,  "  is  a  decentish 
chap  in  his  way — friendly  too.  Mrs.  A.  finds  him  useful  ; 
brings  some  of  yoiir  young  highflyers  to  her  soirees.  To 
be  sure,  they  don't  dance — stand  all  in  a  row  at  the  door, 
like  mutes  at  a  funeral.  Not  but  what  they  have  been 
uncommon  civil  to  me  lately — Spendquick  particularly. 
By  the  bye,  I  dine  with  him  to-morrow.  The  aristocracy 
are  behindhand — not  smart,  sir — not  up  to  the  mark  ;  but 
when  a  man  knows  how  'to  take  'em,  they  beat  the  New 
Yorkers  in  good  manners.  I'll  say  that  for  them.  I  have 
no  prejudice." 

"  I  never  saw  a  man  with  less  ;  no  prejudice  even  against 
Levy." 

"  No,  not  a  bit  of  it !  Every  one  says  he's  a  Jew  ;  he 
says  he's  not.  I  don't  care  a  button  what  he  is.  His 
money  is  English — that's  enough  for  any  man  of  a  liberal 
turn  of  mind.  His  charges,  too,  are  moderate.  To  be 
sure,  he  knows  I  shall  pay  them  ;  only  what  I  don't  like 
in  him  is  a  sort  of  way  he  has  of  mon-cher-'wg  and  my 


754  MY  NOVEL;    OR, 

good-fellowing  one,  to  do  things  quite  out  of  the  natural 
way  of  that  sort  of  business.  He  knows  I  have  got  Parlia- 
mentary influence.  I  could  return  a  couple  of  members 
for  Screwstown,  and  one,  or  perhaps  two,  for  Lansmere, 
where  I  have  of  late  been  cooking  up  an  interest  ;  and  he 
dictates  to — no,  not  dictates — but  tries  to  humbug  me  into 
putting  in  his  own  men.  However,  in  one  respect,  we  are 
likely  to  agree.  He  says  you  want  to  come  into  Parlia- 
ment. You  seem  a  smart  young  fellow  ;  but  you  must 
throw  over  that  stiff  red-tapist  of  yours,  and  go  with  Public 
Opinion,  and — Myself." 

"  You  are  very  kind,  Avenel  ;  perhaps  when  we  come 
to  compare  opinions,  we  may  find  that  we  agree  entirely. 
Still,  in  Egerton's  present  position,  delicacy  to  him — how- 
ever, we'll  not  discuss  that  now.  But  you  really  think  I 
might  come  in  for  Lansmere — against  the  L'Estrange  inter- 
est, too,  which  must  be  strong  there  ?  " 

"  It  was  very  strong,  but  I've  smashed  it,  I  calculate." 
"  Would  a  contest  there  cost  very  much  ?  " 
"  Well,   I  guess  you  must  come  down  with  the   ready. 
But,  as  you   say,  time  enough   to  discuss  that  when  you 
have  squared  your  account  with  'delicacy;'  come    to    me 
then,  and  we'll  go  into  it." 

Randal,  having  now  squeezed  his  orange  dry,  had  no 
desire  to  waste  his  time  in  brushing  up  the  rind  with  his 
coat-sleeve,  so  he  unhooked  his  arm  from  Avenel's,  and, 
looking  at  his  watch,  discovered  he  should  be  just  in  time 
for  an  appointment  of  the  most  urgent  business — hailed  a 
cab,  and  drove  off. 

Dick  looked  hipped  and  disconsolate  at  being  left  alone; 
he  yawned  very  loud,  to  the  astonishment  of  three  prim  old 
maiden  Belgravians  who  were  passing  that  way  ;  and  then 
his  mind  began  to  turn  toward  his  factory  at  Screwstown, 
which  had  led  to  his  connection  with  the  Baron  ;  and  he 
thought  over  a  letter  he  had  received  from  his  foreman 
that  morning,  informing  him  that  it  was  rumored  at  Screws- 
town  that  Mr.  Dyce,  his  rival,  was  about  to  have  new  ma- 
chinery on  an  improved  principle  ;  and  that  Mr.  Dyce  had 
already  gone  up  to  town,  it  was  supposed  with  the  intention 
of  concluding  a  purchase  for  a  patent  discovery  to  be  ap- 
plied to  the  new  machinery,  and  which  that  gentleman  had 
publicly  declared,  in  the  corn-market,  "would  shut  up  Mr. 
Avenel's  factory  before  the  year  was  out."  As  this  menacing 
epistle  recurred  to  him,  Dick  felt  his  desire  to  yawn  inconti- 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  75$ 

nently  checked.  His  brow  grew  very  dark,  and  he  walked, 
with  restless  strides,  on  and  on,  till  he  found  himself  in  the 
Strand.  He  then  got  into  an  omnibus,  and  proceeded  to 
the  city,  wherein  he  spent  the  rest  of  the  day,  looking  over 
machines  and  foundries,  and  trying  in  vain  to  find  out  what 
diabolical  invention  the  over-competition  of  Mr.  Dyce  had 
got  hold  of.  "  If,"  said  Dick  Avenel  to  himself,  as  he  re- 
turned fretfully  homeward — "  if  a  man  like  me,  who  has 
done  so  much  for  British  industry  and  go-ahead  principles, 
is  to  be  catawampously  champed  up  by  a  mercenary  selfish 
cormorant  of  a  capitalist  like  that  interloping  blockhead  in 
drab  breeches,  Tom  Dyce,  all  I  can  say  is,  that  the  sooner 
this  cursed  old  country  goes  to  the  dogs,  the  better  pleased 
I  shall  be.  I  wash  my  hands  of  it." 


CHAPTER  XXI. 

RANDAL'S  mind  was  made  up.  All  he  had  learned  in 
regard  to  Levy  had  confirmed  his  resolves  or  dissipated  his 
scruples.  He  had  started  from  the  improbability  that 
Peschiera  would  offer,  and  the  still  greater  improbability 
that  Peschiera  would  pay  him,  ten  thousand  pounds  for 
such  information  or  aid  as  he  could  bestow  in  furthering 
the  Count's  object.  But  when  Levy  took  such  proposals 
entirely  on  himself,  the  main  question  to  Randal  became 
this — Could  it  be  Levy's  interest  to  make  so  considerable  a 
sacrifice  ?  Had  the  Baron  implied  only  friendly  senti- 
ments as  his  motives,  Randal  would  have  felt  sure  he  was 
to  be  taken  in  ;  but  the  usurer's  frank  assurance  that  it 
would  answer  to  him  in  the  long-run  to  concede  to  Randal 
terms  so  advantageous,  altered  the  case,  and  led  our  young 
philosopher  to  look  at  the  affair  with  calm  contemplative 
eyes.  Was  it  sufficiently  obvious  that  Levy  counted  on  an 
adequate  return  ?  Might  he  calculate  on  reaping  help  by 
the  bushel  if  he  sowed  it  by  the  handful  ?  The  result  of 
Randal's  cogitations  was,  that  the  Baron  might  fairly  deem 
himself  no  wasteful  sower.  In  the  first  place,  it  was  clear 
that  Levy,  not  without  reasonable  ground,  believed  that  he 
could  soon  replace,  with  exceeding  good  interest,  any  sum 
he  might  advance  to  Randal,  out  of  the  wealth  which  Ran- 
dal's prompt  information  might  bestow  on  Levy's  client, 


756  MY  NOVEL;    OR, 

the  Count  ;•  and,  secondly,  Randal's  self-esteem  was  im- 
mense, and  could  he  but  succeed  in  securing  a  pecuniary 
independence  on  the  instant,  to  free  him  from  the  slow 
drudgery  of  the  bar,  or  from  a  precarious  reliance  on 
.  Audley  Egerton,  as  a  politician  out  of  power,  his  convic- 
tions of  rapid  triumph  in  public  life  were  as  strong  as  if 
whispered  by  an  angel,  or  promised  by  a  fiend.  On  such 
triumphs,  with  all  the  social  position  they  would  secure,  Levy 
might  well  calculate  for  repayment  by  a  thousand  indirect 
channels.  Randal's  sagacity  detected  that,  through  all  the 
good-natured  or  liberal  actions  ascribed  to  the  usurer,  Levy 
had  steadily  pursued  his  own  interests, — he  saw  that  Levy 
meant  to  get  him  into  his  power,  and  use  his  abilities  as 
instruments  for  digging  new  mines,  in  which  Baron  Levy 
would  claim  the  right  of  large  royalties.  But  at  that  thought 
Randal's  pale  lip  curled  disdainfully  ;  he  confided  too  much 
in  his  own  powers  not  to  think  that  he  could  elude  the 
grasp  of  the  usurer,  whenever  it  suited  him  to  do  so. 
Thus,  on  a  survey,  all  conscience  hushed  itself, — his  mind 
rushed  buoyantly  on  to  anticipations  of  the  future.  He 
saw  the  hereditary  estates  regained — no  matter  how  mort- 
gaged,— for  the  moment  still  his  own — legally  his  own, — 
yielding  for  the  present  what  would  suffice  for  competence 
to  one  of  few  wants,  and  freeing  his  name  from  that  title  of 
Adventurer,  which  is  so  prodigally  given  in  rich  old  coun- 
tries to  those  who  have  no  estates  but  their  brains.  He 
thought  of  Violante  but  as  the  civilized  trader  thinks  of  a 
trifling  coin,  of  a  glass  bead,  which  he  exchanges  with  some 
barbarian  for  gold  dust ; — he  thought  of  Frank  Hazeldean 
married  to  the  foreign  woman  of  beggared  means,  and  repute 
that  had  known  the  breath  of  scandal, — married,  and  living 
on  post-obit  instalments  of  the  Casino  property ; — he  thought 
of  the  poor  Squire's  resentment, — his  avarice  swept  from  the 
lands  annexed  to  Rood  on  to  the  broad  fields  of  Hazeldean  ; 
— he  thought  of  Avenel,  of  Lansmere,  of  Parliament ; — with 
one  hand  he  grasped  fortune,  with  the  next  power.  "  And 
yet  I  entered  on  life  with  no  patrimony  (save  a  ruined  hall 
and  a  barren  waste) — no  patrimony  but  knowledge.  I  have 
but  turned  knowledge  from  books  to  men  ;  for  books  may 
give  fame  after  death,  but  men  give  us  power  in  life."  And 
all  the  while  he  thus  ruminated,  his  act  was  speeding  his 
purpose.  Though  it  was  but  in  a  miserable  hack  cab  that 
he  erected  airy  scaffoldings  round  airy  castles,  still  the 
miserable  hack  cab  was  flying  fast  to  secure  the  first  foot  of 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  757 

solid  ground  whereon  to  transfer  the  mental  plan  of  the 
architect  to  foundations  of  positive  lime  and  clay.  The 
cab  stopped  at  the  door  of  Lord  Lansmere's  house.  %  Randal 
had  suspected  Violante  to  be  there  ;  he  resolved  to  ascer- 
tain. Randal  descended  from  his  vehicle,  and  rang  the 
bell.  The  lodge-keeper  opened  the  great  wooden  gates. 

"  I  have  called  to  see  the  young  lady  staying  here — the 
foreign  young  lady." 

Lady  Lansmere  had  been  too  confident  of  the  security 
of  her  roof  to  condescend  to  give  any  orders  to  her  servants 
with  regard  to  her  guest,  and  the  lodge-keeper  answered 
directly, — 

"At  home,  I  believe,  sir.  I  rather  think  she  is  in  the 
garden  with  my  lady." 

"  I  see,"  said  Randal.  And  he  did  see  the  form  of 
Violante  at  a  distance.  "  But  since  she  is  walking,  I  will 
not  disturb  her  at  present.  I  will  call  another  day." 

The  lodge-keeper  bowed  respectfully,  Randal  jumped 
into  his  cab — "  To  Curzon  Street — quick  !  " 


CHAPTER  XXII. 

HARLEY  had  made  one  notable  oversight  in  that  appeal 
to  Beatrice's  better  and  gentler  nature,  which  he  intrusted 
to  the  advocacy  of  Leonard, — a  scheme  in  itself  very  char- 
acteristic of  Harley's  romantic  temper,  and  either  wise  or 
foolish,  according  as  his  indulgent  theory  of  human  idiosyn- 
crasies in  general,  and  of  those  peculiar  to  Beatrice  di  Negra 
in  especial,  was  the  dream  of  an  enthusiast,  or  the  inductive 
conclusion  of  a  sound  philosopher. 

Harley  had  warned  Leonard  not  to  fall  in  love  with  the 
Italian, — he  had  forgotten  to  warn  the  Italian  not  to  fall  in 
love  with  Leonard  ;  nor  had  he  ever  anticipated  the  proba- 
bility of  that  event.  This  is  not  to  be  very  much  wondered 
at ;  for  if  there  be  anything  on  which  the  most  sensible  men 
are  dull-eyed,  where  those  eyes  are  not  lighted  by  jealousy, 
it  is  as  to  the  probabilities  of  another  male  creature  being 
beloved.  All,  the  least  vain  of  the  whiskered  gender,  think 
it  prudent  to  guard  themselves  against  being  too  irresistible 
to  the  fair  sex  ;  and  each  says  of  his  friend,  "  Good  fellow 


758  MY  NOVEL;    OR, 

enough,  but  the  last  man  for  that  woman  to  fall  in  love 
with  ! " 

But  certainly  there  appeared  on  the  surface  more  than 
ordinary  cause  for  Harley's  blindness  in  the  special  instance 
of  Leonard. 

Whatever  Beatrice's  better  qualities,  she  was  generally 
esteemed  worldly  and  ambitious.  She  was  pinched  in  cir- 
cumstances,— she  was  luxurious  and  extravagant  ;  how  was 
it  likely  that  she  could  distinguish  any  aspirant  of  the  hum- 
ble birth  and  fortunes  of  the  young  peasant  author  ?  As  a 
coquette,  she  might  try  to  win  his  admiration,  and  attract 
his  fancy  ;  but  her  own  heart  would  surely  be  guarded  in 
the  triple  mail  of  pride,  poverty,  and  the  conventional  opin- 
ions of  the  world  in  which  she  lived.  Had  Harley  thought 
it  possible  that  Madame  di  Negra  could  stoop  below  her 
station,  and  love,  not  wisely,  but  too  wrell,  he  would  rather 
have  thought  that  the  object  would  be  some  brilliant  ad- 
venturer of  fashion, — some  one  who  could  turn  against  her- 
self all  the  arts  of  deliberate  fascination,  and  all  the  experi- 
ence bestowed  by  frequent  conquest.  One  so  simple  as 
Leonard — so  young  and  so  new  !  Harley  L'Estrange  would 
have  smiled  at  himself,  if  the  idea  of  that  image  subjugat- 
ing the  ambitious  woman  to  the  disinterested  love  of  a  vil- 
lage maid,  had  once  crossed  his  mind.  Nevertheless,  so  it 
was,  and  precisely  from  those  causes  which  would  have 
seemed  to  Harley  to  forbid  the  weakness. 

It  was  that  fresh,  pure  heart, — it  was  that  simple,  earnest 
sweetness, — it  was  that  contrast  in  look,  in  tone,  in  senti- 
ment, and  in  reasonings,  to  all  that  had  jaded  and  disgusted 
her  in  the  circle  of  her  admirers, — it  was  all  this  that  capti- 
vated Beatrice  at  the  first  interview  with  Leonard.  Here 
was  what  she  had  confessed  to  the  sceptical  Randal  she  had 
dreamed  and  sighed  for.  Her  earliest  youth  had  passed 
into  abhorrent  marriage,  without  the  soft,  innocent  crisis  of 
human  life — virgin  love.  Many  a  wooer  might  have  touched 
her  vanity,  pleased  her  fancy,  excited  her  ambition — her 
heart  had  never  been  awakened  :  it  woke  now.  The  world, 
and  the  years  that  the  world  had  wasted,  seemed  to  fleet 
away  as  a  cloud.  She  was  as  if  restored  to  the  blush  and 
the  sigh  of  youth — the  youth  of  the  Italian  maid.  As  in 
the  restoration  of  our  golden  age  is  the  spell  of  poetry  with 
us  all,  so  such  was  the  spell  of  the  poet  himself  on  her. 

Oh,  how  exquisite  was  that  brief  episode  in  the  life  of 
the  woman  palled  with  the  "  hack  sights  and  sounds  "  of 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  759 

worldly  life  !  How  strangely  happy  were  those  hours,  when, 
lured  on  by  her  silent  sympathy,  the  young  scholar  spoke 
of  his  early  struggles  between  circumstance  and  impulse, 
musing  amidst  the  flowers,  and  hearkening  to  the  fountain  ; 
or  of  his  wanderings  in  the  desolate,  lamp-lit  streets,  while 
the  vision  of  Chatterton's  glittering  eyes  shone  dread 
through  the  friendless  shadows.  And  as  he  spoke,  whether 
of  his  hopes  or  his  fears,  her  looks  dwelt*  fondly  on  the 
young  face,  that  varied  between  pride  and  sadness — pride 
ever  so  gentle,  and  sadness  ever  so  nobly  touching.  She 
was  never  weary  of  gazing  on  that  brow,  with  its  quiet 
power  ;  but  her  lids  dropped  before  those  eyes,  with  tfyeir 
serene,  unfathomable  passion.  She  felt,  as  they  haunted 
her,  what  a  deep  and  holy  thing  love  in  such  souls  must  be. 
Leonard  never  spoke  to  her  of  Helen — that  reserve  every 
reader  can  comprehend.  To  natures  like  his,  love  is  a  mys- 
tery ;  to  confide  it  is  to  profane.  But  he  fulfilled  his  com- 
mission of  interesting  her  in  the  exile  and  his  daughter. 
And  his  description  of  them. brought  tears  so  her  eyes.  She 
inly  resolved  not  to  aid  Peschiera  in  his  designs  on  Violante. 
She  forgot  for  the  moment  that  her  own  fortune  was  to  de- 
pend on  the  success  of  those  designs. — Levy  had  arranged 
so  that  she  was  not  reminded  of  her  poverty  by  creditors 
— she  knew  not  how ;  she  knew  nothing  of  business  ;  she 
gave  herself  up  to  the  delight  of  the  present  hour,  and  to 
vague  prospects  of  a  future,  associated  with  that  young 
image — with  that  face  of  a  guardian  angel  that  she  saw  be- 
fore her,  fairest  in  the  moments  of  absence  ;  for  in  those 
moments  came  the  life  of  fairy-land,  when  we  shut  our  eyes 
on  the  world,  and  see  through  the  haze  of  golden  reverie. 
Dangerous,  indeed,  to  Leonard  would  have  been  the  soft 
society  of  Beatrice  di  Negra,  had  not  his  heart  been  wholly 
devoted  to  one  object,  and  had  not  his  ideal  of  woman  been 
from  that  object  one  sole  and  indivisible  reflection.  But 
Beatrice  guessed  not  this  barrier  between  herself  and  him. 
Amidst  the  shadows  that  he  conjured  up  from  his  past  life, 
she  beheld  no  rival  form.  She  saw  him  lonely  in  the  world 
as  she  was  herself.  And  in  his  lowly  birth,  his  youth,  in  the 
freedom  from  presumption  which  characterized  him  in  all 
things  (save  that  confidence  in  his  intellectual  destinies, 
which  is  the  essential  attribute  of  genius),  she  but  grew  the 
bolder  by  the  belief  that,  even  if  he  loved  her,  he  would  not 
dare  to  hazard  the  avowal. 

And  thus,  one  day,  yielding,  as  she  had  ever  been  wont 


7<5o  MY  NOVEL;    OR, 

to  yield,  to  the  impulse  of  her  quick  Italian  heart — how  she 
never  remembered — in  what  words  she  never  could  recall — 
she  spoke — she  owned  her  love — she  pleaded,  with  tears 
and  blushes,  for  love  in  return.  All  that  passed  was  to  her  as 
a  dream — a  dream  from  which  she  woke  with  a  fierce  sense 
of  agony,  of  humiliation — woke  as  the  woman  "scorned." 
No  matter  how  gratefully,  how  tenderly  Leonard  had  re- 
plied— the  repfy  was  refusal.  For  the  first  time  she  learned 
she  had  a  rival ;  that  all  he  could  give  of  love  was  long 
since,  from  his  boyhood,  given  to  another.  For  the  first 
time  in  her  life  that  ardent  nature  knew  jealously,  its  tortur- 
ing, stings,  its  thirst  for  vengeance,  its  tempest  of  loving 
hate.  But,  to  outward  appearance,  silent  and  cold  she 
stood  as  marble.  Words  that  sought  to  soothe  fell  on  her 
ear  unheeded  :  they  were  drowned  by  the  storm  within. 
Pride  was  the  first  feeling  which  dominated  the  warring 
elements  that  raged  in  her  soul.  She  tore  her  hand  from 
that  which  clasped  hers  with  so  loyal  a  respect.  She  could 
have  spurned  the  form  that  knelt  at  her  feet,  not  for  love, 
but  for  pardon.  She  pointed  to  the  door  with  the  gesture 
of  an  insulted  queen.  She  knew  no  more  till  she  was  alone. 
Then  came  that  rapid  flash  of  conjecture  peculiar  to  the 
storms  of  jealousy  ;  that  which  seems  to  single  from  all  nature 
the  one  object  to  dread  and  to  destroy  ;  the  conjecture  so  often 
false  ;  yet  received  at  once  by  our  convictions  as  the  revela- 
tion of  instinctive  truth.  He  to  whom  she  had  humbled 
herself  loved  another  ;  whom  but  Violante  ? — whom  else, 
young  and  beautiful,  had  he  named  in  the  record  of  his 
life  ? — None  !  And  he  had  sought  to  interest  her,  Beatrice 
di  Negra,  in  the  object  of  his  love  ; — hinted  at  dangers, 
which  Beatrice  knew  too  well  ;— implied  trust  in  Beatrice's 
will  to  protect.  Blind  fool  that  she  had  been  !  This,  then, 
was  the  reason  why  he  had  come,  day  after  day,  to  Beatrice's 
house  ;  this  was  the  charm  that  had  drawn  him  thither  ;  this 
— she  pressed  her  hands  to  her  burning  temples,  as  if  to 
stop  the  torture  of  thought.  Suddenly  a  voice  was  heard 
below,  the  door  opened,  and  Randal  Leslie  entered. 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  761 


CHAPTER  XXIII. 

PUNCTUALLY  at  eight  o'clock  that  evening,  Baron  Levy 
welcomed  the  new  ally  he  had  secured.  The  pair  dined  en 
tete-a-tete,  discussing  general  matters  till  the  servants  left 
them  to  their  wine.  Then  said  the  Baron,  rising  and  stir- 
ring the  fire — then  said  the  Baron,  briefly  and  significantly — 

"  Well ! " 

*'  As  regards  the  property  you  spoke  of,"  answered  Ran- 
dal, "  I  am  willing  to  purchase  it  on  the  terms  you  name. 
The  only  point  that  perplexes  me  is  how  to  account  to  Aud- 
ley  Egerton,  to  my  parents,  to  the  world,  for  the  power  of 
purchasing  it." 

"  True,"  said  the  Baron,  without  even  a  smile  at  the  in- 
genious and  truly  Greek  manner  in  which  Randal  had  con- 
trived to  denote  his  meaning,  and  conceal  the  ugliness  of  it 
— "  true,  we  must  think  of  that.  If  we  could  manage  to 
conceal  the  real  name  of  the  purchaser  for  a  year  or  so — it 
might  be  easy — you  may  be  supposed  to  have  speculated  in 
the  Funds  ;  or  Egerton  may  die,  and  people  may  believe 
that  he  had  secured  to  you  something  handsome  from  the 
ruin  of  his  fortune." 

"  Little  chance  of  Egerton's  dying." 

"  Humph  !  "  said  the  Baron.  "  However,  this  is  a  mere 
detail,  reserved  for  consideration.  You  can  now  tell  us 
where  the  young  lady  is  ?" 

"Certainly.  I  could  not  this  morning — I  can  now.  I 
will  go  with  you  to  the  Count.  Meanwhile,  I  have  seen 
Madame  di  Negra  ;  she  will  accept  Frank  Hazeldean,  if  he 
will  but  offer  himself  at  onee." 

"  Will  he  not  ? " 

"  No  !  I  have  been  to  him.  He  is  overjoyed  at  my  repre- 
sentations, but  considers  it  his  duty  to  ask  the  consent  of 
his  parents.  Of  course  they  will  not  give  it  ;  and  if  there 
be  delay,  she  will  retract.  She  is  under  the  influence  of 
passions,  on  the  duration  of  which  there  is  no  reliance." 

"  What  passions  ?     Love  ? " 

"  Love  ;  but  not  for  Hazeldean.  The  passions  that 
bring  her  to  accept  his  hand  are  pique  and  jealously.  She 
believes,  in  a  word,  that  one,  who  seems  to  have  gained  the 


^62  MY  NOVEL;    OR, 

mastery  over  her  affections  with  a  strange  suddenness,  is  but 
blind  to  her  charms  because  dazzled  by  Violante's.  She  is 
prepared  to  aid  in  all  that  can  give  her  rival  to  Peschiera  ; 
and  yet,  such  is  the  inconsistency  of  woman,"  added  the 
young  philosopher,  with  a  shrug  of  the  shoulders,  "  that 
she  is  also  prepared  to  lose  all  chance  of  securing  him  she 
loves,  by  bestowing  herself  on  another  !  " 

"Woman,  indeed,  all  over!"  said  the  Baron,  tapping 
the  snuff-box  (Louis  Quinze),  and  regaling  his  nostrils 
with  a  scornful  pinch.  "  But  who  is  the  man  whom  the  fair 
Beatrice  has  thus  honored  ?  Superb  creature  !  I  had  some 
idea  of  her  myself  when  I  bought  up  her  debts  ;  but  it 
might  have  embarrassed  me,  in  more  general  plans,  as  re- 
gards the  Count.  All  for  the  best.  Who's  the  man  ?  Not 
Lord  L'Estrange  ?" 

"  I  do  not  think  it  is  he  ;  but  I  have  not  yet  ascertained. 
I  have  told  you  all  I  know.  I  found  her  in  a  state  so  ex- 
cited, so  unlike  herself,  that  I  had  no  little  difficulty  in 
soothing  her  into  confidence  so  far.  I  could  not  venture 
more." 

''And  she  will  accept  Frank?" 

"  Had  he  offered  to-day,  she  would  have  accepted  him  !  " 

"  It  may  be  a  great  help  to  your  fortunes,  man  cher,  if 
Frank  Hazeldean  marry  this  lady  without  his  father's  con- 
sent. Perhaps  he  may  be  disinherited.  You  are  next  of 
kin." 

"How  do  you  know  that  ? "  asked  Randal,  sullenly. 

"  It  is  my  business  to  know  all  about  the  chances  and 
connections  of  any  one  with  whom  I  do  money  matters.  I 
do  money  matters  with  young  Hazeldean  ;  so  I  know  that 
the  Hazeldean  property  is  not  entailed  ;  and  as  the  Squire's 
half-brother  has  no  Hazeldean  blood  in  him,  you  have  ex- 
cellent expectations." 

"  Did  Frank  tell  you  I  was  next  of  kin,?" 

"  I  rather  think  so  ;  but  I  am  sure  jw*  did." 

"  I— when  ?  " 

"  When  you  told  me  how  important  it  was  to  you  that 
Frank  should  marry  Madame  di  Negra.  Peste!  moncher,  do 
you  think  I'm  a  blockhead  ?" 

"Well,  Baron,  Frank  is  of  age,  and  can  marry  to  please 
himself.  You  implied  to  me  that  you  could  help  him  in 
this." 

"  I  will  try.  See  that  he  call  at  Madame  di  Negra's  to- 
morrow, at  two  precisely." 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  763 

"  I  would  rather  keep  clear  of  all  apparent  interference 
in  this  matter.  Will  you  not  arrange  that  he  call  on  her  ? 
And  do  not  forget  to  entangle  him  in  a  post-obit" 

"  Leave  it  to  me.  Any  more  wine  ?  No  ; — then  let  us 
go  to  the  Count's." 


CHAPTER    XXIV. 

THE  next  morning  Frank  Hazeldean  was  sitting  over 
his  solitary  breakfast-table.  It  was  long  past  noon.  The 
young  man  had  risen  early,  it  is  true,  to  attend  his  mili- 
tary duties,  but  he  had  contracted  the  habit  of  breakfasting 
late.  One's  appetite  does  not  come  early  when  one  lives  in 
London,  and  never  goes  to  bed  before  daybreak. 

There  was  nothing  very  luxurious  or  effeminate  about 
Frank's  rooms,  though  they  were  in  a  very  dear  street,  and 
he  paid  a  monstrous  high  price  for  them.  Still,  to  a  prac- 
tised eye  they  betrayed  an  inmate  who  can  get  through  his 
money  ;  and  make  very  little  show  for  it.  The  walls  were 
covered  with  colored  prints  of  racers,  and  steeple-chases, 
interspersed  with  the  portraits  of  opera-dancers — all  smirk 
and  caper.  Then  there  was  a  semicircular  recess  covered 
with  red  cloth,  and  fitted  up  for  smoking,  as  you  mfght 
perceive  by  sundry  stands  full  of  Turkish  pipes  in  cherry- 
stick  and  jessamine,  with  amber  mouth-pieces ;  while  a 
great  serpent  hookah,  from  which  Frank  could  no  more 
have  smoked  than  he  could  have  smoked  out  of  the  head  of 
a  boa-constrictor,  coiled  itself  up  on  the  floor  ;  over  the 
chimney-piece  was  a  collection  of  Moorish  arms.  What 
use  on  earth,  ataghan  and  scimitar,  and  damasquined  pis- 
tols, that  would  not  carry  straight  three  yards,  could  be  to 
an  officer  in  his  Majesty's  Guards,  is  more  than  I  can  con- 
jecture, or  even  Frank  satisfactorily  explain.  I  have  strong 
suspicions  that  this  valuable  arsenal  passed  to  Frank  in 
part  payment  of  a  bill  to  be  discounted.  At  all  events,  if 
so,  it  was  an  improvement  on  the  bear  that  he  had  sold  to 
the  hairdresser.  No  books  were  to  be  seen  anywhere,  ex- 
cept a  Court  Guide,  a  Racing  Calendar,  an  Army  List,  a 
Sporting  Magazine  complete  (whole-bound  in  scarlet  mo- 
rocco, at  about  a  guinea  per  volume),  and  a  small  book,  as 
small  as  an  Elzevir,  on  the  chimney-piece,  by  the  side  of  a 


764  MY  NOVEL;    OR, 

cigar-case.  That  small  book  had  cost  Frank  more  than  all 
the  rest  put  together  ;  it  was  his  Own  Book,  his  book  par 
excellence ;  book  made  up  by  himself — his  BETTING  BOOK  ! 

On  a  centre-table  were  deposited  Frank's  well-brushed 
hat — a  satin-wood  box,  containing  kid  gloves,  of  various 
delicate  tints,  from  primrose  to  lilac — a  tray  full  of  cards 
and  three-cornered  notes — an  opera-glass,  and  an  ivory  sub- 
scription-ticket to  his  opera  stall. 

In  one  corner  was  an  ingenious  receptacle  for  canes, 
sticks,  and  whips — I  should  not  like,  in  these  bad  times,  to 
have  paid  the  bill  for  them  ;  and  mounting  guard  by  that 
receptacle,  stood  a  pair  of  boots  as  bright  as  Baron  Levy's 
— "the  force  of  brightness  could  no  further  go."  Frank 
was  in  his  dressing-gown — very  good  taste — quite  Oriental 
— guaranteed  to  be  true  India  cashmere,  and  charged  as 
such.  Nothing  could  be  more  neat,  though  perfectly 
simple,  than  the  appurtenances  of  his  breakfast-table  : — sil- 
ver tea-pot,  ewer  and  basin — all  fitting  into  his  dressing 
box— (for  the  which  may  Storr  and  Mortimer  be  now 
praised,  and  some  day  paid)  !  Frank  looked  very  handsome 
— rather  tired,  and  exceedingly  bored.  He  had  been  try- 
ing to  read  the  Morning  Post,  but  the  effort  had  proved  too 
much  for  him. 

Poor  dear  Frank  Hazeldean  ! — true  type  of  many  a  poor 
dear  fellow  who  has  long  since  gone  to  the  dogs.  And  if, 
in  this  road  to  ruin,  there  had  been  the  least  thing  to  do 
the  traveller  any  credit  by  the  way !  One  feels  a  respect 
for  the  ruin  of  a  man  like  Audley  Egerton.  He  is  ruined 
en  roi !  From  the  wrecks  of  his  fortune  he  can  look  down 
and  see  stately  monuments  built  from  the  stones  of  that 
dismantled  edifice.  In  every  institution  which  attests  the 
humanity  of  England,  was  a  record  of  the  princely  bounty 
of  the  public  man.  In  those  objects  of  party,  for  which  the 
proverbial  sinews  of  war  are  necessary — in  those  rewards 
for  service,  which  private  liberality  can  confer — the  hand 
of  Egerton  had  been  opened  as  with  the  heart  of  a  king. 
Many  a  rising  member  of  Parliament,  in  those  days  when 
talent  was  brought  forward  through  the  aid  of  wealth  and 
rank,  owed  his  career  to  the  seat  which  Audley  Egerton's 
large  subscription  had  secured  to  him  ;  many  an  obscure 
supporter  in  letters  and  the  press  looked  back  to  the  day 
when  he  had  been  freed  from  the  gaol  by  the  gratitude  of 
the  patron.  The  city  he  represented  was  embellished  at  his 
cost ;  through  the  shire  that  held  his  mortgaged  lands,  which 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  765 

he  had  rarely  ever  visited,  his  gold  had  flowed  as  a  Pac- 
tolus  ;  all  that  could  animate  its  public  spirit,  or  increase  its 
civilization  claimed  kindred  with  his  munificence  and  never 
had  a  claim  disallowed.  Even  in  his  grand,  careless  house- 
hold, with  its  large  retinue  and  superb  hospitality,  there 
was  something  worthy  of  a  representative  of  that  time- 
honored  portion  of  our  true  nobility — the  untitled  gentle- 
men of  the  land.  The  Great  Commoner  had,  indeed, 
"  something  to  show  "  for  the  money  he  had  disdained  and 
squandered.  But  for  Frank  Hazeldean's  mode  of  getting 
rid  of  the  dross,  when  gone,  what  would  be  left  to  tell  the 
tale  ?  Paltry  prints  in  a  bachelor's  lodging  ;  a  collection  of 
canes  and  cherry-sticks  ;  half  a  dozen  letters  in  ill-spent 
French  from  a  figurante ;  some  long-legged  horses,  fit  for 
nothing  but  to  lose  a  race  ;  that  damnable  Betting-Book  ; 
and — sic  transit  gloria — down  sweeps  some  hawk  of  a  Levy, 
on  the  wings  of  an  I  O  U,  and  not  a  feather  is  left  of  the 
pigeon  ! 

Yet  Frank  Hazeldean  has  stuff  in  him — a  good  heart, 
and  strict  honor.  Fool  though  he  seem,  there  is  sound 
sterling  sense  in  some  odd  corner  of  his  brains,  if  one  could 
but  get  at  it.  All  he  wants  to  save  him  from  perdition  is, 
to  do  what  he  has  never  yet  done — viz.,  pause  and  think. 
But,  to  be  sure,  that  same  operation  of  thinking  is  not  so 
easy  for  folks  unaccustomed  to  it,  as  people  who  think — 
think  ! 

"  I  can't  bear  this,"  said  Frank,  suddenly,  and  springing 
to  his  feet.  "  This  woman,  I  cannot  get  her  out  of  my  head. 
I  ought  to  go  down  to  the  governor's  ;  but  then  if  he  gets 
into  a  passion,  and  refuses  his  consent,  where  am  I  ?  And 
he  will  too,  I  fear.  I  wish  I  could  make  out  what  Randal 
advises.  He  seems  to  recommend  that  I  should  marry  Beat- 
rice at  once,  and  trust  to  my  mother's  influence  to  make  all 
right  afterward.  But  when  I  ask,  '  Is  that  your  advice  ? ' 
he  backs  out  of  it.  Well,  I  suppose  he  is  right  there.  I  can 
understand  that  he  is  unwilling,  good  fellow,  to  recommend 
anything  that  my  father  would  disapprove.  But  still — 

Here  Frank  stopped  in  his  soliloquy,  and  did  make  his 
first  desperate  effort  to  think  ! 

Now,  O  dear  reader,  I  assume,  of  course,  that  tho'u  art 
one  of  the  class  to  which  thought  is  familiar  ;  and,  perhaps, 
thou  hast  smiled  in  disdain  or  incredulity  at  that  remark  on 
the  difficulty  of  thinking  which  preceded  Frank  Hazel- 
dean's  discourse  to  himself.  But  art  thou  quite  sure  that 


766  MY  NOVEL;    OR, 

when  thou  hast  tried  to  think  thou  hast  always  succeeded  ? 
Hast  thou  not  often  been  duped  by  that  pale  visionary  simu- 
lacrum of  thought  which  goes  by  the  name  of  reverie  ?  Hon- 
est old  Montaigne  confessed  that  he  did  not  understand  that 
process  of  sitting  down  to  think,  on  which  some  folks  ex- 
press themselves  so  glibly.  He  could  not  think  unless  he 
had  a  pen  in  his  hand,  and  a  sheet  of  paper  before  him  ;  and 
so,  by  a  manual  operation,  seized  and  connected  the  links  of 
ratiocination.  Very  often  has  it  happened  to  myself,  when 
I  have  said  to  Thought  peremptorily,  "  Bestir  thyself — a 
serious  matter  is  before  thee — ponder  it  well — think  of  it," 
that  that  same  Thought  has  behaved  in  the  most  refractory, 
rebellious  manner  conceivable — and  instead  of  concentrating 
its  rays  into  a  single  stream  of  light,  has  broken  into  all  the 
desultory  tints  of  the  rainbow,  coloring  senseless  clouds,  and 
running  off  into  the  seventh  heaven — so  that  after  sitting  a 
good  hour  by  the  clock,  with  brows  as  knit  as  if  I  was  intent 
on  squaring  the  circle,  I  have  suddenly  discovered  that  I 
might  as  well  have  gone  comfortably  to  sleep — I  have  been 
doing  nothing  but  dream — and  the  most  nonsensical  dreams  ! 
So  when  Frank  Hazeldean,  as  he  stopped  at  that  meditative 
"  But  still  " — and  leaning  his  arm  on  the  chimney-piece, 
and  resting  his  face  on  his  hand,  felt  himself  at  the  grave 
crisis  of  life,  and  fancied  he  was  going  "  to  think  on  it," 
there  only  rose  before  him  a  succession  of  shadowy  pictures  : 
Randal  Leslie,  with  an  unsatisfactory  countenance,  from 
which  he  could  extract  nothing  ; — the  Squire,  looking  as 
black  as  thunder  in  his  study  at  Hazeldean  ; — his  mother 
trying  to  plead  for  him,  and  getting  herself  properly  scolded 
for  her  pains; — and  then  off  went  that  Will-o'-the-wisp 
which  pretended  to  call  itself  Thought,  and  began  playing 
round  the  pale  charming  face  of  Beatrice  di  Negra  in  the 
drawing-room  at  Curzon  Street,  and  repeating,  with  small 
elfin  voice,  Randal  Leslie's  assurance  of  the  preceding  day, 
"  as  to  her  affection  for  you,  Frank,  there  is  no  doubt  of 
that;  she  only  begins  to  think  you  are  trifling  with  her." 
And  then  there  was  a  rapturous  vision  of  a  young  gentle- 
man on  his  knee,  and  the  fair  pale  face  bathed  in  blushes, 
and  a  clergyman  standing  by  the  altar,  and  a  carriage-and- 
four  with  white  favors  at  the  church-door  ;  and  of  a  honey- 
moon, which  would  have  astonished  as  to  honey  all  the  bees 
of  Hymettus.  And  in  the  midst  of  these  phantasmagoria, 
which  composed  what  Frank  fondly  styled  "making  up  his 
-mind,"  there  came  a  single  man's  rat-tat-tat  at  the  street-door. 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  767 

"  One  never  has  a  moment  for  thinking,"  cried  Frank,  and 
he  called  out  to  his  valet,  "  Not  at  home." 

But  it  was  too  late.  Lord  Spendquick  was  in  the  hall, 
and  presently  within  the  room.  How  d'ye  do's  were  ex- 
changed and  hands  shaken. 

I      LORD  SPENDQUICK. — I  have  a  note  for  you,  Hazeldean. 
I      FRANK  (lazily). — From  whom  ? 

LORD  SPENDQUICK. — Levy.  Just  come  from  him — never 
saw  him  in  such  a  fidget.  He  was  going  into  the  city — I 
suppose  to  see  X.  Y.  Dashed  off  this  note  for  you — and 
would  have  sent  it  by  a  servant,  but  I  said  I  would  bring  it. 

FRANK  (looking  fearfully  at  the  note). — I  hope  he  does  not 
want  his  money  yet.  Private  and  confidential — that  looks  bad. 

SPENDQUICK. — Devilish  bad,  indeed. 

Frank  opens  the  note  and  reads,  half  aloud,  "  Dear 
Hazeldean." 

SPENDQUICK  (interrupting). — Good  sign  !  He  always 
"Spendquicks "  me  when  he  lends  me  money;  and  'tis 
"  My  dear  Lord,"  when  he  wants  it  back.  Capital  sign  ! 

Frank  reads  on,  but  to  himself,  and  with  a  changing 
countenance — 

"  DEAR  HAZELDEAN, — I  am  very  sorry  to  tell  you  that, 
in  consequence  of  the  sudden  failure  of  a  house  at  Paris 
with  which  I  had  large  dealings,  I  am  pressed,  on  a  sudden, 
for  all  the  ready  money  I  can  get.  I  don't  want  to  incon- 
venience you  ;  but  do  try  and  see  if  you  can  take  up  those 
bills  of  yours  which  I  hold,  and  which,  as  you  know,  have 
been  due  some  little  time.  I  had  hit  on  a  way  of  arranging 
your  affairs  ;  but  when  I  hinted  at  it,  you  seemed  to  dislike 
the  idea  ;  and  Leslie  has  since  told  me  that  you  have  strong 
objections  to  giving  any  security  on  your  prospective  prop- 
erty. So  no  more  of  that,  my  dear  fellow.  I  am  called  out 
in  haste  to  try  what  I  can  do  for  a  very  charming  client  of 
mine,  who  is  in  great  pecuniary  distress,  though  she  has  for 
her  brother  a  foreign  Count,  as  rich  as  a  Croesus.  There  is 
an  execution  in  her  house.  I  am  going  down  to  the  trades- 
man who  put  it  in,  but  have  no  hopes  of  softening  him  ; 
and  I  fear  there  will  be  others  before  the  day  is  out.  An- 
other reason  for  wanting  money,  if  you  can  help  me,  mon 
cher  ! — An  execution  in  the  house  of  one  of  the  most  brilliant 
women  in  London — an  execution  in  Curzon  Street,  May 
Fair !  It  will  be  all  over  the  town,  if  I  can't  stop  it. — 
Yours  in  haste, 

"  LEVY. 


768  MY  NOVEL;    OR, 

"  P.  S. — Don't  let  what  I  have  said  vex  you  too  much.  I 
should  not  trouble  you  if  Spendquick  and  Borrowell  would 
pay  me  something.  Perhaps  you  can  get  them  to  do  so." 

Struck  by  Frank's  silence  and  paleness,  Lord  Spend- 
quick  here,  in  the  kindest  way  possible,  laid  his  hand  on 
the  young  guardsman's  shoulder,  and  looked  over  the  note 
with  that  freedom  which  gentlemen  in  difficulties  take  with 
each  other's  private  and  confidential  correspondence.  His 
eye  fell  on  the  postscript.  "  Oh,  damn  it,"  cried  Spendquick, 
"  but  that's  too  bad- — employing  you  to  get  me  to  pay  him  ! 
Such  horrible  treachery.  Make  yourself  easy,  my  dear 
Frank  ;  I  could  never  suspect  you  of  anything  so  unhand- 
some. I  could  as  soon  suspect  myself  of — paying  him " 

"Curzon  Street  !  Count !  "  muttered  Frank,  as  if  waking 
from  a  dream.  "  It  must  be  so."  To  thrust  on  his  boots 
— change  his  dressing-robe  for  a  frock-coat — snatch  at  his 
hat,  gloves,  and  cane — break  from  Spendquick — descend 
the  stairs — a  flight  at  a  leap — gain  the  street — throw  him- 
self into  a  cabriolet ;  all  this  was  done  before  his  astounded 
visitor  could  even  recover  breath  enough  to  ask  "  What's 
the  matter  ? " 

Left  thus  alone,  Lord  Spendquick  shook  his  head — 
shook  it  twice,  as  if  fully  to  convince  himself  that  there 
was  nothing  in  it  ;  and  then  re-arranging  his  hat  before 
the  looking-glass,  and  drawing  on  his  gloves  deliberately, 
he  walked  down-stairs,  and  strolled  into  White's,  but  with 
a  bewildered  and  absent  air.  Standing  at  the  celebrated 
bow-window  for  some  moments  in  musing  silence,  Lord 
Spendquick  at  last  thus  addressed  an  exceedingly  cynical, 
sceptical,  old  roue — 

"  Pray  do  you  think  there  is  any  truth  in  the  stories 
about  people  in  former  times  selling  themselves  to  the 
devil  ? " 

"  Ugh,"  answered  the  roue,  much  too  wise  ever  to  be 
surprised.  "  Have  you  any  personal  interest  in  the  ques- 
tion ? " 

"  I ! — no  ;  but  a  friend  of  mine  has  just  received  a  letter 
from  Levy,  and  he  flew  out  of  the  room  in  the  most  ex-tra- 
or-di-na-ry  manner — just  as  people  did  in  those  days  when 
their  time  was  up  !  And  Levy,  you  know,  is ' 

"  Not  quite  as  great  a  fool  as  the  other  dark  gentleman 
to  whom  you  would  compare  him  ;  for  Levy  never  made 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  769 

such  bad  bargains  for  himself.     Time  up !     No  doubt  it  is. 
I  should  not  like  to  be  in  your  friend's  shoes." 

"  Shoes  !  "  said  Spendquick,  with  a  sort  of  shudder ; 
"  you  never  saw  a  neater  fellow,  nor  one,  to  do  him  justice, 
who  takes  more  time  in  dressing  than  he  does  in  general. 
And  talking  of  shoes — he  rushed  out  with  the  right  boot 
on  the  left  foot,  and  the  left  boot  on  the  right.  Very 
mysterious!"  And  a  third  time  Lord  Spendquick  shook 
his  head — and  a  third  time  that  head  seemed  to  him  won- 
drous empty. 


CHAPTER  XXV. 

BUT  Frank  had  arrived  in  Curzon  Street — leapt  from 
the  cabriolet — knocked  at  the  door,  which  was  opened  by  a 
strange-looking  man  in  a  buff  waistcoat  and  corduroy 
smalls.  Frank  gave  a  glance  at  this  personage — pushed 
him  aside — and  rushed  up-stairs.  He  burst  into  the  draw- 
ing-room— no  Beatrice  was  there.  A  thin  elderly  man, 
with  a  manuscript  book  in  his  hand,  appeared  engaged  in 
examining  the  furniture  and  making  an  inventory,  with  the 
aid  of  Madame  di  Negra's  upper  servant.  The  thin  man 
stared  at  Frank,  and  touched  the  hat  which  was  on  his 
head.  The  servant,  who  was  a  foreigner,  approached 
Frank,  and  said,  in  broken  English,  that  his  lady  did  not 
receive — that  she  was  unwell,  and  kept  her  room.  Frank 
thrust  a  sovereign  into  the  servant's  hand,  and  begged  him 
to  tell  Madame  di  Negra  that  Mr.  Hazeldean  entreated  the 
honor  of  an  interview.  As  soon  as  the  servant  vanished  on 
this  errand,  Frank  seized  the  thin  man  by  the  arm — "  What 
is  this  ? — an  execution  ?  " 

"  Yes  sir." 

"  For  what  sum  ?" 

"  Fifteen  hundred  and  forty-seven  pounds.  We  are  the 
first  in  possession." 

"  There  are  others,  then  ?  " 

"  Or  else,  sir,  we  should  never  have  taken  this  step. 
Most  painful  to  our  feelings,  sir  ;  but  these  foreigners  are 
here  to-day,  and  gone  to-morrow.  And — 

The  servant  re-entered.  Madame  di  Negra  would  3ee 
Mr.  Hazeldean.  Would  he  walk  up-stairs  ?  Frank  has- 
tened to  obey  this  surr.mons. 

33 


770  MY  NOVEL;    OR, 

Madame  di  Negra  was  in  a  small  room  which  was  fitted 
up  as  a  boudoir.  Her  eyes  showed  the  traces  of  recent 
tears,  but  her  face  was  composed,  and  even  rigid,  in  its 
haughty,  though  mournful  expression.  Frank,  however, 
did  not  pause  to  notice  her  countenance — to  hear  her  digni- 
fied salutation.  All  his  timidity  was  gone.  He  saw  but 
the  woman  whom  he  loved,  in  distress  and  humiliation. 
As  the  door  closed  on  him,  he  flung  himself  at  her  feet. 
He  caught  at  her  hand — the  skirt  of  her  robe. 

"Oh!  Madame  di  Negra! — -Beatrice!"  he  exclaimed, 
tears  in  his  eyes,  and  his  voice  half-broken  by  generous 
emotion  ;  ''forgive  me — forgive  me  ;  don't  see  in  me  a  mere 
acquaintance.  By  accident  I  learned,  or,  rather,  guessed 
— this — this  strange  insult  to  which  you  are  so  unworthily 
exposed.  I  am  here.  Think  of  me — but  as  a  friend — the 
truest  friend.  Oh  !  Beatrice," — and  he  bent  his  head  over 
the  hand  he  held — "  I  never  dared  to  say  so  before — it 
seems  presuming  to  say  it  now — but  I  cannot  help  it.  I 
love  you,  I  love  you  with  my  whole  heart  and  soul ; — to 
serve  you — if  only  but  to  serve  you  ! — I  ask  nothing  else." 
And  a  sob  went  from  his  warm,  young,  foolish  heart. 

The  Italian  was  deeply  moved.  Nor  was  her  nature 
that  of  the  mere  sordid  adventuress.  So  much  love,  and 
so  much  confidence  !  She  was  not  prepared  to  betray  the 
one,  and  entrap  the  other. 

"  Rise — rise,"  she  said,  softly  ;  "  I  thank  you  gratefully. 
But  do  not  suppose  that  I " 

"Hush — hush  ! — you  must  not  refuse  me.  Hush!  don't 
let  your  pride  speak." 

"  No — it  is  not  pride.  You  exaggerate  what  is  occur- 
ring here.  You  forget  that  I  have  a  brother.  I  have  sent 
for  him.  He  is  the  only  one  I  can  apply  to.  Ah  !  that  is 
his  knock  !  But  I  shall  never,  never  forget  that  I  have 
found  one  generous,  noble  heart  in  this  hollow  world." 

Frank  would  have  replied,  but  he  heard  the  Count's 
voice  on  the  stairs,  and  had  only  time  to  rise  and  withdraw 
to  the  window,  trying  hard  to  repress  his  agitation  and 
compose  his  countenance.  Count  di  Peschiera  entered — 
entered  as  a  very  personation  of  the  beauty  and  magnifi- 
cence of  careless,  luxurious,  pampered,  egotistical  wealth. 
His  surtout,  trimmed  with  the  costliest  sables,  flung  back 
from  his  splendid  chest.  Amidst  the  folds  of  the  glossy 
satin  that  enveloped  his  throat,  gleamed  a  turquoise,  of 
such  value  as  a  jeweller  might  have  kept  for  fifty  years  be- 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  771 

fore  he  could  fipd  a  customer  rich  and  frivolous  enough  to 
buy  it.  The  very  head  of  his  cane  was  a  masterpiece  of 
art,  and  the  man  himself,  so  elegant  despite  his  strength, 
and  so  fresh  despite  his  years  ! — It  is  astonishing  how  well 
men  wear  when  they  think  of  no  one  but  themselves! 

"  Pr-rr !"  said  the  Count,  not  observing  Frank  behind 

the  draperies  of  the  window  !  "  Pr-rr .  It  seems  to  me 

that  you  must  have  passed  a  very  unpleasant  quarter  of  an 
hour.  And — now — Dieu  me  damne — quoifaire!" 

Beatrice  pointed  to  the  window,  and  felt  as  if  she  could 
have  sunk  into  the  earth  for  shame.  But  as  the  Count 
spoke  in  French,  and  Frank  did  not  very  readily  comprehend 
that  language,  the  words  escaped  him  ;  though  his  ear  was 
shocked  by  a  certain  satirical  levity  of  tone. 

Frank  came  forward.  The  Count  held  out  his  hand, 
and  with  a  rapid  change  of  voice  and  manner,  said,  "  One 
whom  my  sister  admits  at  such  a  moment  must  be  a  friend 
to  me." 

"Mr.  Hazeldean,"  said  Beatrice,  with  meaning,  "would 
indeed  have  nobly  pressed  on  me  the  offer  of  an  aid  which 
I  need  no  more,  since  you,  my  brother,  are  here." 

"Certainly,"  said  the  Count,  with  his  superb  air  of  grand 
seigneur ;  "  I  will  go  down  and  clear  your  house  of  this  im- 
pertinent canaille.  But  I  thought  your  affairs  were  with 
Baron  Levy.  He  should  be  here." 

"  I  expect  him  every  moment.  Adieu  !  Mr.  Hazeldean." 
Beatrice  extended  her  hand  to  her  young  lover  with  a  frank- 
ness which  was  not  without  a  certain  pathetic  and  cordial 
dignity.  Restrained  from  further  words  by  the  Count's 
presence,  Frank  bowed  over  the  fair  hand  in  silence,  and 
retired.  He  was  on  the  stairs  when  he  was  joined  by 
Peschiera. 

"Mr.  Hazeldean,"  said  the  latter,  in  a  low  tone,  "will 
you  come  into  the  drawing-room  ?  " 

Frank  obeyed.  The  man  employed  in  his  examination 
of  the  furniture  was  still  at  his  task,  but  at  a  short  whisper 
from  the  Count  he  withdrew. 

"My  dear  sir,"  said  Peschiera,  "I  am  so  unacquainted 
with  your  English  laws,  and  your  mode  of  settling  embar- 
rassments of  this  degrading  nature,  and  you  have  evidently 
shown  so  kind  a  sympathy  in  my  sister's  distress,  that  I 
venture  to  ask  you  to  stay  here,  and  aid  me  in  consulting 
with  Baron  Levy." 

Frank  was  just  expressing  his  unfeigned  pleasure  to  be 


772  MY  NOVEL;    OR, 

of  the  slightest  use,  when  Levy's  knock  resounded  at  the 
street-door,  and  in  another  moment  the  Baron  entered. 

•  "Ouf !"  said  Levy,  wiping  his  brows,  and  sinking  into 
a  chair  as  if  he  had  been  engaged  in  toils  the  most  exhaust- 
ing— "  Ouf !  this  is  a  very  sad  business — very  ;    and  noth- 
ing, my  dear  Count,  nothing  but  ready  money  can  save  us 
here." 

"You  know  my  affairs,  Levy,"  replied  Peschiera,  mourn- 
fully shaking  his  head,  "and  that  though  in  a  few  months, 
or  it  may  be  weeks,  I  could  discharge  with  ease  my  sister's 
debts,  whatever  their  amount,  yet  at  this  moment,  and  in  a 
strange  land,  I  have  not  the  power  to  do  so.  The  money 
I  brought  with  me  is  nearly  exhausted.  Can  you  not  ad- 
vance the  requisite  sum  ?" 

"  Impossible  ! — Mr.  Hazeldean  is  aware  of  the  distress 
under  which  I  labor  myself." 

"In  that  case,"  said  the  Count,  "all  we  can  do  to-day  is 
to  remove  my  sister,  and  let  the  execution  proceed.  Mean- 
while I  will  go  among  my  friends,  and  see  what  I  can  bor- 
row from  them." 

"Alas!"  said  Levy,  rising  and  looking  out  of  the  win- 
dow— "alas!  we  cannot  remove  the  Marchesa — the  worst  is 
to  come.  Look  ! — you  see  those  three  men  ;  they  have  a 
writ  against  her  person  ;  the  moment  she  sets  her  foot  out 
of  these  doors,  she  will  be  arrested."  * 

"  Arrested ! "  exclaimed  Peschiera  and  Frank  in  a  breath. 

"  I  have  done  my  best  to  prevent  this  disgrace,  but  in 
vain,"  said  the  Baron,  looking  very  wretched.  "  You  see 
these  English  trades-people  fancy  they  have  no  hold  upon 
foreigners.  But  we  can  get  bail ;  she  must  not  go  to 
prison — 

"  Prison  ! "  echoed  Frank.  He  hastened  to  Levy,  and 
drew  him  aside.  The  Count  seemed  paralyzed  by  shame 
and  grief.  Throwing  himself  back  on  the  sofa,  he  covered 
his  face  with  his  hands. 

"  My  sister  !  "  groaned  the  Count — "  daughter  to  a  Pes- 
chiera, widow  to  a  di  Negra  ! "  There  was  something  af- 
fecting in  the  proud  woe  of  this  grand  patrician. 

"  What  is  the  sum  ?  "  whispered  Frank,  anxious  that  the 
poor  Count  should  not  overhear  him  ;  and  indeed  the  Count 
seemed  too  stunned  and  overwhelmed  to  hear  anything  less 
loud  than  a  clap  of  thunder  ! 

•  "  We  may  settle  all  liabilities  for  ^5,  ooo.     Nothing  to 

*  At  that  date  the  law  of  inesne  proce ss  existed  still. 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  773 

Peschiera,  who  is  enormously  rich.  Entre  nous,  I  doubt  his 
assurance  that  he  is  without  ready  money.  It  may  be  so, 
but " 

"  Five  thousands  pounds  !  How  can  I  raise  such  a 
sum  ?" 

"  You,  my  dear  Hazeldean  ?  What  are  you  talking 
about  ?  To  be  sure  you  could  raise  twice  as  much  with  a 
stroke  of  your  pen,  and  throw  your  own  debts  into  the  bar- 
gain. But — to  be  so  generous  to  an  acquaintance  !  " 

"  Acquaintance  ! — Madame  di  Negra  !  the  height  of  my 
ambition  is  to  claim  her  as  my  wife ! " 

"  And  these  debts  don't  startle  you  ?  " 

"If  a  man  loves,"  answered  Frank,  simply,  "he  feels  it 
most  when  the  woman  he  loves  is  in  affliction.  And,"  he 
added,  after  a  pause,  "  though  these  debts  are  faults,  kind- 
ness at  this  moment  may  give  me  the  power  to  cure  for  ever 
both  her  faults  and  my  own.  I  can  raise  this  money  by  a 
stroke  of  the  pen  !  How  ?" 

"  On  the  Casino  property." 

Frank  drew  back. 

"  No  other  way  ? " 

"  Of  course  not.  But  I  know  your  scruples  ;  let  us  see 
if  they  can  be  conciliated.  You  would  marry  Madame  di 
Negra ;  she  will  have  ^£20,000  on  her  wedding-day.  Why 
not  arrange  that,  out  of  this  sum,  your  anticipative  charge 
on  the  Casino  property  be  paid  at  once  ?  Thus,  in  truth, 
it  will  be  but  for  a  few  weeks  that  the  charge  will  exist. 
The  bond  will  remain  locked  in  my  desk — it  can  never  come 
to  your  father's  knowledge,  nor  wound  his  feelings.  And 
when  you  marry  (if  you  will  but  be  prudent  in  the  mean- 
while), you  will  not  owe  a  debt  in  the  world." 

Here  the  Count  suddenly  started  up. 

"  Mr.  Hazeldean,  I  asked  you  to  stay  and  aid  us  by  your 
counsel  ;  I  see  now  that  counsel  is  unavailing.  This  blow 
on  our  house  must  fall!  I  thank  you,  sir — I  thank  you. 
Farewell.  Levy,  come  with  me  to  my  poor  sister  and  pre- 
pare her  for  the  worst." 

"  Count,"  said  Frank,  "hear  me.  My  acquaintance  with 
you  is  but  slight,  but  I  have  long  known  and — and  esteemed 
your  sister.  Baron  Levy  has  suggested  a  mode  in  which  I 
can  have  the  honor  and  the  happiness  of  removing  this  tem- 
porary but  painful  embarrassment.  I  can  advance  the 
money." 

"  No — no  !  "  exclaimed  Peschiera.     "  How  can  you  sup- 


774  MY  NOVEL;    Off, 

pose  that  I  will  hear  of  such  a  proposition  ?  Your  youth 
and  benevolence  mislead  and  blind  you.  Impossible,  sir — 
impossible  !  Why,  even  if  I  had  no  pride,  no  delicacy  of 
my  own,  my  sister's  fair  fame " 

"  Would  suffer,  indeed,"  interrupted  Levy,  "  if  she  were 
under  such  obligation  to  any  one  but  her  affianced  husband. 
Nor,  whatever  my  regard  for  you,  Count,  could  I  suffer  my 
client,  Mr.  Hazeldean,  to  make  this  advance  upon  any  less 
valid  security  than  that  of  the  fortune  to  which  Madame  di 
Negra  is  entitled." 

"  Ha ! — is  this  indeed  so  ?  You  are  a  suitor  for  my 
sister's  hand,  Mr.  Hazeldean?" 

"  But  not  at  this  moment — not  to  owe  her  hand  to  the 
compulsion  of  gratitude,"  answered  gentleman  Frank. 

"Gratitude!  And  you  do  not  know  her  heart,  then? 
Do  not  know — "  the  Count  interrupted  himself,  and  went 
on  after  a  pause.  "  Mr.  Hazeldean,  I  need  not  say  that  we 
rank  among  the  first  houses  in  Europe.  My  pride  led  me 
formerly  into  the  error  of  disposing  of  my  sister's  hand  to 
one  whom  she  did  not  love — merely  because  in  rank  he  was 
her  equal.  I  will  not  again  commit  such  an  error,  nor 
would  Beatrice  again  obey  me  if  I  sought  to  constrain  her. 
Where  she  marries,  there  will  she  love.  If,  indeed,  she  ac- 
cepts you,  as  I  believe  she  will,  it  will  be  from  affection 
solely.  If  she  does,  I  cannot  scruple  to  accept  this  loan — a 
loan  from  a  brother-in-law — loa'n  to  me,  and  not  charged 
against  her  fortune  !  That,  sir  [turning  to  Levy,  with  his 
grand  air],  you  will  take  care  to  arrange.  If  she  do  not  ac- 
cept you,  Mr.  Hazeldean,  the  loan,  I  repeat,  is  not  to  be 
thought  of.  Pardon  me  if  I  leave  you.  This,  one  way  or 
other,  must  be  decided  at  once."  The  Count  inclined  his 
head  with  much  stateliness,  and  then  quitted  the  room.  His 
step  was  heard  ascending  the  stairs. 

"If,"  said  Levy,  in  the  tone  of  a  mere  man  of  business 
— "  if  the  Count  pay  the  debts,  and  the  lady's  fortune  be 
only  charged  with  your  own — after  all  it  will  not  be  a  bad 
marriage  in  the  world's  eye,  nor  ought  it  to  be  in  a  father's. 
Trust  me,  we  shall  get  Mr.Hazeldean's  consent,  and  cheer- 
fully too." 

Frank  did  not  listen  ;  he  could  only  listen  to  his  love,  to 
his  heart  beating  loud  with  hope  and  with  fear. 

Levy  sate  down  before  the  table,  and  drew  up  a  long  list 
of  figures  in  a  very  neat  hand — a  list  of  figures  on  two  ac- 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  775 

counts,  which  the  post-obit  on  the  Casino  was  destined  to 
efface. 

After  a  lapse  of  time,  which  to  Frank  seemed  intermin- 
able, the  Count  reappeared.  He  took  Frank  aside,  with  a 
gesture  to  Levy,  who  rose,  and  retired  into  the  drawing- 
room. 

"My  dear  young  friend,"  said  Peschiera,  "  as  I  suspected, 
my  sister's  heart  is  wholly  yours.  Stop  ;  hear  me  out 
But,  unluckily  I  informed  her  of  your  generous  proposal  ; 
it  was  most  unguarded,  most  ill-judged  in  me,  and  that  has 
well-nigh  spoiled  all ;  she  has  so  much  pride  and  spirit  ;  so 
great  a  fear  that  you  may  think  yourself  betrayed  into  an 
imprudence  which  you  may  hereafter  regret,  that  I  am  sure 
she  will  tell  you  that  she  does  not  love  you,  she  cannot  ac- 
cept you,  and  so  forth.  Lovers  like  you  are  not  easily  de- 
ceived. Don't  go  by  her  words  ;  but  you  shall  seeher  your- 
self and  judge.  Come." 

Followed  mechanically  by  Frank,  the  Count  ascended 
the  stairs  and  threw  open  the  door  of  Beatrice's  room.  The 
Marchesa's  back  was  turned  ;  but  Frank  could  see  that  she 
was  weeping. 

"I  have  brought  my  friend  to  plead  for  himself,"  said 
the  Count,  in  French  ;  "  and  take  my  advice,  sister,  and  do 
not  throw  away  all  prospect  of  real  and  solid  happiness  for 
a  vain  scruple.  Heed  me!"  He  retired,  and  left  Frank 
alone  with  Beatrice. 

Then  the  Marchesa,  as  if  by  a  violent  effort,  so  sudden 
was  her  movement,  and  so  wild  her  look,  turned  her  face  to 
her  wooer,  and  came  up  to  him  where  he  stood. 

"  Oh  ! "  she  said,  clasping  her  hands,  "  is  this  true  ?  You 
would  save  me  from  disgrace,  from  a  prison — and  what  can 
I  give  you  in  return  ?  My  love  !  No,  no  ;  I  will  not  deceive 
you.  Young,  fair,  noble,  as  you  are,  I  do  not  love  you  as 
you  should  be  loved.  Go;  leave  this  house  ;  you  do  not 
know  my  brother.  Go,  go — while  I  have  still  strength,  still 
virtue  enough  to  reject  whatever  may  protect  me  from  him  \ 
whatever — may — Oh — go,  go." 

"You  do  not  love  me,"  said  Frank.  "Well,  I  don't 
wonder  at  it ;  you  are  so  brilliant,  so  superior  to  me.  I 
will  abandon  hope — I  will  leave  you  as  you  command  me. 
But  at  least  I  will  not  part  with  my  privilege  to  serve  you. 
As  for  the  rest — shame  on  me  if  I  could  be  mean  enough  to 
boast  of  love,  and  enforce  a  suit,  at  such  a  moment."  Frank 
turned  his  face  and  stole  away  softly.  He  did  not  arrest  his 


776  MY  NOVEL;    OR, 

steps  at  the  drawing-room ;  he  went  into  the  parlor,  wrote 
a  brief  line  to  Levy  charging  him  quietly  to  dismiss  the  ex- 
ecution, and  to  come  to  Frank's  rooms  with  the  necessary 
deeds  ;  and,  above  all,  to  say  nothing  to  the  Count.  Then 
he  went  out  of  the  house  and  walked  back  to  his  lodgings. 

That  evening  Levy  came  to  him,  and  accounts  were  gone 
into,  and  papers  signed  ;  and  the  next  morning  Madame  di 
Negra  was  free  from  debt  ;  and  there  was  a  great  claim  on 
the  reversion  of  the  Casino  estates  ;  and  at  the  noon  of  that 
next  day  Randal  was  closeted  with  Beatrice  ;  and  before  the 
night,  came  a  note  from  Madame  di  Negra,  hurried,  blurred 
with  tears,  summoning  Frank  to  Curzon  Street.  And  when 
he  entered  the  Marchesa's  drawing-room,  Peschiera  was 
seated  beside  his  sister ;  and  rising  at  Frank's  entrance, 
said,  "  My  dear  brother-in-law  ! "  and  placed  Frank's  hand 
in  Beatrice's. 

"  You  accept — you  accept  me — and  of  your  own  free  will 
and  choice  ?  " 

And  Beatrice  answered,  "  Bear  with  me  a  little,  and  I 
will  try  to  repay  you  with  all  my — all  my — "  She  stopped 
short,  and  sobbed  aloud. 

"  I  never  thought  her  capable  of  such  acute  feelings, 
such  strong  attachment,"  whispered  the  Count. 

Frank  heard,  and  his  face  was  radiant.  By  degrees 
Madame  di  Negra  recovered  composure,  and  she  listened 
with  what  her  young  lover  deemed  a  tender  interest,  but 
what  in  fact,  was  mournful  and  humbled  resignation,  to  his 
joyous  talk  of  the  future.  To  him  the  hours  passed  by, 
brief  and  bright,  like  a  flash  of  sunlight.  And  his  dreams, 
when  he  retired  to  rest,  were  so  golden  !  But,  when  he 
awoke  the  next  morning,  he  said  to  himself,  "What — what 
will  they  say  at  the  Hall  ?  " 

At  that  same  hour  Beatrice,  burying  her  face  on  her 
pillow,  turned  from  the  loathsome  day,  and  could  have 
prayed  for  death.  At  that  same  hour,  Giulio  Franzini, 
Count  di  Peschiera,  dismissing  some  gaunt  haggard  Italians, 
with  whom  he  had  been  in  close  conference,  sallied  forth  to 
reconnoitre  the  house  that  contained  Violante.  At  that 
same  hour  Baron  Levy  was  seated  before  his  desk  casting 
up  a  deadly  array  of  figures,  headed,  "  Account  with  the 
Right  Hon.  Audley  Egerton,  M.P.,  Dr.  and  Cr." — title-deeds 
strewed  around  him,  and  Frank  Hazeldean's  post-obit  peep- 
ing out  fresh  from  the  elder  parchments.  At  that  same 
hour,  Audley  Egerton  had  just  concluded  a  letter  from  the 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  777 

chairman  of  his  committee  in  the  city  he  represented,  which 
letter  informed  him  that  he  had  not  a  chance  of  being 
re-elected.  And  the  lines  of  his  face  were  as  composed  as 
usual,  and  his  foot  rested  as  firm  on  the  grim  iron  box  ;  but 
his  hand  was  pressed  to  his  heart,  and  his  eye  was  on  the 

clock  ;   and   his   voice   muttered — "  Dr.    F should   be 

here  !  "  And  at  that  hour,  Harley  L'Estrange,  who  the  pre- 
vious night  had  charmed  courtly  crowds  with  his  gay  humor, 
was  pacing  to  and  fro  the  room  in  his  hotel  with  restless 
strides  and  many  a  heavy  sigh  ; — and  Leonard  was  standing 
by  the  fountain  in  his  garden,  and  watching  the  wintry  sun- 
beams that  sparkled  athwart  the  spray  ; — and  Violantc  was 
leaning  on  Helen's  shoulder,  and  trying  archly,  yet  inno- 
cently, to  lead  Helen  to  talk  of  Leonard  ; — and  Helen  was 
gazing  steadfastly  on  the  floor,  and  answering  but  by  mono- 
syllables ; — and  Randal  Leslie  was  walking  down  to  his 
office  for  the  last  time,  and  reading,  as  he  passed  across  the 
Green  Park,  a  letter  from  home,  from  his  sister ;  and  then,  sud- 
denly crumpling  the  letter  in  his  thin  pale  hand,  he  looked 
up,  beheld  in  the  distance  the  spires  of  the  great  national 
Abbey  ;  and  recalling  the  words  of  our  hero  Nelson,  he 
muttered — ''Victory  and  Westminster,  but  not  the  Abbey ! " 
And  Randal  Leslie  felt  that,  within  the  last  few  days,  he  had 
made  a  vast  stride  in  his  ambition  ; — his  grasp  on  the  old 
Leslie  lands — Frank  Hazeldean  betrothed,  and  possibly  dis- 
inherited ;  and  Dick  Avenel,  in  the  background,  opening 
against  the  hated  Lansmere  interest  that  same  seat  in  Par- 
liament which  had  first  welcomed  into  public  life  Randal's 
ruined  patron. 

"  But  some  must  laugh,  and  some  most  weep  ; 
Thus  runs  the  world  away  I " 

30* 


778  MY  NOVEL;    OR, 


BOOK   ELEVENTH. 


INITIAL  CHAPTER. 

ON     THE    IMPORTANCE    OF    HATE     AS    AN     AGENT     IN     CIVILIZED 

LIFE. 

IT  is  not  an  uncommon  crochet  amongst  benevolent  men 
to  maintain  that  wickedness  is  necessarily  a  sort  of  insanity, 
and  that  nobody  would  make  a  violent  start  out  of  the 
straight  path  unless  stung  to  such  disorder  by  a  bee 
in  his  bonnet.  Certainly,  when  some  very  clever  well- 
educated  person,  like  our  friend  Randal  Leslie,  acts  upon 
the  fallacious  principle  that  "  roguery  is  the  best  policy," 
it  is  curious  to  see  how  many  points  he  has  in  common 
with  the  insane;  what  over-cunning — what  irritable  rest- 
lessness— what  suspicious  belief  that  the  rest  of  the  world 
are  in  a  conspiracy  against  him,  which  it  requires  all  his 
wit  to  baffle  and  turn  to  his  own  proper  aggrandizement 
and  profit.  Perhaps  some  of  my  readers  may  have  thought 
that  I  have  represented  Randal  as  unnaturally  far-fetched 
in  his  schemes,  too  wire-drawn  and  subtle  in  his  specula- 
tions ;  yet  that  is  commonly  the  case  with  very  refining  in- 
tellects, when  they  choose  to  play  the  knave  ;  it  helps  to 
disguise  from  themselves  the  ugliness  of  their  ambition, 
just  as  a  philosopher  delights  in  the  ingenuity  of  some 
metaphysical  process,  which  ends  in  what  plain  men  call 
"atheism,"  who  would  be  infinitely  shocked  and  offended 
if  he  were  called  an  atheist. 

Having  premised  thus  much  on  behalf  of  the  "Natural" 
in  Randal  Leslie's  character,  I  must  here  fly  off  to  say  a 
word  or  two  on  the  agency  in  human  life  exercised  by  a 
passion  rarely  seen  without  a  mask  in  our  debonnaire  and 
civilized  age — I  mean  Hate. 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  779 

In  the  good  old  days  of  our  forefathers,  when  plain 
speaking  and  hard  blows  were  in  fashion — when  a  man  had 
his  heart  a.1  the  tip  of  his  tongue,  and  four  feet  of  sharp 
iron  dangling  at  his  side,  Hate  played  an  honest  open  part 
in  the  theatre  of  the  world.  In  fact,  when  we  read  history, 
Hate  seems  to  have  "starred  it"  on  the  stage.  But  now 
where  is  Hate  ? — who  ever  sees  its  face  ?  Is  it  that  smiling, 
good-tempered  creature,  that  presses  you  by  the  hand  so 
cordially  ?  or  that  dignified  figure  of  state  that  calls  you  its 
"Right  Honorable  friend?"  Is  it  that  bowing,  grateful 
dependant  ? — is  it  that  soft-eyed  Amaryllis  ?  Ask  not,  guess 
not  ;  you  will  only  know  it  to  be  Hate  when  the  poison  is 
in  your  cup,  or  the  poniard  in  your  breast.  In  the  Gothic 
age,  grim  Humor  painted  "the  Dance  of  Death  ;"  in  our 
polished  century,  some  sardonic  wit  should  give  us  "  the 
Masquerade  of  Hate." 

Certainly,  the  counter-passion  betrays  itself  with  ease  to 
our  gaze.  Love  is  rarely  a  hypocrite.  But  Hate — how 
detect,  and  how  guard  against  it  ?  It  lurks  where  you  least 
suspect  it  ;  it  is  created  by  causes  that  you  can  the  least 
foresee  ;  and  Civilization  multiplies  its  varieties,  whilst  it 
favors  its  disguise  ;  for  Civilization  increases  the  number  of 
contending  interests,  and  Refinement  renders  more  suscep- 
tible to  the  least  irritation  the  cuticle  of  Self-Love.  But 
Hate  comes  covertly  forth  from  some  self-interest  we  have 
crossed,  or  some  self-love  we  have  wounded  ;  and,  dullards 
that  we  are,  how  seldom  we  are  aware  of  our  offence  !  You 
may  be  hated  by  a  man  you  have  never  seen  in  your  life  ; 
you  may  be  hated  as  often  by  one  you  have  loaded  with 
benefits ; — you  may  so  walk  as  not  to  tread  on  a  worm  ;  but 
you  must  sit  fast  on  your  easy-chair  till  you  are  carried  out 
to  your  bier,  if  you  would  be  sure  not  to  tread  on  some 
snake  of  a  foe.  But,  then,  what  harm  does  hate  do  us? 
Very  often  the  harm  is  as  unseen  by  the  world  as  the  hate 
is  unrecognized  by  us.  It  may  come  on  us,  unawares,  in 
some  solitary  by-way  of  our  life  ;  strike  us  in  our  unsus- 
pecting privacy  ;  thwart  us' in  some  blessed  hope  we  have 
never  told  to  another  ;  for  the  moment  the  world  sees  that 
it  is  Hate  that  strikes  us,  its  worst  power  of  mischief  is 
gone. 

We  have  a  great  many  names  for  the  same  passion — 
Envy,  Jealousy,  Spite,  Prejudice,  Rivalry ;  but  they  are  so 
many  synonyms  for  the  one  old  heathen  demon.  When 
the  death  giving  shaft  of  Apollo  sent  the  plague  to  some 


780  MY  NOVEL;    OR, 

unhappy  Achaean,  it  did  not  much   matter  to  the  victim 
whether  the  god  were  called  Helios  or  Smintheus. 

No  man  you  ever  met  in  the  world  seemed  more  raised 
above  the  malice  of  Hate  than  Audley  Egerton  ;  even  in  the 
hot  war  of  politics  he  had  scarcely  a  personal  foe ;  and  in 
private  life  he  kept  himself  so  aloof  and  apart  from  others 
that  he  was  little  known,  save  by  the  benefits  the  waste  of 
his  wealth  conferred.  That  the  hate  of  any  one  could  reach 
the  austere  statesman  on  his  high  pinnacle  of  esteem — you 
would  have  smiled  at  the  idea  !  But  Hate  is  now,  as  it 
ever  has  been,  an  actual  Power  amidst  "the  Varieties  of 
Life  ; "  and,  in  spite  of  bars  to  the  doors,  and  policemen  in 
the  street,  no  one  can  be  said  to  sleep  in  safety  while  there 
wakes  the  eye  of  a  single  foe. 


CHAPTER   II. 

THE  glory  of  Bond  Street  is  no  more ;  the  title  of  Bond 
Street  Lounger  has  faded  from  our  lips.  In  vain  the  crowd 
of  equipages  and  the  blaze  of  shops  ;  the  renown  of  Bond 
Street  was  in  its  pavement — its  pedestrians.  Art  thou  old 
enough,  O  reader  !  to  remember  the  Bond  Street  Lounger 
and  his  incomparable  generation  ?  For  my  part,  I  can  just 
recall  the  decline  of  the  grand  era.  It  was  on  its  wane 
when,  in  the  ambition  of  boyhood,  I  first  began  to  muse 
upon  high  neckcloths  and  Wellington  boots.  But  the  ancient 
habitue's — the  magni  nominis  umbra — contemporaries  of  Brum- 
mel  in  his  zenith — boon  companions  of  George  IV.  in  his 
regency — still  haunted  the  spot.  From  four  to  six  in  the 
hot  month  of  June,  they  sauntered  stately  to  and  fro,  look- 
ing somewhat  mournful  even  then — foreboding  the  extinc- 
tion of  their  race.  The  Bond  Street  Lounger  was  rarely 
seen  alone  ;  he  was  a  social  animal,  and  walked  arm  in-arm 
with  his  fellow-man.  He  did  not  seem  born  for  the  cares 
of  these  ruder  times  ;  not  made  was  he  for  an  age  in  which 
Finsbury  returns  members  to  Parliament.  He  loved  his 
small  talk  ;  and  never  since  then  has  talk  been  so  pleasingly 
small.  Your  true  Bond  Street  Lounger  had  a  very  dissi- 
pated look.  His  youth  had  been  spent  with  heroes  who 
loved  their  bottle.  He  himself  had  perhaps  supped  with 
Sheridan.  He  was  by  nature  a  spendthrift ;  you  saw  it  in  the 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  781 

roll  of  his  walk.  Men  who  make  money  rarely  saunter  ;  men 
who  save  money  rarely  swagger.  But  saunter  and  swagger 
both  united  to  stamp  PRODIGAL  on  the  Bond  Street  Lounger. 
And  so  familiar  as  he  was  with  his  own  set,  and  so  amus- 
ingly supercilious  with  the  vulgar  residue  of  mortals  whose 
faces  were  strange  to  Bond  Street.  But  he  is  gone.  The 
world,  though  sadder  for  his  loss,  still  strives  to  do  its  best 
vdthout  him  ;  and  our  young  men,  nowadays,  attend  to 
model  cottages,  and  incline  to  Tractarianism.  Still  the 
place,  to  an  unreflecting  eye,  has  its  brilliancy  and  bustle. 
But  it  is  a  thoroughfare,  not  a  lounge.  And  down  the 
thoroughfare,  somewhat  before  the  hour  when  the  throng  is 
thickest,  passed  two  gentlemen  of  an  appearance  exceed- 
ingly out  of  keeping  with  the  place.  Yet  both  had  the 
air  of  men  pretending  to  aristocracy — an  old-world  air 
of  respectability  and  stake  in  the  country,  and  Church-and- 
Stateism.  The  burlier  of  the  two  was  even  rather  a  beau 
in  his  way.  He  had  first  learned  to  dress,  indeed,  when 
Bond  Street  was  at  its  acme,  and  Brummel  in  his  pride. 
He  still  retained  in  his  garb  the  fashion  of  his  youth ;  only 
what  then  had  spoken  of  the  town,  now  betrayed  the  life  of 
,  the  country.  His  neckcloth  ample  and  high,  and  of  snowy 
whiteness,  set  off  to  comely  advantage  a  face  smooth-shaven, 
and  of  clear  florid  hues  ;  his  coat  of  royal  blue,  with  but- 
tons in  which  you  might  have  seen  yourself  reluti  in  specu- 
lum, was,  rather  jauntily,  buttoned  across  a  waist  that  spoke 
of  lusty  middle  age,  free  from  the  ambition,  the  avarice, 
and  the  anxieties  that  fret  Londoners  into  threadpapers  ; 
his  small  clothes,  of  grayish  drab,  loose  at  the  thigh  and 
tight  at  the  knee,  were  made  by  Brummel's  own  breeches- 
maker,  and  the  gaiters  to  match  (thrust  half-way  down  the 
calf),  had  a  manly  dandyism  that  would  have  done  honor 
to  the  beau-ideal  of  a  county  member.  The  profession  of 
this  gentleman's  companion  was  unmistakable — the  shovel- 
hat,  the  clerical  cut  of  the  coat,  the  neck-cloth  without 
collar,  that  seemed  made  for  its  accessory — the  band,  and 
something  very  decorous,  yet 'very  mild,  in  the  whole  mien 
of  this  personage,  all  spoke  of  one  who  was  every  inch  the 
gentleman  and  the  parson. 

"No,"  said  the  portlier  of  these  two  persons — "no,  I 
can't  say  I  like  Frank's  looks  at  all.  There's  certainly 
something  on  his  mind.  However,  I  suppose  it  will  be  all 
out  this  evening." 

"  He  dines  with  you  at  your  hotel,  Squire  ?     Well,  you 


782  MY  NOVEL;   OR, 

must  be  kind  to  him.  We  can't  put  old  heads  upon  young 
shoulders." 

"  I  don't  object  to  his  head  being  young,"  returned  the 
Squire  ;  "  but  I  wish  he  had  a  little  of  Randal  Leslie's 
good  sense  in  it.  I  see  how  it  will  end  ;  I  must  take  him 
back  to  the  country  ;  and  if  he  wants  occupation,  why  he 
shall  keep  the  hounds,  and  I'll  put  him  into  Brooksby 
Farm." 

"As  for  the  hounds,"  replied  the  Parson,  "hounds 
necessitate  horses  ;  and  I  think  more  mischief  comes  to  a 
young  man  of  spirit,  from  the  stables,  than  from  any  other 
place  in  the  world.  They  ought  to  be  exposed  from  the 
pulpit,  those  stables  !  "  added  Mr.  Dale,  thoughtfully  ;  "  see 
what  they  entailed  upon  Nimrod  !  But  Agriculture  is  a 
healthful  and  noble  pursuit,  honored  by  sacred  nations,  and 
cherished  by  the  greatest  men  in  classical  times.  For 
instance,  the  Athenians  were " 

"  Bother  the  Athenians,"  cried  the  Squire,  irreverently  ; 
"  you  need  not  go  so  far  back  for  an  example.  It  is  enough 
for  a  Hazeldean  that  his  father,  and  his  grand-father,  and 
his  great-grandfather,  all  farmed  before  him  ;  and  a  devilish 
deal  better,  I  take  it,  than  any  of  those  musty  old  Athenians 
— no  offence  to  them.  But  I'll  tell  you  one  thing,  Parson — 
a  man,  to  farm  well,  and  live  in  the  country,  should  have  a 
wife  ;  it  is  half  the  battle." 

"  As  to  a  battle,  a  man  who  is  married  is  pretty  sure  of 
half,  though  not  always  the  better  half,  of  it,"  answered  the 
Parson,  who  seemed  peculiarly  facetious  that  day.  "  Ah, 
Squire,  I  wish  I  could  think  Mrs.  Hazeldean  right  in  her 
conjecture  ! — you  would  have  the  prettiest  daughter-in-law 
in  the  three  kingdoms.  And  I  do  believe  that,  if  I  could 
have  a  good  talk  with  the  young  lady  apart  from  her  father, 
we  could  remove  the  only  objection  I  know  to  the  marriage. 
Those  Popish  errors " 

"Ah,  very  true!"  cried  the  Squire;  "that  Pope  sticks 
hard  in  my  gizzard.  I  could  excuse  her  being  a  foreigner, 
and  not  having,  I  suppose,  a  shilling  in  her  pocket — bless 
her  handsome  face  ! — but  to  be  worshipping  images  in  her 
room  instead  of  going  to  the  parish  church,  that  will  never 
do.  — But  you  think  you  could  talk  her  out  of  the  Pope,  and 
into  the  family  pew  ?  " 

"  Why,  I  could  have  talked  her  father  out  of  the  Pope, 
only,  when  he  had  not  a  word  to  say  for  himself,  he  bolted 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  783 

out  of  the  window.  Youth  is  more  ingenuous  in  confessing 
its  errors." 

"I  own,"  said  the  Squire,  "that  both  Harry  and  I  had 
a  favorite  notion  of  ours  till  this  Italian  girl  got  into  our 
heads.  Do  you  know  we  both  took  a  great  fancy  to  Ran- 
dal's little  sister — pretty,  blushing,  English-faced  girl  as 
ever  you  saw.  And  it  went  to  Harry's  good  heart  to  see  her 
so  neglected  by  that  silly  fidgety  mother  of  hers,  her  hair 
hanging  about  her  ears  ;  and  I  thought  it  would  be  a  fine 
way  to  bring  Randal  and  Frank  more  together,  and  enable 
me  to  do  something  for  Randal  himself — a  good  boy  with 
Hazeldean  blood  in  his  veins.  But  Violante  is  so  handsome, 
that  I  don't  wonder  at  the  boy's  choice  ;  and  then  it  is  our 
fault — we  let  them  see  so  much  of  each  other  as  children. 
However,  I  should  be  very  angry  if  Rickeybockey  had  been 
playing  sly,  and  running  away  from  the  Casino  in  order  to 
give  Frank  an  opportunity  to  carry  on  a  clandestine  inter- 
course with  his  daughter." 

"  I  don't  think  that  would  be  like  Riccabocca  ;  more  like 
him  to  run  away  in  order  to  deprive  Frank  of  the  best  of 
all  occasions  to  court  Violante,  if  he  so  desired  ;  for  where 
could  he  see  more  of  her  than  at  the  Casino  ? " 

SQUIRE. — That's  well  put.  Considering  he  was  only  a 
foreign  doctor,  and,  for  aught  we  know,  once  went  about 
in  a  caravan,  he  is  a  gentleman-like  fellow,  that  Rickey- 
bockey. I  speak  of  people  as  I  find  them.  But  what  is 
your  notion  about  Frank  ?  I  see  you  don't  think  he  is 
in  love  with  Violante,  after  all.  Out  with  it,  man  ;  speak 
plain. 

PARSON. — Since  you  so  urge  me,  I  own  I  do  not  think 
him  in  love  with  her  ;  neither  does  my  Carry,  who  is  un- 
commonly shrewd  in  such  matters. 

SQUIRE. — Your  Carry,  indeed ! — as  if  she  were  half  as 
shrewd  as  my  Harry.  Carry — nonsense  ! 

PARSON  (reddening). — I  don't  want  to  make  invidious 
remarks  ;  but,  Mr.  Hazeldean,  when  you  sneer  at  my  Carry, 
I  should  not  be  a  man  if  I  did  not  say  that — 

SQUIRE  (interrupting). — She  is  a  good  little  woman 
enough  ;  but  to  compare  her  to  my  Harry  ! 

PARSON. — I  don't  compare  her  to  your  Harry  ;  I  don't 
compare  her  to  any  woman  in  England,  sir.  But  you  are 
losing  your  temper,  Mr.  Hazeldean  ! 

SQUIRE. — I ! 

PARSON. — And  people  are  staring  at  you,  Mr.  Hazeldean. 


784  MY  NOVEL;    OR, 

For  decency's  sake,  compose  yourself,  and  change  the  sub- 
ject. We  are  just  at  the  Albany.  I  hope  that  we  shall  not 
find  poor  Captain  Higgtnbotham  as  ill  as  he  represents 
himself  in  his  letter.  Ah,  is  it  possible  ?  No,  it  cannot  be. 
Look — look  ! 

SQUIRE. — Where — what — where  ?  Don't  pinch  so  hard. 
Bless  me,  do  you  see  a  ghost  ? 

PARSON. — There — the  gentleman  in  black  ! 

SQUIRE. — Gentleman  in  black  !  What ! — in  broad  day- 
light !  Nonsense  ! 

Here  the  Parson  made  a  spring  forward,  and,  catching 
the  arm  of  the  person  in  question,  who  himself  had  stop- 
ped, and  was  gazing  intently  on  the  pair,  exclaimed — 

"Sir,  pardon  me  ;  but  is  not  your  name  Fairfield  ?  Ah, 
it  is  Leonard — it  is — my  dear,  dear  boy !  What  joy !  So 
altered,  so  improved,  but  still  the  same  honest  face.  Squire, 
come  here — your  old  friend,  Leonard  Fairfield." 

"  And  he  wanted  to  persuade  me,"  said  the  Squire,  shak- 
ing Leonard  heartily  by  the  hand,  "  that  you  were  the 
Gentleman  in  Black  ;  but,  indeed,  he  has  been  in  strange 
humors  and  tantrums  all  the  morning.  Well,  Master 
Lenny  ;  why,  you  are  grown  quite  a  gentleman  !  The  world 
thrives  with  you — eh  !  I  suppose  you  are  head-gardener 
to  some  grandee." 

"  Not  that,  sir,"  said  Leonard,  smiling.  "  But  the  world 
has  thriven  with  me  as  last,  though  not  without  some  rough 
usage  at  starting.  Ah,  Mr.  Dale,  you  can  little  guess  how 
often  I  have  thought  of  you  and  your  discourse  on  Know- 
ledge ;  and,  what  is  more,  how  I  have  lived  to  feel  the  truth 
of  your  words,  and  to  bless  the  lesson." 

PARSON  (much  touched  and  flattered). — I  expected  noth- 
ing less  from  you,  Leonard ;  you  were  always  a  lad  of  great 
sense,  and  sound  judgment.  So  you  have  thought  of  my 
little  discourse  on  Knowledge,  have  you  ? 

SQUIRE. — Hang  Knowledge  !  I  have  reason  to  hate  the 
word.  It  burned  down  three  ricks  of  mine  ;  the  finest  ricks 
you  ever  set  your  eyes  on,  Mr.  Fairfield. 

PARSON. — That  was  not  knowledge,  Squire  ;  that  was 
ignorance. 

SQUIRE. — Ignorance  !  The  deuce  it  was  !  I'll  just  ap- 
peal to  you,  Mr.  Fairfield.  We  have  been  having  sad  riots 
in  the  shire,  and  the  ringleader  was  just  such  another  lad 
as  you  were  ! 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  785 

LEONARD. — I  am  very  much  obliged  to  you,  Mr.  Hazel- 
dean.  In  what  respect  ? 

SQUIRE. — Why  he  was  a  village  genius,  and  always  read- 
ing some  cursed  little  tract  or  other ;  and  got  mighty  dis- 
contented with  King,  Lords,  and  Commons,  I  suppose,  and 
went  about  talking  of  the  wrongs  of  the  poor,  and  the 
crimes  of  the  rich,  till,  by  Jove,  sir,  the  whole  mob  rose  one 
day  with  pitchforks  and  sickles,  and  smash  went  Farmer 
Smart's  trashing-machines  ;  and  on  the  same  night  my  ricks 
were  on  fire.  We  caught  the  rogues,  and  they  were  all 
tried  ;  but  the  poor  deluded  laborers  were  let  off  with  a 
short  imprisonment.  The  village  genius,  thank  Heaven,  is 
sent  packing  to  Botany  Bay. 

LEONARD. — But,  did  his  books  teach  him  to  burn  ricks 
and  smash  machines  ? 

PARSON. — No  ;  he  said  quite  the  contrary,  and  declared 
that  he  had  no  hand  in  those  misdoings. 

SQUIRE. — But  he  was  proved  to  have  excited  with  his 
wild  talk  the  boobies  who  had  !  'Gad,  sir,  there  was  a 
hypocritical  Quaker  once,  who  said  to  his  enemy,  "  I  can't 
shed  thy  blood,  friend,  but  I  will  hold  thy  head  under  water 
till  thou  art  drowned."  And  so  there  is  a  set  of  demagogi- 
cal fellows,  who  keep  calling  out,  "  Farmer  this  is  an  op- 
pressor, and  Squire  that  is  a  vampire  !  But  no  violence  ! 
Don't  smash  their  machines,  don't  burn  their  ricks  !  Moral 
force,  and  a  curse  on  all  tyrants ! "  Well,  and  if  poor 
Hodge  thinks  moral  force  is  all  my  eye,  and  that  the  recom- 
mendation is  to  be  read  backward,  in  the  devil's  way  of 
reading  the  Lord's  Prayer,  I  should  like  to  know  which  of 
the  two  ought  to  go  to  Botany  Bay — Hodge,  who  comes 
out  like  a  man,  if  he  thinks  he  is  wronged,  or  t'other  sneak- 
ing chap,  who  makes  use  of  his  knowledge  to  keep  himself 
out  of  the  scrape  ? 

PARSON. — It  may  be  very  true  ;  but  when  I  saw  that 
poor  fellow  at  the  bar,  with  his  intelligent  face,  and  heard 
his  bold  clear  defence,  and  thought  of  all  his  hard  struggles 
for  knowledge,  and  how  they, had  ended,  because  he  forgot 
that  knowledge,  is  like  fire,  and  must  not  be  thrown 
amongst  flax — why,  I  could  have  given  my  right  hand  to 
save  him.  And,  oh,  Squire,  do  you  remember  his  poor 
mother's  shriek  of  despair  when  he  was  sentenced  to  trans- 
portation for  life  ? — I  hear  it  now  !  And  what,  Leonard 
— what  do  you  think  had  misled  him  ?  At  the  bottom  of 


786  MY  NOVEL;    OR, 

all  the  mischief  was  a  Tinker's  bag.  You  cannot  forget 
Sprott  ? 

LEONARD. — Tinker's  bag  ! — Sprott ! 

SQUIRE. — That  rascal,  sir,  was  the  hardest  fellow  to  nab 
you  could  possibly  conceive  ;  as  full  of  quips  and  quirks  as 
an  Old  Bailey  lawyer.  But  we  managed  to  bring  it  home 
to  him.  Lord  !  his  bag  was  choke-full  of  tracts  against 
every  man  who  had  a  good  coat  on  his  back  ;  and  as  if  that 
was  not  enough,  cheek  by  jowl  with  the  tracts  were  lucifers, 
contrived  on  a  new  principle,  for  teaching  my  ricks  the 
theory  of  spontaneous  combustion.  The  laborers  bought 
the  lucifers — 

PARSON. — And  the  poor  village  genius  bought  the 
tracts. 

SQUIRE. — All  headed  with  a  motto — "  To  teach  the 
working  classes  that  knowledge  is  power."  So  that  I  was 
right  in  saying  that  knowledge  had  burnt  my  ricks  ;  knowl- 
edge inflamed  the  village  genius,  the  village  genius  in- 
flamed fellows  more  ignorant  than  himself,  and  they  in- 
flamed my  stack-yard.  However,  lucifers,  tracts,  village 
genius,  and  Sprott,  are  all  off  to  Botany  Bay  ;  and  the 
shire  has  gone  on  much  the  better  for  it.  So  no  more  of 
your  knowledge  for  me,  begging  your  pardon,  Mr.  Fair- 
field.  Such  uncommonly  fine  ricks  as  mine  were  too  !  I 
declare,  Parson,  you  are  looking  as  if  you  felt  pity  for 
Sprott  ;  and  I  saw  you,  indeed,  whispering  to  him  as  he 
was  taken  out  of  court. 

PARSON  (looking  sheepish). — Indeed,  Squire,  I  was  only 
asking  him  what  had  become  of  his  .donkey,  an  unoffending 
creature. 

SQUIRE. — Unoffending!  Upset  me  amidst  a  thistle-bed 
in  my  own  village  green.  I  remember  it.  Well,  what  did 
he  say  had  become  of  the  donkey  ? 

PARSON. — He  said  but  one  word  ;  but  that  showed  all 
the  vindictiveness  of  his  disposition.  He  said  it  with  a 
horrid  wink,  that  made  my  blood  run  cold.  "  What's  be- 
come of  your  donkey  ? "  said  I,  and  he  answered — 

SQUIRE. — Go  on.     He  answered 

PARSON. — Sausages. 

SQUIRE. — Sausages  !  Like  enough ;  and  sold  to  the 
poor  ;  and  that's  what  the  poor  will  come  to  if  they  listen 
to  such  revolutionizing  villains.  Sausages  !  Donkey  sau- 
sauges  !  (spitting) — 'Tis  as  bad  as  eating  one  another  ;  per- 
fect cannibalism. 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  787 

Leonard,  who  had  been  thrown  into  grave  thought  by 
the  history  of  Sprott  and  the  village  genius,  now  pressing 
the  Parson's  hand,  asked  permission  to  wait  on  him  before 
Mr.  Dale  quitted  London ;  and  was  about  to  withdraw, 
when  the  Parson,  gently  detaining  him,  said — "No  ;  don't 
leave  me  yet,  Leonard — I  have  so  much  to  ask  you,  and  to 
talk  about.  I  shall  be  at  leisure  shortly.  We  are  just  now 
going  to  call  on  a  relation  of  the  Squire's,  whom  you  must 
recollect,  I  am  sure — Captain  Higginbotham — Barnabas 
Higginbotham.  He  is  very  poorly." 

"And  I  am  sure  he  would  take  it  kind  in  you  to  call 
too,"  said  the  Squire,  with  great  good-nature. 

LEONARD. — Nay,  sir,  would  not  that  be  a  great  liberty  ? 

SQUIRE. — Liberty !  to  ask  a  poor  sick  gentleman  how  he 
is  ?  Nonsense.  And  I  say,  sir,  perhaps  as  no  doubt  you 
have  been  living  in  town,  and  know  more  of  new-fangled  no- 
tions than  I  do — perhaps  you  can  tell  us  whether  or  not  it  is 
all  humbug,  that  new  way  of  doctoring  people. 

LEONARD. — What  new  way,  sir  ?     There  are  so  many. 

SQUIRE. — Are  there  ?  Folks  in  London  do  look  un- 
commonly sickly.  But  my  poor  cousin  (he  was  never  a 
Solomon)  has  got  hold,  he  says,  of  a  homey — homely — 
What's  the  word,  Parson  ? 

PARSON. — Hornceopathist. 

SQUIRE. — That's  it !  You  see  the  captain  went  to  live 
with  one  Sharpe  Currie,  a  relation  who  had  a  great  deal  of 
money,  and  very  little  liver  ; — made  the  one,  and  left  much 
of  the  other  in  Ingee,  you  understand.  The  Captain  had 
expectations  of  the  money.  Very  natural,  I  dare  say  ;  but 
Lord,  sir,  what  do  you  think  has  happened  ?  Sharpe  Cur- 
rie has  done  him.  Would  not  die,  sir  ;  got  back  his  liver, 
and  the  Captain  has  lost  his  own.  Strangest  thing  you 
ever  heard.  And  then  the  ungrateful  old  Nabob  has  dis- 
missed the  Captain,  saying,  "  He  can't  bear  to  have  inva- 
lids about  him  ; "  and  is  gong  to  marry,  and  I  have  no 
doubt  will  have  children  by  the  dozen  ! 

PARSON. — It  was  in  Germany,  at  one  of  the  Spas,  that 
Mr.  Currie  recovered  ;  and  as  he  had  the  selfish  inhumanity 
to  make  the  Captain  go  through  a  course  of  waters  simul- 
taneously with  himself,  it  has  so  chanced  that  the  same 
waters  that  cured  Mr.  Currie's  liver  have  destroyed  Captain 
Higginbotham's.  An  English  homoeopathic  physician,  then 
staying  at  the  Spa,  has  attended  the  Captain  hither,  and 
declares  that  he  will  restore  him  by  infinitesimal  doses  of 


788  MY  NOVEL;    OR, 

the  same  chemical  properties  that  were  found  in  the  waters 
which  diseased  him.  Can  there  be  anything  in  such  a 
theory  ? 

LEONARD. — I  once  knew  a  very  able,  though  eccentric 
homceopathist,  and  I  am  inclined  to  believe  there  may  be 
something  in  the  system.  My  friend  went  to  Germany ;  it 
may  possibly  be  the  same  person  who  attends  the  Captain. 
May  I  ask  his  name  ? 

SQUIRE. — Cousin  Barnabas  does  not  mention  it.  You 
may  ask  it  of  himself,  for  here  we  are  at  his  chambers.  I 
say,  Parson  (whispering  slyly),  if  a  small  dose  of  what  hurt 
the  Captain  is  to  cure  him,  don't  you  think  the  proper 
thing  would  be— a  legacy  ?  Ha  !  ha ! 

PARSON  (trying  not  to  laugh). — Hush,  Squire.  Poor  hu- 
man nature !  We  must  be  merciful  to  its  infirmities. 
Come  in,  Leonard. 

Leonard,  interested  in  his  doubt  whether  he  might  thus 
chance  again  upon  Dr.  Morgan,  obeyed  the  invitation,  and 
with  his  two  companions  followed  the  woman  who  "did  for 
the  Captain  and  his  rooms,"  across  the  small  lobby  into  the 
presence  of  the  sufferer. 


CHAPTER  III. 

WHATEVER  the  disposition  toward  merriment  at  his 
cousin's  expense  entertained  by  the  Squire,  it  vanished  in- 
stantly at  the  sight  of  the  Captain's  doleful  visage  and 
emaciated  figure. 

"  Very  good  in  you  to  come  to  town  to  see  me — very 
good  in  you,  cousin ;  and  in  you  too,  Mr.  Dale.  How  very 
well  you  are  both  looking.  I  am  a  sad  wreck.  You  might 
count  every  bone  in  my  body." 

"  Hazeldean  air  and  roast  beef  will  soon  set  you  up,  my 
boy,"  said  the  Squire,  kindly.  "  You  were  a  great  goose  to 
leave  them,  and  these  comfortable  rooms  of  yours  in  the 
Albany." 

"  They  are  comfortable,  though  not  showy,"  said  the 
Captain,  with  tears  in  his  eyes.  li  I  had  done  my  best  to 
make  them  so.  New  carpets — this  very  chair  (morocco  !) 
— that  Japan  cat  (holds  toast  and  muffins) — just  when — just 
when  (the  tears  here  broke  forth,  and  the  Captain  fairly 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  789 

whimpered) — just  when  that  ungrateful,  bad-hearted  man 
wrote  me  word  '  he  was — was  dying,  and  lone  in  the  world  ; ' 
and — and — to  think  what  I've  gone  through  for  him  ; — and 
to  treat  me  so.  Cousin  William,  he  has  grown  as  hale  as 
yourself,  and — and " 

"  Cheer  up,  cheer  up  ! "  cried  the  compassionate  Squire. 
"  It  is  a  very  hard  case,  I'll  allow.  But  you  see,  as  the  old 
proverb  says,  '  Tis  ill  waiting  for  a  dead  man's  shoes  ; '  and 
in  future — I  don't  mean  offence — but  I  think,  if  you  would 
calculate  less  on  the  livers  of  your  relations,  it  would  be  all 
the  better  for  your  own.  Excuse  me." 

"Cousin  William,"  replied  the  poor  Captain,  "I  am  sure 
I  never  calculated ;  but  still,  if  you  had  seen  that  deceitful 
man's  good-for-nothing  face — as  yellow  as  a  guinea — and 
have  gone  through  all  I've  gone  through,  you  would  have 
felt  cut  to  the  heart,  as  I  do.  I  can't  bear  ingratitude  ;  I 
never  could.  But  let  it  pass.  Will  that  gentleman  take  a 
chair  ? " 

PARSON. — Mr.  Fairfield  has  kindly  called  with  us,  because 
he  knows  something  of  this  system  of  homoeopathy  which 
you  have  adopted,  and  may,  perhaps,  know  the  practitioner. 
What  is  the  name  of  your  doctor  ? 

CAPTAIN  (looking  at  his  watch). — That  reminds  me 
(swallowing  a  globule).  A  great  relief  these  little  pills — 
after  the  physic  I've  taken  to  please  that  malignant  man. 
He  always  tried  his  doctor's  stuff  upon  me.  But  there's  an- 
other world,  and  a  juster. 

With  that  pious  conclusion  the  Captain  again  began  to 
weep. 

"  Touched,"  muttered  the  Squire,  with  his  forefinger  on 
his  forehead.  "  You  seem  to  have  a  good  tidy  sort  of  a 
nurse  here,  Cousin  Barnabas.  I  hope  she's  pleasant  and 
lively,  and  dont  let  you  take  on  so  ?  " 

"Hist! — don't  talk  of  her.  All  mercenary;  every  bit 
of  her  fawning  !  Would  you  believe  it  ? — I  give  her  ten 
shillings  a-week,  besides  all  that  goes  down  of  my  pats  of 
butter  and  rolls  ;  and  I  overheard  the  jade  saying  to  the 
laundress  that  '  I  could  not  last  long — and  she'd — EXPECTA- 
TIONS ! '  Ah,  Mr.  Dale,  when  one  thinks  of  the  sinfulness 
there  is  in  this  life  !  But  I'll  not  think  of  it ;  no — I'll  not. 
Let  us  change  the  subject.  You  were  asking  my  doctor's 
name.  It  is 

Here  the  woman  with  "  expectations  "  threw  open  the 
door,  and  suddenly  announced — "  DR.  MORGAN." 


790  MY  NOVEL  ;    OX, 


CHAPTER    IV. 

THE  Parson  started,  and  so  did  Leonard. 

The  Homoeopathist  did  not  at  first  notice  either.  With 
an  unobservant  bow  to  the  visitors,  he  went  straight  to  the 
patient,  and  asked,  "  How  go  the  symptoms  ?" 

Therewith  the  Captain  commenced,  in  a  tone  of  voice 
like  a  school-boy  reciting  the  catalogue  of  the  ships  in 
Homer.  He  had  been  evidently  conning  the  symptoms, 
and  learning  them  by  heart.  Nor  was  there  a  single  nook 
or  corner  in  his  anatomical  organization,  so  far  as  the  Cap- 
tain was  acquainted  with  that  structure,  but  what  some 
symptom  or  other  was  dragged  therefrom,  and  exposed  to- 
day. The  Squire  listened  with  horror  to  the  morbific  in- 
ventory, muttering  at  each  dread  interval,  "  Bless  me ! 
Lord  bless  me  !  What,  more  still !  Death  woidd  be  a  very 
happy  release  ! "  Meanwhile,  the  Doctor  endured  the  re- 
cital with  exemplary  patience,  noting  down  in  the  leaves 
of  his  pocket-book  what  appeared  to  him  the  salient  points 
in  this  fortress  of  disease  to  which  he  had  laid  siege,  and 
then,  drawing  forth  a  minute  paper,  said, — 

"  Capital — nothing  can  be  better.  This  powder  must  be 
dissolved  in  eight  table-spoonfuls  of  water  ;  one  spoonful 
every  two  hours." 

"  Table-spoonful  ?" 

"  Table-spoonful." 

"'Nothing  can  be  better,'  did  you  say,  sir?"  repeated 
the  Squire,  who,  in  his  astonishment  at  the  assertion  ap- 
plied to  the  Captain's  description  of  his  sufferings,  had 
hitherto  hung  fire — "  nothing  can  be  better  ?  " 

"  For  the  diagnosis,  sir!"  replied  Dr.  Morgan. 

"  For  the  dogs'  noses,  very  possibly,"  quoth  the  Squire  ; 
"but  for  the  inside  of  Cousin  Higginbotharn,  I  should 
think  nothing  could  be  worse." 

"You  are  mistaken,  sir,"  replied  Dr.  Morgan.  "It  is 
not  the  Captain  who  speaks  here — it  is  his  liver.  Liver, 
sir,  though  a  noble,  is  an  imaginative  organ,  and  indulges 
in  the  most  extraordinary  fictions.  Seat  of  poetry,  and 
love,  and  jealousy — the  liver.  Never  believe  what  it  says. 
You  have  no  idea  what  a  liar  it  is  !  But — ahem — ahem. 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  791 

Cott — I  think  I've  seen  you  before,  sir.  Surely  your  name's 
Hazeldean  ?  " 

"William  Hazeldean,  at  your  service,  Doctor.  But 
where  have  you  seen  me  ?" 

"  On  the  hustings  at  Lansmere.  You  were  speaking  on 
behalf  of  your  distinguished  brother,  Mr.  Egerton." 

"  Hang  it !  "  cried  the  Squire  ;  "  I  think  it  must  have 
been  my  liver  that  spoke  there !  for  I  promised  the  electors 
that  that  half-brother  of  mine  would  stick  by  the  land  ;  and 
I  never  told  a  bigger  lie  in  my  life  !  " 

Here  the  patient,  reminded  of  his  other  visitors,  and 
afraid  he  was  going  to  be  bored  with  the  enumeration  of 
the  Squire's  wrongs,  and  probably  the  whole  history  of  his 
duel  with  Captain  Dashmore,  turned  with  a  languid  wave 
of  his  hand,  and  said,  "Doctor,  another  friend  of  mine,  the 
Rev.  Mr.  Dale, — and  a  gentleman  who  is  acquainted  with 
homoeopathy. " 

"  Dale  ?  What,  more  old  friends  !  "  cried  the  Doctor, 
rising  ;  and  the  Parson  came  somewhat  reluctantly  from 
the  window  nook,  to  which  he  had  retired.  The  Parson 
and  the  Homoeopathist  shook  hands. 

"  We  have  met  before  on  a  very  mournful  occasion," 
said  the  Doctor,  with  feeling. 

The  Parson  held  his  finger  to  his  lips,  and  glanced 
toward  Leonard.  The  Doctor  stared  at  the  lad,  but  he  did 
not  recognize  in  the  person  before  him  the  gaunt,  careworn 
boy  whom  he  had  placed  with  Mr.  Prickett,  until  Leonard 
smiled  and  spoke.  And  the  smile  and  the  voice  sufficed. 

"  Cott — and  it  is  the  poy  !  "  cried  Dr.  Morgan  ;  and  he 
actually  caught  hold  of  Leonard,  and  gave  him  an  affec- 
tionate Welsh  hug.  Indeed,  his  agitation  at  these  several 
surprises  became  so  great  that  he  stopped  short,  drew  forth 
a  globule — "Aconite — good  against  nervous  shocks!"  and 
swallowed  it  incontinently. 

"Gad,"  said  the  Squire,  rather  astonished,  "  'tis  the  first 
doctor  I  ever  saw  swallow  his  own  medicine  !  There  must 
be  something  in  it." 

The  Captain  now,  highly  disgusted  that  so  much  atten- 
tion was  withdrawn  from  his  own  case,  asked,  in  a  queru- 
lous voice,  "  And  as  to  diet  ?  What  shall  I  have  for  din- 
ner ? " 

"  A  friend  ! "  said  the  doctor,  wiping  his  eyes. 

"Zounds  !  "  cried  the  Squire,  retreating,  "do  you  mean 
to  say  that  the  British  laws  (to  be  sure  they  are  very  much 


792  MY  NOVEL;    OR, 

changed  of  late)  allow  you  to  diet  your  patients  upon  their 
fellow-men  ?  Why,  Parson,  this  is  worse  than  the  donkey 
sausages." 

"Sir,"  said  Dr.  Morgan,  gravely,  "I  mean  to  say,  that 
it  matters  little  what  we  eat,  in  comparison  with  care  as  to 
whom  we  eat  with.  It  is  better  to  exceed  a  little  with  a 
friend,  than  to  observe  the  strictest  regimen,  and  eat  alone. 
Talk  and  laughter  help  the  digestion,  and  are  indispensable 
in  affections  of  the  liver.  I  have  no  doubt,  sir,  that  it  was 
my  patient's  agreeable  society  that  tended  to  restore  to 
health  his  dyspeptic  relative  Mr.  Sharpe  Currie." 

The  Captain  groaned  aloud. 

"And,  therefore,  if  one  of  you  gentlemen  will  stay  and 
dine  with  Mr.  Higginbotham,  it  will  greatly  assist  the 
effects  of  his  medicine." 

The  Captain  turned  an  imploring  eye,  first  toward  his 
cousin,  then  toward  the  Parson. 

"  I'm  engaged  to  dine  with  my  son — very  sorry,"  said 
the  Squire.  "  But  Dale,  here " 

"  If  he  will  be  so  kind,"  put  in  the  Captain,  "we  might 
cheer  the  evening  with  a  game  at  whist — double  dummy." 

Now,  poor  Mr.  Dale  had  set  his  heart  on  dining  with 
an  old  college  friend,  and  having  no  stupid,  prosy  double 
dummy,  in  which  one  cannot  have  the  pleasure  of  scolding 
one's  partner,  but  a  regular  orthodox  rubber,  with  the 
pleasing  prospect  of  scolding  all  the  three  other  perform- 
ers. But  as  his  quiet  life  forbade  him  to  be  a  hero  in  great 
things,  the  Parson  had  made  up  his  mind  to  be  a  hero  in 
small  ones.  Therefore,  though  with  rather  a  rueful  face, 
he  accepted  the  Captain's  invitation,  and  promised  to  re- 
turn at  six  o'clock.  Meanwhile  he  must  hurry  off  to  the 
other  end  of  the  town,  and  excuse  himself  from  the  pre- 
cngagement  he  had  already  formed.  He  now  gave  his 
card,  with  the  address  of  a  quiet  family  hotel  thereon,  to 
Leonard,  and  not  looking  quite  so  charmed  with  Dr.  Mor- 
gan as  he  was  before  that  unwelcome  prescription,  he  took 
his  leave.  The  Squire  too,  having  to  see  a  new  churn,  and 
execute  various  commissions  for  his  Harry,  went  his  way 
(not,  however,  till  Dr.  Morgan  had  assured  him  that,  in  a 
few  weeks,  the  Captain  might  safely  remove  to  Hazeldean) ; 
and  Leonard  was  about  to  follow,  when  Morgan  hooked  his 
arm  in  his  old  protege's,  and  said,  "But  I  must  have  some 
talk  with  you  ;  and  you  have  to  tell  me  all  about  the  little 
orphan  girl." 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  793 

Leonard  could  not  resist  the  pleasure  of  talking  about 
Helen,  and  he  got  into  the  carriage,  which  was  waiting  at 
the  door  for  the  Homceopathist. 

"  I  am  going  into  the  country  a  few  miles  to  see  a  pa- 
tient," said  the  Doctor  ;  "  so  we  shall  have  time  for  undis- 
turbed consultation.  I  have  so  often  wondered  what  had 
become  of  you.  Not  hearing  from  Prickett,  I  wrote  to 
him,  and  received  from  his  heir  an  answer  as  dry  as  a  bone. 
Poor  fellow,  I  found  that  he  had  neglected  his  globules  and 
quitted  the  globe.  Alas,  pulvis  et  umbra  sumus  >  I  could 
learn  no  tidings  of  you.  Prickett's  successor  declared  he 
knew  nothing  about  you.  I  hoped  the  best  ;  for  I  always 
fancied  you  were  one  who  would  fall  on  your  legs — bilious- 
nervous  temperament ;  such  are  the  men  who  succeed  in 
their  undertakings,  especially  if  they  take  a  spoonful  of 
cJiamomilla  whenever  they  are  over-excited.  So  now  for 
your  history  and  the  little.girl's — pretty  little  thing — never 
saw  a  more  susceptible  constitution,  nor  one  more  suited 
to  pulsatilla. " 

Leonard  briefly  related  his  own  struggles  and  success, 
and  informed  the  good  Doctor  how  they  had  at  last  dis- 
covered the  nobleman  in  whom  poor  Captain  Digby  had 
confided,  and  whose  care  of  the  orphan  had  justified  the 
confidence. 

Dr.  Morgan  opened  his  eyes  at  hearing  the  name  of 
Lord  L'Estrange.  "  I  remember  him  very  well,"  said  he, 
"  when  I  practised  murder  as  an  allopathist  at  Lansmere. 
But  to  think  that  wild  boy,  so  full  of  whim,  and  life,  and 
spirit,  should  become  staid  enough  for  a  guardian  to  that 
dear  little  child,  with  her  timid  eyes  and  pulsatilla  sensibili- 
ties. Well,  wonders  never  cease.  And  he  has  befriended 
you  too,  you  say.  Ah,  he  knew  your  family." 

"  So  he  says.  Do  you  think,  sir,  that  he  ever  knew — 
ever  saw — my  mother  ?  " 

"Eh  !  your  mother  ? — Nora  ? "  exclaimed  the  Doctor, 
quickly ;  and,  as  if  struck  by  some  sudden  thought,  his 
brows  met,  and  he  remained  silent  and  musing  a  few  mo- 
ments ;  then,  observing  Leonard's  eyes  fixed  on  him  ear- 
nestly, he  replied  to  the  question  : — 

"  No  doubt  he  saw  her ;  she  was  brought  up  at  Lady 
Lansmere's.  Did  he  not  tell  you  so  ?" 

"  No."  A  vague  suspicion  here  darted  through  Leon- 
ard's mind,  but  as  suddenly  vanished.  His  father!  Im- 
possible. His  father  must  have  deliberately  wronged  the 

34 


794  MY.  NOVEL;    OR, 

dead  mother.  And  was  Harley  L'Estrange  a  man  capable 
of  such  wrong?  And  had  he  been  Harley's  son,  would  not 
Harley  have  guessed  it  at  once,  and  so  guessing,  have 
owned  and  claimed  him  ?  Besides,  Lord  L'Estrange  looked 
so  young  ; — old  enough  to  be  Leonard's  father  ! — he  could 
not  entertain  the  idea.  He  roused  himself  and  said,  falter- 
ingly — 

"  You  told  me  you  did  not  know  by  what  name  I  should 
call  my  father." 

"  And  I  told  you  the  truth,  to  the  best  of  my  belief." 

"  By  your  honor,  sir  ?  " 

'•'  By  my  honor,  I  do  not  know  it." 

There  was  now  a  long  silence.  The  carnage  had  long 
left  London,  and  was  on  a  high-road  somewhat  lonelier  and 
more  free  from  houses  than  most  of  those  which  form  the 
entrance  to  the  huge  city.  Leonard  gazed  wistfully  from 
the  window,  and  the  objects  that  met  his  eye  gradually 
seemed  to  appeal  to  his  memory.  Yes  !  it  was  the  road  by 
which  he  had  first  approached  the  metropolis,  hand  in  hand 
with  Helen — and  hope  so  busy  at  his  poet's  heart.  He 
sighed  deeply.  He  thought  he  would  willingly  have  re- 
signed all  he  had  won — independence,  fame,  all — to  feel 
again  the  clasp  of  that  tender  hand — again  to  be  the  sole 
protector  of  that  gentle  life. 

The  Doctor's  voice  broke  on  his  reverie.  "  I  am  going 
to  see  a  very  interesting  patient — coats  to  his  stomach  quite 
worn  out,  sir — man  of  great  learning,  with  a  very  inflamed 
cerebellum.  I  can't  do  him  much  good,  and  he  does  me  a 
great  deal  of  harm." 

"  How  harm  ?  "  asked  Leonard,  with  an  effort  at  some 
rejoinder. 

"  Hits  me  on  the  heart,  and  makes  my  eyes  water  ; — very 
pathetic  case — grand  creature,  who  has  thrown  himself 
away.  Found  him  given  over  by  the  allopathists,  and  in  a 
high  state  of  delirium  tremens— restored  him  for  a  time — 
took  a  great  liking  to  him — could  not  help  it — swallowed  a 
great  many  globules  to  harden  myself  against  him — would 
not  do — brought  him  over  to  England  with  the  other  pa- 
tients, who  all  pay  me  well  (except  Captain  Higginbotham). 
But  this  poor  fellow  pays  me  nothing — costs  me  a  great 
deal  in  time  and  turnpikes,  and  board  and  lodging.  Thank 
Heaven  I'm  a  single  man,  and  can  afford  it !  My  poy,  I 
would  let  all  the  other  patients  go  to  the  allopathists  if  I 
could  but  save  this  poor,  big,  penniless,  princely  fellow. 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  795 

But  what  can  one  do  with  a  stomach  that  has  not  a  rag  of 
its  coats  left?  Stop  [the  Doctor  pulled  the  check-string]/ 
— This  is  the  stile.  I  get  out  here  and  go  across  the  fields." 

That  stile — those  fields — with  what  distinctness  Leonard 
remembered  them !  Ah,  where  was  Helen  ?  Could  she 
ever,  ever  again  be  his  child-angel  ? 

"  I  will  go  with  you,  if  you  permit,"  said  he  to  the  good 
Doctor.  "And  while  you  pay  your  visit,  I  will  saunter  by 
a  little  brook  that  I  think  must  run  by  your  way." 

"  The  Brent — you  know  that  brook  ?  Ah,  you  should 
hear  my  poor  patient  talk  of  it,  and  of  the  hours  he  has 
spent  angling  in  it — you  would  not  know  whether  to  laugh 
or  cry.  The  first  day  he  was  brought  down  to  the  place,  he 
wanted  to  go  out  and  try  once  more,  he  said,  for  his  old 
deluding  demon — a  one-eyed  perch." 

"  Heavens  !  "  exclaimed  Leonard,  "  are  you  speaking  of 
John  Burley  ?" 

"To  be  sure,  that  is  his  name — John  Burley." 

"  Oh,  has  it  come  to  this  ?  Cure  him,  save  him,  if  it  be 
in  human  power.  For  the  last  two  years  I  have  sought  his 
trace  everywhere,  and  in  vain,  the  moment  I  had  money  of 
my  own — a  home  of  my  own.  Poor,  erring,  glorious  Bur- 
ley  :  take  me  to  him.  Did  you  say  there  was  no  hope  ? " 

"  I  did  not  say  that,"  replied  the  Doctor.  "  But  art  can 
only  assist  nature  ;  and  though  nature  is  ever  at  work  to 
repair  the  injuries  we  do  to  her,  yet,  when  the  coats  of  a 
stomach  are  all  gone,  she  gets  puzzled,  and  so  do  I.  You 
must  tell  me  another  time  how  you  came  to  know  Burley, 
for  here  we  are  at  the  house,  and  I  see  him  at  the  window 
looking  out  for  me." 

The  Doctor  opened  the  garden-gate  of  the  quiet  cottage 
to  which  poor  Burley  had  fled  from  the  pure  presence  of 
Leonard's  child-angel.  And  with  heavy  step,  and  heavy 
heart,  Leonard  mournfully  followed,  to  behold  the  wrecks 
of  him  whose  wit  had  glorified  orgie,  and  "  set  the  table  in 
a  roar."  Alas,  poor  Yorick  ! 


796  MY  NOVEL;    OR, 


CHAPTER  V. 

AUDLEY  EGERTON  stands  on  his  hearth  alone.  During 
the  short  interval  that  has  elapsed  since  we  last  saw  him, 
events  had  occurred  memorable  in  English  history,  where- 
with we  have  nought  to  do  in  a  narrative  studiously  avoid- 
ing all  party  politics,  even  when  treating  of  politicians. 
The  new  Ministers  had  stated  the  general  programme  of 
their  policy,  and  introduced  one  measure  in  especial  that 
had  lifted  them  at  once  to  the  dizzy  height  of  popular 
power.  But  it  became  clear  that  this  measure  could  not  be 
carried  without  a  fresh  appeal  to  the  people.  A  dissolution 
of  Parliament  as  Audiey's  sagacious  experience  had  fore- 
seen, was  inevitable.  And  Audley  Egerton  had  no  chance 
of  return  for  his  own  seat — for  the  great  commercial  city 
identified  with  his  name.  O  sad,  but  not  rare,  instance  of 
the  mutabilities  of  that  same  popular  favor  now  enjoyed  by 
his  successors  !  The  great  commoner,  the  weighty  speaker, 
the  expert  man  of  business,  the  statesman  who  had  seemed 
a  type  of  the  practical  steady  sense  for  which  our  middle 
class  is  renowned — he  who,  not  three  years  since,  might 
have  had  his  honored  choice  of  the  largest  popular  constit- 
uencies in  the  kingdom — he,  Audley  Egerton,  knew  not 
one  single  town  (free  from  the  influences  of  private  prop- 
erty or  interest)  in  which  the  obscurest  candidate,  who 
bawled  out  for  the  new  liberal  measure,  would  not  have 
beaten  him  hollow, — where  one  popular  hustings,  on  which 
that  grave  sonorous  voice  that  had  stilled  so  often  the  roar 
of  faction,  would  not  be  drowned  amidst  the  hoots  of  the 
scornful  mob ! 

True,  what  were  called  the  close  boroughs  still  existed — 
true,  many  a  chief  of  his  party  would  have  been  too  proud 
of  the  honor  of  claiming  Audley  Egerton  for  his  nominee. 
But  the  ex-minister's  haughty  soul  shrunk  from  this  con- 
trast to  his  past  position.  And  to  fight  against  the  popular 
measure  as  member  of  one  of  the  seats  most  denounced  by 
the  people, — he  felt  it  was  a  post  in  the  grand  army  of 
parties  below  his  dignity  to  occupy,  and  foreign  to  his 
peculiar  mind,  which  required  the  sense  of  consequence  and 
station.  And  if,  in  a  few  months,  those  seats  were  swept 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  797 

away — were  annihilated  from  the  rolls  of  Parliament — 
where  was  he  ?  Moreover,  Egerton,  emancipated  from  the 
trammels  that  had  bound  his  will  while  his  party  was  in 
office,  desired,  in  the  turn  of  events,  to  be  nominee  of  no 
man — desired  to  stand  at  -least  freely  and  singly  on  the 
ground  of  his  own  services,  be  guided  by  his  own  pene- 
tration ;  no  law  for  action,  but  his  strong  sense  and 
his  stout  English  heart.  Therefore  he  had  declined 
all  offers  from  those  who  could  still  bestow  seats  in 
Parliament.  Seats  that  he  could  purchase  with  hard  gold 
were  yet  open  to  him  ;  and  the  J~5,ooo  he  had  borrowed 
from  Levy  were  yet  untouched. 

To  this  lone  public  man,  public  life,  as  we  have  seen, 
was  the  all  in  all.  But  now  more  than  ever  it  was  vital 
to  his  very  wants.  Around  him  yawned  ruin.  He  knew 
that  it  was  in  Levy's  power  at  any  moment  to  foreclose 
on  his  mortgaged  lands — to  pour  in  the  bonds  and  the 
bills  which  lay  within  those  rosewood  receptacles  that 
lined  the  fatal  lair  of  the  sleek  usurer — to  seize  on  the 
very  house  in  which  now  moved  all  the  pomp  of  a  retinue 
that  vied  with  the  valetaille  of  dukes — to  advertise  for 
public  auction,  under  execution,  "the  costly  effects  of  the 
Right  Hon.  AudLy  Egerton."  But  consummate  in  his 
knowledge  of  the  world,  Egerton  felt  assured  that  Levy 
would  not  adopt  these  measures  against  him  while  he 
could  still  tower  in  the  van  of  political  war— -while  he 
could  still  see  before  him  the  full  chance  of  restoration  to 
power,  perhaps  to  power  still  higher  than  before — perhaps 
to  power  the  highest  of  all  beneath  the  throne.  That  Levy, 
whose  hate  he  divined,  though  he  did  not  conjecture  all  its 
causes,  had  hitherto  delayed  even  a  visit,  even  'a  menace, 
seemed  to  him  to  show  that  Levy  still  thought  him  one  "to 
be  helped,"  or  at  least,  one  too  powerful  to  crush.  To 
secure  his  position  in  Parliament  unshackled,  unfallen,  if 
but  for  another  year, — new  combinations  of  party  might 
arise,  new  reactions  take  place  in  public  opinion !  And, 
with  his  hand  pressed  to  his  heart,  the  stern  firm  man  mut- 
tered,— "If  not,  I  ask  but  to  die  in  my  harness,  and  that 
men  may  not  know  that  I  am  a  pauper,  until  all  that  I 
need  from  my  country  is  a  grave." 

Scarce  had  these  words  died  upon  his  lips,  ere  two 
quick  knocks  in  succession  resounded  at  the  street-door. 
In  another  moment  Harley  entered,  and,  at  the  same  time, 


798  MY  NOVEL;    OR, 

the   servant   in    attendance   approached   Audley,   and   an- 
nounced Baron  Levy. 

"  Beg  the  Baron  to  wait,  unless  he  would  prefer  to  name 
his  own  hour  to  call  again,"  answered  Egerton,  with  the 
slightest  possible  change  of  color.  "  You  can  say  I  am  now 
with  Lord  L'Estrange." 

"I  had  hoped  you  had  done  forever  with  that  deluder  of 
youth,"  said  Harley,  as  soon  as  the  groom  of  the  chambers 
had  withdrawn.  "  I  remember  that  you  saw  too  much  of 
him  in  the  gay  time,  ere  wild  oats  are  sown  ;  but  now 
surely  you  can  never  need  a  loan  ;  and  if  so,  is  not  Harley 
L'Estrange  by  your  side  ? " 

EGERTON. — My  dear  Harley  ! — doubtless  he  but  comes 
to  talk  to  me  of  some  borough.  He  has  much  to  do 
with  those  delicate  negotiations. 

HARLEY. — And  I  have  come  on  the  same  business.  I 
claim  the  priority.  I  not  only  hear  in  the  world,  but  I  see 
by  the  papers,  that  Josiah  Jenkins,  Esq.,  known  to  fame  as 
an  orator  who  leaves  out  his  h's,  and  young  Lord  Wil- 
loughby  Whiggolin,  who  is  just  made  a  Lord  of  the  Ad- 
miralty, because  his  health  is  too  delicate  for  the  army,  are 
certain  to  come  in  for  the  city  which  you  and  your  present 
colleague  will  as  certainly  vacate.  That  is  true,  is  it  not  ? 

EGERTON. — My  old  Committee  now  vote  for  Jenkins  and 
Whiggolin.  And  I  suppose  there  will  not  be  even  a  con- 
test. Goon. 

"  So  my  father  and  I  are  agreed  that  you  must  conde- 
scend, for  the  sake  of  old  friendship,  to  be  once  more 
member  for  Lansmere  !  " 

"  Harley,"  exclaimed  Egerton,  changing  countenance 
far  more  than  he  had  done  at  the  announcement  of  Levy's 
portentous  visit — "  Harley,  No,  no  !  " 

"  No  !  But  why  ?  Wherefore  such  emotion  ?  "  asked 
L'Estrange,  in  surprise. 

Audley  was  silent. 

HARLEY. — I  suggested  the  idea  to  two  or  three  of  the 
late  Ministers  ;  they  all  concur  in  advising  you  to  accede. 
In  the  first  place,  if  declining  to  stand  for  the  place  which 
tempted  you  from  Lansmere,  what  more  natural  than  that 
you  should  fall  back  on  that  earlier  representation  ?  In  the 
second  place,  Lansmere  is  neither  a  rotten  borough,  to  be 
bought,  nor  a  close  borough,  under  one  man's  nomination. 
It  is  a  tolerably  large  constituency.  My  father,  it  is  true, 
has  considerable  interest  in  it,  but  only  what  is  called  the 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  799 

legitimate  influence  of  property.  At  all  events,  it  is  more 
secure  than  a  contest  for  a  larger  town,  more  dignified  than 
a  seat  for  a  smaller.  Hesitating  still  ?  Even  my  mother 
entreats  me  to  say  how  she  desires  you  to  renew  that 
connection. 

"  Harley  !  "  again  exclaimed  Egerton  ;  and  fixing  upon 
his  friend's  earnest  face,  eyes  which  when  softened  by 
emotion,  were  strangely  beautiful  in  their  expression — 
"  Harley,  if  you  could  but  read  my  heart  at  this  moment, 

you  would — you  would •"  His  voice  faltered,  and 

he  fairly  bent  his  proud  head  upon  Harley's  shoulder  ; 
grasping  the  hand  he  had  caught — nervously,  clingingly — 
"  O  Harley,  if  I  ever  lose  your  love,  your  friendship, — 
nothing  else  is  left  to  me  in  the  world." 

"  Audley,  my  dear,  dear  Audley,  is  it  you  who  speak  to 
me  thus  ?  You,  my  school-friend,  my  life's  confidant — 
you  ? " 

"  I  am  grown  very  weak  and  foolish,"  said  Egerton,  try- 
ing to  smile.  "  I  do  not  know  myself.  I,  too,  whom  you 
have  so  often  called  'Stoic/  and  likened  to  the  Iron  Man  in 
the  poem  which  you  used  to  read  by  the  riverside  at  Eton." 

"And  even  then,  my  Audley,  I  knew  that  a  warm  human 
heart  (do  what  you  would  to  keep  it  down)  beat  strong  under 
the  iron  ribs.  And  I  often  marvel  now,  to  think  you  have 
gone  through  life  so  free  from  the  wilder  passions.  Happier 
so!" 

Egerton,  who  had  turned  his  face  from  his  friend's  gaze, 
remained  silent  for  a  few  moments,  and  he  then  sought  to 
divert  the  conversation,  and  roused  himself  to  ask  Harley 
how  he  had  succeeded  in  his  views  upon  Beatrice,  and  his 
watch  on  the  Count. 

"With  regard  to  Peschiera,"  answered  Harley,  "  I  think 
we  must  have  overrated  the  danger  we  apprehended,  and 
that  his  wagers  were  but  an  idle  boast.  He  has  remained 
quiet  enough,  and  seems  devoted  to  play.  His  sister  has 
shut  her  doors  both  on  myself  and  my  young  associate  dur- 
ing the  last  few  days.  I  almost  fear  that  in  spite  of  very 
sage  warnings  of  mine,  she  must  have  turned  his  poet's 
head,  and  that  either  he  has  met  with  some  scornful  rebuff 
to  incautious  admiration,  or  that  he  himself  has  grown  aware 
of  peril,  and  declines  to  face  it  ;  for  he  is  very  much  em- 
barrassed when  I  speak  to  him  respecting  her.  But  if  the 
Count  is  not  formidable,  why,  his  sister  is  not  needed  ;  and 
I  hope  yet  to  get  justice  for  my  Italian  friend  through  the 


800  MY  NOVEL;    OR, 

ordinary  channels.  I  have  secured  an  ally  in  a  young 
Austrian  prince  who  is  now  in  London,  and  who  has  prom- 
ised to  back,  with  all  his  influence,  a  memorial  I  shall  trans- 
mit to  Vienna.  A  propos,  my  dear  Audley,  now  that  you 
have  a  little  breathing-time,  you  must  fix  an  hour  for  me  to 
present  to  you  my  young  poet,  the  son  of  her  sister.  At 
moments  the  expression  of  his  face  is  so  like  hers." 

"  Ay,  ay,"  answered  Egerton  quickly,  "  I  will  see  him  as 
you  wish,  but  later.  I  have  not  yet  that  breathing-time  you 
speak  of  ;  but  you  say  he  has  prospered  ;  and,  with  your 
friendship,  he  is  secure  from  fortune.  I  rejoice  to  think  so." 

"  And  your  own  protege,  this  Randal  Leslie,  whom  you 
forbid  me  to  dislike — hard  task  ! — what  has  he  decided  ?" 

"  To  adhere  to  my  fate.  Harley,  if  it  please  Heaven 
that  I  do  not  live  to  return  to  power,  aud  provide  adequate- 
ly for  that  young  man,  do  not  forget  that  he  clung  to  me  in 
my  fall." 

"  If  he  still  cling  to  you  faithfully,  I  will  never  forget  it. 
I  will  forget  only  all  that  now  makes  me  doubt  him.  But 
you  talk  of  not  living,  Audley  !  Pooh  ! — your  frame  is  that 
of  a  predestined  octogenarian." 

"  Nay,"  answered  Audley,  "  I  was  but  uttering  one  of 
those  vague  generalities  which  are  common  upon  all  mortal 
lips.  And  now  farewell — I  must  see  this  Baron." 

"  Not  yet,  until  you  have  promised  to  consent  to  my  pro- 
posal, and  be  once  more  member  for  Lansmere. — Tut  !  don't 
shake  your  head.  I  cannot  be  denied.  I  claim  your  prom- 
ise in  right  of  our  friendship,  and  shall  be  seriously  hurt  if 
you  even  pause  to  reflect  on  it." 

'•  Well,  well,  I  know  not  how  to  refuse  you,  Hariey  ;  but 
you  have  not  been  to  Lansmere  yourself  since — since  that 
sad  event.  You  must  not  revive  the  old  wound — you  must 
not  go  ;  and — and,  I  own  it,  Harley  ;  the  remembrance  of 
it  pains  even  me.  I  would  rather  not  go  to  Lansmere." 

"  Ah,  my  friend,  this  is  an  excess  of  sympathy,  and  I  can- 
not listen  to  it.  I  begin  even  to  blame  my  own  weakness, 
and  to  feel  that  we  have  no  right  to  make  ourselves  the 
soft  slaves  of  the  past." 

"  You  do  appear  to  me  of  late  to  have  changed,"  cried 
Egerton,  suddenly,  and  with  a  brightening  aspect.  "Do 
tell  me  that  you  are  happy  in  the  contemplation  of  your  new 
ties — that  I  shall  live  to  see  you  once  more  restored  to  your 
former  self." 

"  All  I  can   answer,   Audley,"  said   L' Estrange,   with  a 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  801 

thoughtful  brow,  "  is,  that  you  are  right  in  one  thing — I  am 
changed  ;  and  I  am  struggling  to  gain  strength  for  duty  and 
for  honor.  Adieu  !  I  shall  tell  my  father  that  you  accede 
to  our  wishes." 


CHAPTER  VI. 

WHEN  Harley  was  gone,  Egerton  sunk  back  on  his  chair, 
as  if  in  extreme  physical  or  mental  exhaustion,  all  the  lines 
of  his  countenance  relaxed  and  jaded. 

"  To  go  back  to  that  place — there — there — where — Cour- 
age, courage — what  is  another  pang?" 

He  rose  with  an  effort,  and  folding  his  arms  tightly 
across  his  breast,  paced  slowly  to  and  fro  the  large,  mourn- 
ful, solitary  room.  Gradually  his  countenance  assumed  its 
usual  cold  and  austere  composure — the  secret  eye,  the 
guarded  lip,  the  haughty  collected  front.  The  man  of  the 
world  was  himself  once  more. 

"  Now  to  gain  time,  and  to  baffle  the  usurer,"  murmured 
Egerton,  with  that  low  tone  of  easy  scorn  which  bespoke 
consciousness  of  superior  power  and  the  familiar  mastery 
over  hostile  natures.  He  rang  the  bell  ;  the  servant  entered. 

"  Is  Baron  Levy  still  waiting  ? " 

"  Yes,  sir." 

'•  Admit  him." 

Levy  entered. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,  Levy,"  said  the  ex-minister,  "  for 
having  so  long  detained  you.  I  am  now  at  your  commands." 

"My  dear  fellow,"  returned  the  Baron,  "no  apologies 
between  friends  so  old  as  we  are  ;  and  I  fear  that  my  busi- 
ness is  not  so  agreeable  as  to  make  you  impatient  to  discuss 
it." 

EGERTON  (with  perfect  composure). — I  am  to  conclude, 
then,  that  you  wish  to  bring  our  accounts  to  a  closed.  When- 
ever you  will,  Levy. 

The  BARON  (disconcerted  and  surprised). — Peste !  mon 
cher,  you  take  things  coolly.  But  if  our  accounts  are  closed, 
I  fear  you  will  have  but  little  to  live  upon. 

EGERTON. — I  can  continue  to  live  on  the  salary  of  a 
Cabinet  Minister. 

BARON. — Possibly  ;  but  you  are  no  longer  a  Cabinet 
Minister. 

34* 


Soa  MY  NOVEL;    OR, 

EGERTON. — You  have  never  found  me  deceived  in  a 
political  prediction.  Within  twelve  months  (should  life  be 
spared  to  me)  I  shall  be  in  office  again.  If  the  same  to  you, 
I  would  rather  wait  till  then,  formally  and  amicably  to  re- 
sign to  you  my  lands  and  this  house.  If  you  grant  that  re- 
prieve, our  connection  can  thus  close,  without  the  Mat  and 
noise  which  may  be  invidious  to  you,  as  it  would  be  disa- 
greeable to  me.  But  if  that  delay  be  inconvenient,  I  will 
appoint  a  lawyer  to  examine  your  accounts,  and  adjust  my 
liabilities. 

The  BARON  (soliloquizing). — I  don't  like  this.  A  lawyer! 
That  may  be  awkward. 

EGERTON  (observing  the  Baron,  with  a  curl  on  his  lip). 
— Well,  Levy,  how  shall  it  be  ? 

The  BARON. — You  know,  my  dear  fellow,  it  is  not  my 
character  to  be  hard  on  any  one,  least  of  all  upon  an  old 
friend.  And  if  you  really  think  there  is  a  chance  of  your 
return  to  office,  which  you  apprehend  that  an  esclandre as  to 
your  affairs  at  present  might  damage,  why,  let  us  see  if  we 
can  conciliate  matters.  But,  first,  man  cher,  in  order  to  be- 
come a  minister,  you  must  at  least  have  a  seat  in  Parlia- 
ment ;  and  pardon  me  the  question,  how  the  deuce  are  you 
to  find  one  ? 

EGERTON. — It  is  found. 

The  BARON. — Ah,  I  forgot  the  p^5,ooo  you  last  borrowed. 

EGERTON. — No  ;  I  reserve  that  sum  for  another  purpose. 

The  BARON  (with  a  forced  laugh). — Perhaps  to  defend 
yourself  against  the  actions  you  apprehend  from  me  ? 

EGERTON. — You  are  mistaken.  But  to  soothe  your  sus- 
picions, I  will  tell  you  plainly,  that  finding  any  sum  I  might 
have  insured  on  my  life  would  be  liable  to  debts  prein- 
curred,  and  (as  you  will  be  my  sole  creditor)  might  thus  at 
my  death  pass  back  to  you  ;  and  doubting  whether,  indeed, 
any  office  would  accept  my  insurance,  I  appropriate  that 
sum  to  the  relief  of  my  conscience.  I  intend  to  bestow  it, 
while  yet  in  life,  upon  my  late  wife's  kinsman,  Randal 
Leslie.  And  it  is  solely  the  wish  to  do  what  I  consider  an 
act  of  justice,  that  has  prevailed  with  me  to  accept  a  favor 
from  the  hands  of  Harley  L'Estrange,  and  to  become  again 
the  member  for  Lansmere. 

The  BARON. — Ha  ! — Lansmere  !  You  will  stand  for 
Lansmere  ? 

EGERTON  (wincing). — I  propose  to  do  so. 

The  BARON. — I  believe  you  will  be  opposed,  subjected  to 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  803 

even  a  sharp  contest.  Perhaps  you  may  lose  your  elec- 
tion. 

EGERTON. — If  so,  I  resign  myself,  and  you  can  foreclose 
on  my  estates. 

The  BARON  (his  brow  clearing). — Look  you,  Egerton,  I 
shall  be  too  happy  to  do  you  a  favor. 

EGERTON  (with  stateliness). — Favor !  No,  Baron  Levy, 
I  ask  from  you  no  favor.  Dismiss  all  thought  of  rendering 
me  one.  It  is  but  a  consideration  of  business  on  both  sides. 
If  you  think  it  better  that  we  shall  at  once  settle  our  ac- 
counts, my  lawyer  shall  investigate  them.  If  you  agree  to 
the  delay  I  request,  my  lawyer  shall  give  you  no  trouble  ; 
and  all  that  I  have,  except  hope  and  character,  pass  to  your 
hands  without  a  struggle. 

The  BARON. — Inflexible  and  ungracious,  favor  or  not — 
— put  it  as  you  will — I  accede,  provided,  first,  that  you 
allow  me  to  draw  up  a  fresh  deed,  which  will  accomplish 
your  part  of  the  compact ;  and,  secondly,  that  we  saddle 
the  proposed  delay  with  the  condition  that  you  do  not  lose 
your  election. 

EGERTON. — Agreed.     Have  you  anything  further  to  say  ? 

The  BARON. — Nothing,  except  that,  if  you  require  more 
money,  I  am  still  at  your  service. 

EGERTON. — I  thank  you.  No,  I  shall  take  the  occasion 
of  my  retirement  from  office  to  reduce  my  establishment. 
I  have  calculated  already,  and  provided  for  the  expenditure 
I  need,  up  to  the  date  I  have  specified,  and  I  shall  have  no 
occasion  to  touch  the  ^5,000  that  I  still  retain. 

"Your  young  friend,  Mr.  Leslie,  ought  to  be  very  grate- 
ful to  you,"  said  the  Baron,  rising.  "  I  have  met  him  in  the 
world — a  lad  of  much  promise  and  talent.  You  should  try 
and  get  him  also  into  Parliament." 

EGERTON  (thoughtfully). — You  are  a  good  judge  of  the 
practical  abilities  and  merits  of  men,  as  regards  worldly 
success.  Do  you  really  think  Randal  Leslie  calculated  for 
public  life — for  a  parliamentary  career  ? 

The  BARON. — Indeed  I  do. 

EGERTON  (speaking  more  to 'himself  than  Levy). — Parlia- 
ment without  fortune — 'tis  a  sharp  trial ;  still  he  is  prudent, 
abstemious,  energetic,  persevering  ;  and  at  the  onset,  under 
my  auspices  and  advice,  he  might  establish  a  position  beyond 
his  years. 

The  BARON. — It  strikes  me  that  we  might  possibly  get 
him  into  the  next  Parliament ;  or,  as  that  is  not  likely  to 


S04  MY  NOVEL;    OR, 

last  long,  at  all  events  into  the  Parliament  to  follow — not  for 
one  of  the  boroughs  which  will  be  swept  away,  but  for  a 
permanent  seat,  and  without  expense. 

EGERTON. — Ay — and  how  ? 

The  BARON.— Give  me  a  few  days  to  consider.  An  idea 
has  occurred  to  me.  I  will  call  again  if  I  find  it  practicable. 
Good  day  to  you,  Egerton,  and  success  to  your  election  for 
Lnnsmere. 


CHAPTER  VII. 

PESCHIERA  had  not  been  so  inactive  as  he  had  appeared 
to  Harley  and  the  reader.  On  the  contrary,  he  had  pre- 
pared the  way  for  his  ultimate  design,  with  ail  the  craft  and 
the  unscrupulous  resolution  which  belonged  to  his  nature. 
His  object  was  to  compel  Riccabocca  into  assenting  to  the 
Count's  marriage  with  Violante,  or,  failing  that,  to  ruin  all 
chance  of  his  kinsman's  restoration.  Quietly  and  secretly 
he  had  sought  out,  amongst  the  most  needy  and  unprincipled 
of  his  own  countrymen,  those  whom  he  could  suborn  to 
depose  to  Riccabocca's  participation  in  plots  and  con- 
spiracies against  the  Austrian  dominion.  These  his  former 
connection  with  the  Carbonari  enabled  him  to  track  to  their 
refuge  in  London  ;  and  his  knowledge  of  th»' characters  he 
had  to  deal  with  fitted  him  well  for  the  villanous  task  he 
undertook. 

He  had,  therefore,  already  selected  out  of  these  desper- 
adoes a  sufficient  number,  either  to  serve  as  witnesses 
against  his  kinsman,  or  to  aid  him  in  any  more  audacious 
scheme  which  circumstance  might  suggest  to  his  adoption. 
Meanwhile  he  had  (as  Harley  had  suspected  he  would)  set 
spies  upon  Randal's  movements  ;  and  the  day  before  that 
young  traitor  confided  to  him  Violante's  retreat,  he  had,  at 
least,  got  scent  of  her  father's. 

The  discovery  that  Violante  was  under  a  roof  so  honored, 
and  seemingly  so  safe  as  Lord  Lansmere's,  did  not  discourage 
this  bold  and  desperate  adventurer.  We  have  seen  him  set 
forth  to  reconnoitre  the  house  at  Knightsbridge.  He  had 
examined  it  well,  and  discovered  the  quarter  which  he  judged 
favorable  to  a  coup  de  main,  should  that  become  necessary. 

Lord  Lansmere's  house  and  grounds  were  surrounded 
by  a  wall,  the  entrance  being  to  the  high-road,  and  by  a 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  805 

porter's  lodge.  At  the  rear  there  lay  fields  crossed  by  a 
lane  or  by-road.  To  these  fields  a  small  door  in  the  wall, 
Which  was  used  by  the  gardeners  in  passing  to  and  from 
their  work,  gave  communication.  This  door  was  usually 
kept  locked  ;  but  the  lock  was  of  the  rude  and  simple 
description  common  to  such  entrances,  and  easily  opened 
by  a  skeleton  key.  So  far  there  was  no  obstacle  which  Pes- 
chiera's  experience  in  conspiracy  and  gallantry  did  not 
disdain  as  trivial.  But  the  Count  was  not  disposed  to  abrupt 
and  violent  means  in  the  first  instance.  He  had  a  confidence 
in  his  personal  gifts,  in  his  address,  in  his  previous  triumphs 
over  the  sex,  which  made  him  naturally  desire  to  hazard  the 
effect  of  a  personal  interview  ;  and  on  this  he  resolved  with 
his  wonted  audacity.  Randal's  description  of  Violante's 
personal  appearance,  and  such  suggestions  as  to  her  char- 
acter, and  the  motives  most  likely  to  influence  her  actions, 
as  that  young  lynx-eyed  observer  could  bestow,  were  all 
that  the  Count  required  of  present  aid  from  his  accomplice. 

Meanwile  we  return  to  Violante  herself.  We  see  her 
now  seated  in  the  gardens  at  Knightsbridge,  side  by  side 
with  Helen.  The  place  was  retired,  and  out  of  sight  from 
the  windows  of  the  house. 

VIOLANTE  — But  why  will  you  not  tell  me  more  of  that 
early  time  ?  You  are  less  communicative  even  than 
Leonard. 

HELEN  (looking  down,  and  hesitatingly). — Indeed  there 
is  nothing  to  tell  you  that  you  do  not  know  ;  and  it  is  so 
long  since,  and  things  are  so  changed  now. 

The  tone  of  the  last  words  was  mournful,  and  the  words 
ended  with  a  sigh. 

VIOLANTE  (with  enthusiasm). — How  I  envy  you  that  past 
which  you  treat  so  lightly  !  To  have  been  something,  even 
in  childhood,  to  the  formation  of  a  noble  nature  ;  to  have 
borne  on  those  slight  shoulders  half  the  load  of  a  man's 
grand  labor.  And  now  to  see  Genius  moving  calm  in  its 
clear  career ;  and  to  say  inly,  "  Of  that  genius  I  am  a 
part  !  " 

HELEN  (sadly  and  humbly).— A  part !  Oh,  no  !  I  don't 
understand  you. 

VIOLANTE. — Take  the  child  Beatrice  from  Dante's  life, 
and  should  we  have  a  Dante  ?  What  is  a  poet's  genius  but 
the  voice  of  its  emotions  ?  All  things  in  life  and  in  Nature 
influence  genius  ;  but  what  influences  it  the  most  are  its 
own  sorrows  and  affections. 


8o6  MY  NOVEL;    OR, 

Helen  looks  softly  into  Violante's  eloquent  face,  and 
draws  nearer  to  her  in  tender  silence. 

VIOLANTE  (suddenly). — Yes,  Helen,  yes — I  know  by  my 
own  heart  how  to  read  yours.  Such  memories  are  inefface- 
able Few  guess  what  strange  self-weavers  of  our  own 
destinies  we  women  are  in  our  veriest  childhood  !  (she  sunk 
her  voice  into  a  whisper.)  How  could  Leonard  fail  to  be 
dear  to  you — dear  as  you  to  him — dearer  than  all  others  ? 

HELEN  (shrinking  back,  and  greatly  disturbed). — Hush, 
hush  !  you  must  not  speak  to  me  thus  ;  it  is  wicked — I  can- 
not bear  it.  I  would  not  have  it  be  so — it  must  not  be — it 
cannot  ! 

She  clasped  her  hands  over  her  eyes  for  a  moment,  and 
then  lifted  her  face,  and  the  face  was  very  sad,  but  very 
calm. 

VIOLANTE  (twining  her  arm  around  Helen's  waist). — How 
have  I  wounded  you  ? — how  offended  ?  Forgive  me — but 
why  is  this  wicked  ?  Why  must  it  not  be  ?  Is  it  because 
he  is  below  you  in  birth  ? 

HELEN. — No,  no— I  never  thought  of  that.  And  what 
am  I  ?  Don't  ask  me — I  cannot  answer.  You  are  wrong, 
quite  wrong,  as  to  me.  I  can  only  look  on  Leonard  as — as 
a  brother.  But — but  you  can  speak  to  him  more  freely  than 
1  can.  I  would  not  have  him  waste  his  heart  on  me,  nor  yet 
think  me  unkind  and  distant,  as  I  seem.  I  know  not  what 
I  sav.  But — but — break  to  him — indirectly — gently — that 
duty  in  both  forbids  us  both  to — to  be  more  than  friends — 
than • 

"  Helen,  Helen  !"  cried  Violante,  in  her  warm,  generous 
passion,  "your  heart  betrays  you  in  every  word  you  say. 
You  weep  ;  lean  on  me,  whisper  to  me  ;  why — why  is  this  ? 
DJ  you  fear  that  your  guardian  would  not  consent  ?  He 
not  consent  ?  He  who " 

HELEN.  — Cease — cease — cease. 

VIOLANTE. — What!  You  can  fear  Harley — Lord  L'Es- 
trange  ?  Fie  !  you  do  not  know  him. 

HELEN  (rising  suddenly). — Violante,  hold  ;  I  am  engaged 
to  another. 

Violante  rose  also,  and  stood  still,  as  if  turned  to  stone  ; 
pale  as  death,  till  the  blood  came,  at  first  slowly,  then  with 
suddenness  from  her  heart,  and  one  deep  glow  suffused  her 
whole  countenance.  She  caught  Helen's  hand  firmly,  and 
said,  in  a  hollow  voice — 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  807 

"  Another !  Engaged  to  another  !  One  word,  Helen — 
not  to  him —  not  to  Harley — to " 

"  I  cannot  say — I  must  not.  I  have  promised,"  cried 
poor  Helen,  and  as  Violante  let  fall  her  hand,  she  hurried 
away. 

Violante  sate  down,  mechanically  ;  she  felt  as  if  stun- 
ned by  a  mortal  blow.  She  closed  her  eyes  and  breathed 
hard.  A  deadly  faintness  seized  her  ;  and  when  it  passed 
away,  it  seemed  to  her  as  if  she  were  no  longer  the  same 
being,  nor  the  world  around  her  the  same  world  ;  as  if 
she  were  but  one  sense  of  intense,  hopeless  misery,  and 
as  if  the  universe  were  but  one  inanimate  void.  So 
strangely  immaterial  are  we  really — we  human  beings,  with 
flesh  and  blood — that  if  you  suddenly  abstract  from  us  but 
a  single,  impalpable,  airy  thought,  which  our  souls  have 
cherished,  you  seem  to  curdle  the  air,  to  extinguish  the 
sun,  to  snap  every  link  that  connects  us  to  matter,  and  to 
benumb  everything  into  death,  except  woe. 

And  this  warm,  young,  southern  nature,  but  a  moment 
before  was  so  full  of  joy  and  life,  and  vigorous  lofty  hope. 
It  never  till  now  had  known  its  own  intensity  and  depth. 
The  virgin  had  never  lifted  the  veil  from  her  own  soul  of 
woman.  What  till  then  had  Harley  L'Estrange  been  to 
Violante?  An  ideal — a  dream  of  some  imagined  excel- 
lence— a  type  of  poetry  in  the  midst  of  the  common  world. 
It  had  not  been  Harley  the  man — it  had  been  Harley  the 
Phantom.  She  had  never  said  to  herself,  "  He  is  identified 
with  my  love— my  hopes,  my  home,  my  future."  How 
could  she  ?  Of  such,  he  himself  had  never  spoken  ;  an  in- 
ternal voice,  indeed,  had  vaguely,  yet  irresistibly,  whispered 
to  her  that,  despite  his  light  words,  his  feelings  toward  her 
were  grave  and  deep.  O  false  voice !  how  it  had  deceived 
her  !  Her  quick  convictions  seized  the  all  that  Helen  had 
left  unsaid.  And  now  suddenly  she  felt  what  it  is  to  love, 
and  what  it  is  to  despair.  So  she  sate,  crushed  and  sol- 
itary, neither  murmuring  nor  weeping,  only  now  and  then 
passing  her  hand  across  her  brow,  as  if  to  clear  away  some 
cloud  that  would  not  be  dispersed  ;  or  heaving  a  deep 
sigh,  as  if  to  throw  off  some  load  that  no  time  hencefortli 
could  remove.  There  are  certain  moments  in  life  in  which 
we  say  to  ourselves,  "All  is  over  ;  no  matter  what  else 
changes,  that  whicli  I  have  made  my  all  is  gone  evermore— 
evermore."  And  our  own  thought  rings  back  in  our  ears, 
"  Evermore — evermore  ! " 


8o8  MY  NOVEL;    OR, 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

As  Violante  thus  sate,  a  stranger,  passing  stealthily 
through  the  trees,  stood  between  herself  and  the  evening 
sun.  She  saw  him  not.  He  paused  a  moment,  and  then 
spoke  low,  in  her  native  tongue,  addressing  her  by  the 
name  which  she  had  borne  in  Italy.  He  spoke  as  a  re- 
lation, and  excused  his  intrusion  :  "  For,"  said  he,  "I  come 
to  suggest  to  the  daughter  the  means  by  which  she  can  re- 
store to  her  father  his  country  and  his  honors." 

At  the  word  "father"  Violante  roused  herself,  and  all 
her  love  for  that  father  rushed  back  upon  her  with  double 
force.  It  does  so  ever — we  love  most  our  parents  at  the 
moment  when  some  tie  less  holy  is  abruptly  broken  ;  and 
when  the  conscience  says,  "  There,  at  least,  is  a  love  that 
has  never  deceived  thee  !  " 

She  saw  before  her  a  man  of  mild  aspect  and  princely 
form.  Peschiera  (for  it  was  he)  had  banished  from  hi? 
dress,  as  from  his  countenance,  all  that  betrayed  the  worldly 
levity  of  his  character.  He  was  acting  a  part,  and  he 
dressed  and  looked  it. 

"My  father!"  she  said,  quickly,  and  in  Italian.  "What 
of  him?  And  who  are  you,  signor  ?  I  know  you  not." 

Peschiera  smiled  benignly,  and  replied  in  a  tone  in 
which  great  respect  was  softened  by  a  kind  of  parental 
tenderness. 

''  Suffer  me  to  explain,  and  listen  to  me  while  I  speak." 
Then,  quietly  seating  himself  on  the  bench  beside  her,  he 
looked  into  her  eyes,  and  resumed. 

"  Doubtless,  you  have  heard  of  the  Count  di  Peschiera  ?" 

VIOLANTE. — I  heard  that  name,  as  a  child,  when  in  Italy. 
And  when  she  with  whom  I  then  dwelt  (my  father's  aunO, 
fell  ill  and  died,  I  was  told  that  my  home  in  Italy  was  gone, 
that  it  had  passed  to  the  Count  di  Peschiera — my  father's 
foe! 

PESCHIERA. — And  your  father,  since  then,  has  taught 
you  to  hate  this  fancied  foe  ! 

VIOLANTE. — Nay  ;  my  father  did  but  forbid  me  ever  to 
breathe  his  name. 

PESCHIERA. — Alas  !  what  yearsof  sufferingand  exile  might 


VARIETIES  fff  ENGLISH  LIFE.  809 

have  been  saved  your  father,  had  he  but  been  more  just  to 
his  early  friend  and  kinsman  ;  nay,  had  he  but  less  cruelly  con- 
cealed the  secret  of  his  retreat.  Fair  child,  I  am  that  Giulio 
Franzini,  that  Count  di  Peschiera.  I  am  the  man  you  have 
been  told  to  regard  as  your  father's  foe.  I  am  the  man  on 
whom  the  Austrian  Emperor  bestowed  his  lands.  And  now 
judge  if  I  am,  in  truth,  the  foe.  1  have  come  hither  to  seek 
your  father,  in  order  to  dispossess  myself  of  my  sovereign's 
gift.  I  have  come  but  with  one  desire,  to  restore  Alphonso 
to  his  native  land,  and  to  surrender  the  heritage  that  was 
forced  upon  me. 

VIOLANTE. — My  father,  my  dear  father !  His  grand 
heart  will  have  room  once  more.  Oh  !  this  is  noble  enmity, 
true  revenge.  I  understand  it,  signor,  and  so  will  my 
father,  for  such  would  have  been  his  revenge  on  you.  You 
have  seen  him  ? 

PESCHIERA. — No,  not  yet.  I  would  not  see  him  till  I  had 
seen  yourself;  for  you,  in  truth,  are  the  arbiter  of  his  desti- 
nies as  of  mine  ! 

VIOLANTE. — I — Count  ?  I  arbiter  of  my  father's  desti- 
nies ?  Is  it  possible  ? 

PESCHIERA  (with  a  look  of  compassionate  admiration, 
and  in  a  tone  yet  more  emphatically  parental). — How 
lovely  is  that  innocent  joy !  but  do  not  indulge  it  yet.  Per- 
haps it  is  a  sacrifice  which  is  asked  from  you — a  sacrifice 
too  hard  to  bear.  Do  not  interrupt  me.  Listen  still,  and 
you  will  see  why  I  could  not  speak  to  your  father  until  I 
had  obtained  an  interview  with  yourself. — See  why  a  word 
from  you  may  continue  still  to  banish  me  from  his  pres- 
ence. You  know,  doubtless,  that  your  father  was  one  of 
the  chiefs  of  a  party  that  sought  to  free  Northern  Italy 
from  the  Austrians.  I  myself  was  at  the  onset  a  warm  par- 
ticipator in  that  scheme.  In  a  sudden  moment  I  discovered 
that  some  of  its  more  active  projectors  had  coupled  with  a 
patriotic  enterprise  plots  of  a  dark  nature,  and  that  the 
conspiracy  itself  was  about  to  be  betrayed  to  the  govern- 
ment. I  wished  to  consult  with  your  father  ;  but  he  was  at 
a  distance.  I  learned  that  his  life  was  condemned.  Not 
an  hour  was  to  be  lost.  I  took  a  bold  resolve,  that  has  ex- 
posed me  to  his  suspicions  and  to  my  country's  wrath.  But 
my  main  idea  was  to  save  him,  my  early  friend,  from  death, 
and  my  country  from  fruitless  massacre.  I  withdrew  from 
the  intended  revolt.  I  sought  at  once  the  head  of  the 
Austrian  Government  in  Italy,  and  made  terms  for  the  lives 


8 io  MY  NOVEL;    OK, 

of  Alphonso,  and  of  the  other  more  illustrious  chiefs,  which 
otherwise  would  have  been  forfeited.  I  obtained  permission 
to  undertake  myself  the  charge  of  securing  my  kinsman  in 
order  to  place  him  in  safety,  and  to  conduct  him  to  a  for- 
eign land,  in  an  exile  that  would  cease  when  the  danger 
was  dispelled.  But  unhappily  he  deemed  that  I  only 
sought  to  destroy  him.  He  fled  from  my  friendly  pursuit. 
The  soldiers  with  me  were  attacked  by  an  intermeddling 
Englishman  ;  your  father  escaped  from  Italy — concealing 
his  retreat ;  and  the  character  of  his  flight  counteracted  my 
efforts  to  obtain  his  pardon.  The  government  conferred  on 
me  half  his  revenues,  holding  the  other  half  at  its  pleasure. 
I  accepted  the  offer  in  order  to  save  his  whole  heritage 
from  confiscation.  That  I  did  not  convey  to  him  what  I 
pined  to  do — viz.,  the  information  that  I  held  but  in  trust 
what  was  bestowed  by  the  government,  and  the  full  explana- 
tion of  what  seemed  blameable  in  my  conduct — was  neces- 
sarily owing  to  the  secrecy  he  maintained.  I  could  not  dis- 
cover his  refuge  ;  but  I  never  ceased  to  plead  for  his  recall. 
This  year  only  I  have  partially  succeeded.  He  can  be  re- 
stored to  his  heritage  and  rank,  on  one  proviso — a  guarantee 
for  his  loyalty.  That  guarantee  the  government  has  named  ; 
it  is  the  alliance  of  his  only  child  with  one  whom  the  gov- 
ernment can  trust.  It  was  the  interest  of  all  the  Italian 
nobility,  that  the  representation  of  a  house  so  great,  falling 
to  a  female,  should  not  pass  away  wholly  from  the  direct 
line  ; — in  a  word,  that  you  should  ally  yourself  with  a  kins- 
man. But  one  kinsman,  and  he  the  next  in  blood,  presented 
himself.  In  short — Alphonso  regains  all  that  he  lost  on  the 
day  in  which  his  daughter  gives  her  hand  toGiulio  Franzini, 
Count  di  Peschiera.  Ah,"  continued  the  Count,  mournfully, 
"you  shrink,  you  recoil.  He  thus  submitted  to  your  choice 
is  indeed  unworthy  of  you.  You  are  scarce  in  the  spring  of 
life.  He  is  in  its  waning  autumn.  Youth  loves  youth.  He 
does  not  aspire  to  your  love.  All  that  he  can  say  is,  love 
is  not  the  only  joy  of  the  heart — it  is  joy  to  raise  from  ruin 
a  beloved  father — joy  to  restore  to  a  land  poor  in  all  but 
memories,  a  chief  in  whom  it  reverences  a  line  of  heroes. 
These  are  the  joys  I  offer  to  you — you,  a  daughter,  and  an 
Italian  maid.  Still  silent !  Oh,  speak  to  me  !  " 

Certainly  this  Count  Peschiera  knew  well  how  woman 
is  to  be  wooed  and  won  ;  and  never  was  woman  more  sensi- 
tive to  those  high  appeals  which  most  move  all  true  earnest 
womanhood,  than  was  the  young  Violante.  Fortune  favored 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  811 

him  in  the  moment  chosen.  Harley  was  wrenched  away 
from  her  hopes,  and  love  a  word  erased  from  her  language. 
In  the  void  of  the  world,  her  father's  image  alone  stood 
clear  and  visible.  And  she  who  from  infancy  had  so  pined 
to  serve  that  father,  who  at  first  learned  to  dream  of  Harley 
as  that  father's  friend  !  She  could  restore  to  him  all  for 
which  the  exile  sighed  ;  and  by  a  sacrifice  of  self !  Self- 
sacrifice,  ever  in  itself  such  a  temptation  to  the  noble ! 
Still,  in  the  midst  of  the  confusion  and  disturbance  of  her 
mind,  the  idea  of  marriage  with  another  seemed  so  terrible 
and  revolting,  that  she  could  not  at  once  conceive  it ;  and 
still  that  instinct  of  openness  and  honor  which  pervaded  all 
her  character  warned  even  her  inexperience  that  there  was 
something  wrong  in  this  clandestine  meeting  to  herself. 

Again  the  Count  besought  her  to  speak,  and  with  an 
effort  she  said,  irresolutely — 

"If  it  be  as  you  say,  it  is  not  for  me  to  answer  you  ;  it 
is  for  my  father." 

"Nay,"  replied  Peschiera.  "Pardon,  if  I  contradict  you. 
Do  you  know  so  little  of  your  father  as  to  suppose  that  he 
will  suffer  his  interest  to  dictate  to  his  pride  ?  He  would 
refuse,  perhaps,  even  to -receive  my  visit — to  hear  my  expla- 
nations ;  but  certainly  he  would  refuse  to  buy  back  his  in- 
heritance by  the  sacrifice  of  his  daughter  to  one  whom  he 
has  deemed  his  foe,  and  whom  the  mere  disparity  of  years 
would  incline  the  world  to  say  he  had  made  the  barter  of 
his  personal  ambition.  But  if  I  could  go  to  him  sanctioned 
by  you — if  I  could  say  your  daughter  overlooks  what  the' 
father  might  deem  an  obstacle — she  has  consented  to  ac- 
cept my  hand  of  her  own  free  choice — she  unites  her 
happiness  and  blends  her  prayers  with  mine — then,  in- 
deed, I  could  not  fail  of  success  ;  and  Italy  would  pardon 
my  errors,  and  bless  your  name.  Ah  !  Signorina,  do  not 
think  of  me,  save  as  an  instrument  toward  the  fulfilment 
of  duties  so  high  and  sacred — think  but  of  your  ancestors, 
your  father,  your  native  land,  and  reject  not  the  proud  oc- 
casion to  prove  how  you  revere  them  all !  " 

Violante's  heart  was  touched  at  the  right  chord.  Her 
head  rose — the  color  came  baqk  to  her  pale  cheek — she 
turned  the  glorious  beauty  of  her  countenance  toward  the 
wily  tempter.  She  was  about  to  answer,  and  to  seal  her 
fate,  when  at  that  instant  Harley's  voice  was  heard  at  a 
little  distance,  and  Nero  came  bounding  toward,  her,  and 
thrust  himself,  with  rough  familiarity,  between  her  and 


Si2  MY  NOVEL;    OR, 

Peschiera.  The  Count  drew  back,  and  Violante.  whose 
eyes  were  still  fixed  on  his  face,  started  at  the  change  that 
passed  there.  One  quick  gleam  of  rage  sufficed  in  an  instant 
to  light  up  the  sinister  secrets  of  his  nature — it  was  the  face 
of  a  baffled  gladiator.  He  had  time  but  for  few  words. 

"  I  must  not  be  seen  here,"  he  muttered  ;  "  but  to-morrow 
— in  these  gardens — about  this  hour.  I  implore  you  for  the 
sake  of  your  father — his  hopes,  fortunes,  his  very  life,  to 
guard  the  secret  of  this  interview — to  meet  me  again. 
Adieu  ! " 

He  vanished  amidst  the  trees,  and  was  gone — noiselessly, 
mysteriously,  as  he  had  come. 


CHAPTER  IX. 

THE  last  words  of  Peschiera  were  still  ringing  in  Vio- 
lante's  ears  when  Harley  appeared  in  sight,  and  the  sound 
of  his  voice  dispelled  the  vague  and  dreamy  stupor  which 
had  crept  over  her  senses.  At  that  voice  there  returned  the 
consciousness  of  a  mighty  loss,  the  sting  of  an  intolerable 
anguish.  To  meet  Harley  there,  and  thus,  seemed  impos- 
sible. She  turned  abruptly  away,  and  hurried  toward  the 
house.  Harley  called  to  her  by  name,  but  she  would  not 
answer,  and  only  quickened  her  steps.  He  paused  a  moment 
"in  surprise,  and  then  hastened  after  her. 

"Under  what  strange  taboo  am  I  placed?"  said  he, 
gaily,  as  he  laid  his  hand  on  her  shrinking  arm.  "  I  inquire 
for  Helen — she  is  ill,  and  cannot  see  me.  I  come  to  sun 
myself  in  your  presence,  and  you  fly  me,  as  if  gods  and  men 
had  set  their  mark  on  my  brow.  Child  ! — child  ! — what  is 
this  ?  You  are  weeping  ?  " 

"•Do  not  stay  me  now— do  not  speak  to  me,"  answered 
Violante,  through  her  stifling  sobs,  as  she  broke  from  his 
hand  and  made  toward  the  house. 

"  Have  you  a  grief,  and  under  the  shelter  of  my  father's 
roof  ?  A  grief  that  you  will  not  tell  to  me  ?  Cruel !  "  cried 
Harley,  with  inexpressible  tenderness  of  reproach  in  his 
soft  tones. 

Violante  could  not  trust  herself  to  reply.  Ashamed  of 
her  self-betrayal — softened  yet  more  by  his  pleading  voice — 
she  could  have  prayed  to  the  earth  to  swallow  her.  At 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  813 

length,  checking  her  tears  by  an  heroic  effort,  she  said, 
almost  calmly,  "  Noble  friend,  forgive  me.  I  have  no  grief, 
believe  me,  which — which  I  can  tell  to  you.  I  was  but 
thinking  of  my  poor  father  when  you  came  up  ;  alarming 
myself  about  him,  it  may  be,  with  vain  superstitious  fears  ; 
and  so — even  a  slight  surprise — your  abrupt  appearance, 
has  sufficed  to  make  me  thus  weak  and  foolish  ;  but  I  wish 
to  see  my  father  ; — to  go  home — home  !  " 

"  Your  father  is  well,  believe  me,  and  pleased  that  you 
are  here.  No  danger  threatens  him  ;  and  you,  here,  are 
safe." 

"  I  safe — and  from  what  ?  " 

Harley  mused  irresolute.  He  inclined  to  confide  to  her 
the  danger  which  her  father  had  concealed  ;  but  had  he  the 
right  to  do  so,  against  her  father's  will  ? 

"  Give  me,"  he  said,  "  time  to  reflect,  and  to  obtain 
permission  to  intrust  you  with  a  secret  which,  in  my  judg- 
ment, you  should  know.  Meanwhile,  this  much  I  may  say, 
that  rather  than  you  should  incur  the  danger  that  I  believe 
he  exaggerates,  your  father  would  have  given  you  a  protec- 
tor— even  in  Randal  Leslie." 

Violante  started. 

"  But,"  resumed  Harley,  with  a  calm,  in  which  a  certain 
deep  mournfulness  was  apparent,  unconsciously  to  himself 
— "  but  I  trust  you  are  reserved  for  a  fairer  fate,  and  a 
nobler  spouse.  I  have  vowed  to  live  henceforth  in  the 
common  work-day  world.  But  for  you,  bright  child,  for  you 
I  am  a  dreamer  still ! " 

Violante  turned  her  eyes  for  one  instant  toward  the 
melancholy  speaker.  The  look  thrilled  to  his  heart.  He 
bowed  his  face  involuntarly.  When  he  looked  up,  she  had 
left  his  side.  He  did  not  this  time  attempt  to  follow  her, 
but  moved  away  and  plunged  amidst  the  leafless  trees. 

An  hour  afterward  he  re-entered  the  house,  and  again 
sought  to  see  Helen.  She  had  now  recovered  sufficiently 
to  give  him  the  interview  he  requested. 

He  approached  her  with  a  grave  and  serious  gentleness. 

"  My  dear  Helen,"  said  he,  "you  have  consented  to  be 
my  wife,  my  life's  mild  companion  ;  let  it  be  soon — soon — 
for  I  need  you.  I  need  all  the  strength  of  that  holy  tie. 
Helen,  let  me  press  you  to  fix  the  time." 

"  I  owe  you  too  much,"  answered  Helen,  looking  down, 
"  to  have  any  will  but  yours.  But  your  mother,"  she  added, 


8 14  MY  NOVEL;    OR, 

perhaps  clinging  to  the  idea  of  some  reprieve — "  your 
mother  has  not  yet " 

"  My  mother — true.  I  will  speak  first  to  her.  You  shall 
receive  from  mv  family  all  honor  due  to  your  gentle  vir- 
tues. Helen,  by  the  way,  have  you  mentioned  to  Violante 
the  bond  between  us  ?" 

"  No — that  is,  I  fear  I  may  have  unguardedly  betrayed 
it,  against  Lady  Lansmere's  commands  too— but — but " 

"  So  Lady  Lansmere  forbade  you  to  name  it  to  Violante. 
This  should  not  be.  I  will  answer  for  her  permission  to 
revoke  that  interdict.  It  is  due  to  Violante  and  to  you. 
Tell  your  young  friend  all.  Ah,  Helen,  if  I  am  at  times 
cold  or  wayward,  bear  with  me — bear  with  me  ;  for  you  love 
me,  do  you  not  ?  " 


CHAPTER  X. 

THAT  same  evening  Randal  heard  from  Levy  (at  whose 
house  he  stayed  late)  of  that  self-introduction  to  Violante 
which  (thanks  to  his  skeleton-key)  Peschiera  had  contrived 
to  effect ;  and  the  Count  seemed  more  than  sanguine — he 
seemed  assured  as  to  the  full  and  speedy  success  of  his 
matrimonial  enterprise.  "  Therefore,"  said  Levy,  "  I  trust 
I  may  very  soon  congratulate  you  on  the  acquisition  of 
your  family  estates." 

"Strange  !  "  answered  Randal,  "  strange  that  my  fortunes 
seem  so  bound  up  with  the  fate  of  a  foreigner  like  Beatrice 
di  Negra  and  her  connection  with  Frank  Hazeldean."  He 
looked  up  at  the  clock  as  he  spoke,  and  added — 

"  Frank  by  this  time  has  told  his  father  of  his  engage- 
ment." 

"  And  you  feel  sure  that  the  Squire  cannot  be  coaxed 
into  consent  ? " 

"  No  ;  but  I  feel  sure  that  the  Squire  will  be  so  choleric 
at  the  first  intelligence,  that  Frank  will  not  have  the  self- 
control  necessary  for  coaxing  ;  and,  perhaps,  before  the 
Squire  can  relent  upon  this  point,  he  may  by  some  accident 
learn  his  grievances  on  another,  which  would  exasperate 
him  still  more." 

"Ay,  I  understand — \.\\e post-obit ?" 

Randal  nodded. 

"  And  what  then  ?  "  asked  Levy. 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  815 

"  The  next  of  kin  to  the  lands  of  Hazeldean  may  have 
his  day." 

The  Baron  smiled. 

"You  have  good  prospects  in  that  direction,  Leslie; 
look  now  to  another.  I  spoke  to  you  of  the  borough  of 
Lansmere.  Your  patron,  Audley  Egerton,  intends  to  stand 
for  it." 

Randal's  heart  had  of  late  been  so  set  upon  other  and 
more  avaricious  schemes,  that  a  seat  in  Parliament  had  sunk 
into  a  secondary  object  ;  nevertheless  his  ambitious  and  all- 
grasping  nature  felt  a  bitter  pang,  when  he  heard  that  Eger- 
ton thus  interposed  between  himself  and  any  chance  of  ad- 
vancement. 

"  So  !  "  he  muttered,  sullenly — "  so.  This  man,  who  pre- 
tends to  be  my  benefactor,  squanders  away  the  wealth  of 
my  forefathers — throws  me  penniless  on  the  world  ;  and, 
while  still  encouraging  me  to  exertion  and  public  life,  robs 
me  himself  of " 

"  No ! "  interrupted  Levy — "  not  robs  you  ;  we  may  pre- 
vent that.  The  Lansmere  interest  is  not  so  strong  in  the 
borough  as  Dick  Avenel's." 

'•  But  I  cannot  stand  against  Egerton." 

"Assuredly  not — you  may  stand  with  him." 

"How?"  :. 

"  Dick  Avenel  will  never  suffer  Egerton  to  come  in  ;  and 
though  he  cannot,  perhaps,  carry  two  of  his  own  politics, 
he  can  split  his  votes  upon  you." 

Randal's  eyes  flashed.  He  saw  at  a  glance,  that  if 
Avenel  did  not  overrate  the  relative  strength  of  parties,  his 
seat  could  be  secured. 

"  But,"  he  said,  "  Egerton  has  not  spoken  to  me  on  such 
a  subject  ;  nor  can  you  expect  that  he  would  propose  to  me 
to  stand  with  him,  if  he  foresaw  the  chance  of. being  ousted 
by 'the  very  candidate  he  himself  introduced." 

"  Neither  he  nor  his  party  will  anticipate  that  possibil- 
ity. If  he  ask  you,  agree  to  stand — leave  the  rest  to  me." 

"You  must  hate  Egerton  bitterly,"  said  Randal  ;  "for  I 
am  not  vain  enough  to  think  that  you  thus  scheme  but  from 
pure  love  to  me." 

"The  motives  of  men  are  intricate  and  complicated,"  an- 
swered Levy,  with  unusual  seriousness.  "It  suffices  to  the 
wise  to  profit  by  the  actions,  and  leave  the  motives  in 
shade." 

There  was  silence  for  some  minutes.   Then  the  two  drew 


816  MY  NOVKT.;    OR, 

closer  toward  each  other,  and  began  to  discuss  details  in 
their  joint  designs. 

Randal  walked  home  slowly.  It  was  a  cold  moonlit 
night.  Young  idlers  of  his  own  years  and  rank  passed  him 
by,  on  their  way  from  the  haunts  of  social  pleasure.  They 
were  yet  in  the  first  fair  holiday  of  life.  Life's  holiday  had 
gone  from  him  for  ever.  Graver  men,  in  the  various  call- 
ings of  masculine  labor — professions,  trade,  the  state — 
passed  him  also.  Their  steps  might  be  sober,  and  their  faces 
care-worn  ;  but  no  step  had  the  furtive  stealth  of  his — no 
face  the  same  contracted,  sinister,  suspicious  gloom.  Only 
once,  in  a  lonely  thoroughfare,  and  on  the  opposite  side  of 
the  way,  fell  a  footfall,  and  glanced  an  eye,  that  seemed  to 
betray  a  soul  in  sympathy  with  Randal  Leslie's. 

And  Randal,  who  had  heeded  none  of  the  other  passen- 
gers by  the  way,  as  if  instinctively,  took  note  of  this  one. 
His  nerves  crisped  at  the  noiseless  slide  of  that  form,  as  it 
stalked  on  from  lamp  to  lamp,  keeping  pace  with  his  own. 
He  felt  a  sort  of  awe,  as  if  he  had  beheld  the  wraith  of  him- 
self ;  and  ever  as  he  glanced  suspiciously  at  the  stranger, 
the  stranger  glanced  at  him.  He  was  inexpressibly  re- 
lieved when  the  figure  turned  down  another  street  and 
vanished. 

That  man  was  a  felon,  as  yet  undetected.  Between  him 
and  his  kind  there  stood  but  a  thought — a  veil  air-spun,  but 
impassable,  as  the  veil  of  the  Image  at  Sais. 

And  thus  moved  and  thus  looked  Randal  Leslie,  a  thing 
of  dark  and  secret  mischief — within  the  pale  of  the  law,  but 
equally  removed  from  man  by  the  vague  consciousness  that 
at  his  heart  lay  that  which  the  eyes  of  man  would  abhor 
and  loathe.  Solitary  amidst  the  vast  city,  and  on  through 
the  machinery  of  Civilization,  went  the  still  spirit  of  Intel- 
lectual Evil.- 


CHAPTER   XI. 

EARLY  the  next  morning  Randal  received  two  notes — 
one  from  Frank,  written  in  great  agitation,  begging  Randal 
to  see  and  propitiate  his  father,  whom  he  feared  he  had 
grievously  offended  ;  and  then  running  off,  rather  incoher- 
ently, into  protestations  that  his  honor  as  well  as  his  affec- 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  817 

tions  were  engaged  irrevocably  to  Beatrice,  and  that  her, 
at  least,  he  could  never  abandon. 

And  the  second  note  was  from  the  Squire  himself — 
short,  and  far  less  cordial  than  usual — requesting  Mr.  Leslie 
to  call  on  him. 

Randal  dressed  in  haste,  and  went  first  to  Limner's 
hotel. 

'  He  found  the  Parson  with  Mr.  Hazeldean,  and  endea- 
voring in  vain  to  soothe  him.  The  Squire  had  not  slept  all 
night,  and  his  appearance  was  almost  haggard. 

"  Oho  !  Mr.  young  Leslie,"  said  he,  throwing  himself 
back  in  his  chair  as  Randal  entered — "  I  thought  you  were 
a  friend — I  thought  you  were  Frank's  adviser.  Explain, 
sir  ;  explain." 

"  Gently,  my  dear  Mr.  Hazeldean,"  said  the  Parson. 
"You  do  but  surprise  and  alarm  Mr.  Leslie.  Tell  him 
more  distinctly  what  he  has  to  explain." 

SQUIRE. — Did  you,  or  did  you  not,  tell  me  or  Mrs.  Hazel- 
dean,  that  Frank  was  in  love  with  Violante  Rickeybockey  ? 

RANDAL  (as  in  amaze). — I !  Never,  sir  ;  I  feared,  on  the 
contrary,  that  he  was  somewhat  enamoured  of  a  very  differ- 
ent person.  I  hinted  at  that  possibility ;  I  could  not  do 
more,  for  I  did  not  know  how  far  Frank's  affections  were 
seriously  engaged.  And  indeed,  sir,  Mrs.  Hazeldean,  though 
not  encouraging  the  idea  that  your  son  could  marry  a  for- 
eigner and  a  Roman  Catholic,  did  not  appear  to  consider 
such  objections  insuperable,  if  Frank's  happiness  were 
really  at  stake. 

Here  the  poor  Squire  gave  way  to  a  burst  of  passion, 
that  involved  in  one  tempest  Frank,  Randal,  Harry  herself, 
and  the  whole  race  of  foreigners,  Roman  Catholics,  and 
women.  While  the  Squire  was  still  incapable  of  hearing 
reason,  the  Parson,  taking  aside  Randal,  convinced  himself 
that  the  whole  affair,  so  far  as  Randal  was  concerned,  had 
its  origin  in  a  very  natural  mistake  ;  and  that  while  that 
young  gentleman  had  been  hinting  at  Beatrice,  Mrs.  Hazel- 
dean  had  been  thinking  of  Violante.  With  considerable 
difficulty  he  succeeded  in  conveying  this  explanation  to  the 
Squire,  and  somewhat  appeasing  his  wrath  against  Randal. 
And  the  Dissimulator,  seizing  his  occasion,  then  expressed 
so  much  grief  and  astonishment  at  learning  that  matters 
had  gone  as  far  as  the  Parson  informed  him — that  Frank 
had  actually  proposed  to  Beatrice,  been  accepted,  and  en- 
gaged himself,  before  even  communicating  with  his  father  ; 

35 


8i8  MY  NOVEL;    OK, 

he  declared  so  earnestly,  that  he  could  never  conjecture 
such  evil — that  he  had  had'Frank's  positive  promise  to  take 
no  step  without  the  sanction  of  his  parents  ;  he  professed 
such  sympathy  with  the  Squire's  wounded  feelings,  and 
such  regret  at  Frank's  involvement,  that  Mr.  Hazeldean  at 
last  yielded  up  his  honest  heart  to  his  consoler —  andgrip- 
ing  Randal's  hand,  said,  "  Well,  well,  I  wronged  you— beg 
your  pardon.  What  now  is  to  be  done  ?" 

"Why,  you  cannot  consent  to  this  marriage — impossi- 
ble," replied  Randal;  "and  we  must  hope,  therefore,  to 
influence  Frank  by  his  sense  of  duty." 

"That's  it,"  said  the  Squire;  "for  I'll  not  give  way. 
Pretty  pass  things  have  come  to,  indeed  !  A  widow,  too,  I 
hear.  Artful  jude — thought,  no  doubt,  to  catch  a  Hazel- 
dean  of  Hazeldean.  My  estates  go  to  an  outlandish  Papis- 
tical set  of  mongrel  brats  !  No,  no,  never!" 

"  But,"  said  the  Parson,  mildly,  "  perhaps  we  may  be 
unjustly  prejudiced  against  this  lady.  We  should  have 
consented  to  Violante — why  not  to  her  ?  She  is  of  good 
family  ?  " 

"  Certainly,"  said  Randal. 

"And  good  character  ?" 

Randal  shook  his  head,  and  sighed.  The  Squire  caught 
him  roughly  by  the  arm — "  Answer  the  Parson  !  "  cried  he, 
vehemently. 

"Indeed,  sir,  I  cannot  speak  disrespectfully  of  the  char- 
acter of  a  woman,  who  may,  too,  become  Frank's  wife  ; 
and  the  world  is  ill-natured  and  not  to  be  believed.  But 
you  can  judge  for  yourself,  my  dear  Mr.  Hazeldean.  Ask 
your  brother  whether  Madame  di  Negra  is  one  whom  he 
would  advise  his  nephew  to  marry."  u> 

"  My  brother  !  "  exclaimed  the  Squire,  furiously.  "  Con- 
sult my  distant  brother  on  the  affairs  of  my  own  son  ?" 

"  He  is  a  man  of  the  world,"  put  in  Randal. 

"And  of  feeling  and  honor,"  said  the  Parson;  "and 
perhaps,  through  him,  we  may  be  enabled  to  enlighten 
Frank,  and  save  him  from  what  appears  to  be  the  snare  of 
an  artful  woman." 

"  Meanwhile,"  said  Randal,  "  I  will  seek  Frank,  and  do 
my  best  with  him.  Let  me  go  now — I  will  return  in  an 
hour  or  so." 

"  I  will  accompany  you,"  said  the  Parson. 

"Nay,  pardon  me  ;  but  I  think  we  two  young  men  can 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  819 

talk  more  openly  without  a  third  person,  even  so  wise  and 
kind  as  you." 

"  Let  Randal  go,"  growled  the  Squire.  And  Randal 
went." 

He  spent  some  time  with  Frank,  and  the  reader  will 
easily  divine  how  that  time  was  employed.  As  he  left 
Frank's  lodgings,  he  found  himself  suddenly  seized  by  the 
Squire  himself. 

"  I  was  too  impatient  to  stay  at  home  and  listen  to  the 
Parson's  prosing,"  said  Mr.  Ha2eldean,  nervously,  r  "I  have 
shaken  Dale  off.  Tell  me  what  has  passed.  Oh  !  don't 
fear — I'm  a  man,  and  can  bear  the  worst." 

Randal  drew  the  Squire's  arm  within  his,  and  led  him 
into  the  adjacent  park. 

"  My  dear  sir,"  said  he,  sorrowfully,  "  this  is  very  confi- 
dential what  I  am  about  to  say.  I  must  repeat  it  to  you, 
because,  without  such  confidence,  I  see  not  how  to  advise 
you  on  the  proper  course  to  take.  But  if  I  betray  Frank, 
it  is  for  his  good,  and  to  his  own  father  ; — only  do  not  tell 
him.  He  would  never  forgive  me — it  would  for  ever  de- 
stroy my  influence  over  him." 

"Go  on,  go  on,"  gasped  the  Squire  ;" speak  out.  I'll 
never  tell  the  ungrateful  boy  that  I  learned  his  secrets  from 
another." 

"Then,"  said  Randal,  "the  secret  of  his  entanglement 
with  Madame  di  Negra  is  simply  this — he  found  her  in 
debt — nay  on  the  point  of  being  arrested " 

"  Debt !— arrested  !     Jezabel !  " 

"  And  in  paying  the  debt  himself,  and  saving  her  from 
arrest,  he  conferred  on  her  the  obligation  which  no  woman 
of  honor  could  accept  save  from  an  affianced  husband. 
Poor  Frank  ! — if  sadly  taken  in,  still  we  must  pity  and 
forgive  him !" 

Suddenly,  to  Randal's  great  surprise,  the  Squire's  whole 
face  brightened  up. 

"  I  see,  I  see  ! "  he  exclaimed,  slapping  his  thigh.  "  I 
have  it— I  have  it.  'Tis  an  affair  of  money  !  I  can  buy  her 
off.  If  she  took  money  from  him,  the  mercenary,  painted 
baggage  !  why  then,  she'll  take  it  from  me.  I  don't  care 
what  it  costs — half  my  fortune — all !  I'd  be  content  never 
to  see  Hazeldean  Hall  again,  if  I  could  save  my  son,  my 
own  son,  from  disgrace  and  misery  ;  for  miserable  he  will 
be,  when  he  knows  he  has-  broken  my  heart  and  his  moth- 
er's. And  for  a  creature  like  that !  My  boy,  a  thousand 


820  MY  NOVEL;    OR, 

hearty  thanks  to  you.  Where  does  the  wench  live  ?  I'll 
go  to  her  at  once."  And,  as  he  spoke,  the  Squire  actually 
pulled  out  his  pocket-book,  and  began  turning  over  and 
counting  the  bank-notes  in  it. 

Randal  at  first  tried  to  combat  this  bold  resolution  on 
the  part  of  the  Squire  ;  but  Mr.  Hazeldean  had  seized  on 
it  with  all  the  obstinacy  of  his  straightforward  English 
mind.  He  cut  Randal's  persuasive  eloquence  off  in  the 
midst. 

"  Don't  waste  your  breath.  I've  settled  it ;  and  if  you 
don't  tell  me  where  she  lives,  'tis  easily  found  out,  I 
suppose." 

Randal  mused  a  moment.  "After  all,"  thought  he, 
"  why  not  ?  He  will  be  sure  so  to  speak  as  to  enlist  her 
pride  against  himself,  and  to  irritate  Frank  to  the  utmost. 
Let  him  go." 

Accordingly,  he  gave  the  information  required  ;  and,  in- 
sisting with  great  earnestness  on  the  Squire's  promise  not 
to  mention  to  Madame  di  Negra  his  knowledge  of  Frank's 
pecuniary  aid  (for  that  would  betray  Randal  as  the  inform- 
ant) ;  and  satisfying  himself  as  he  best  might  with  the 
Squire's  prompt  assurance,  "that  he  knew  how  to  settle 
matters,  without  saying  why  or  wherefore,  as  long  as  he 
opened  his  purse  wide  enough,"  he  accompanied  Mr.  Hazel- 
dean  back  into  the  streets,  and  there  left  him — fixing  an 
hour  in  the  evening  for  an  interview  at  Limner's,  and  hint- 
ing that  it  would  be  best  to  have  that  interview  without  the 
presence  of  the  Parson.  "Excellent,  good  man, "said  Ran- 
dal, "  but  not  with  sufficient  knowledge  of  the  world  for 
affairs  of  this  kind,  which  you  understand  so  well." 

"  I  should  think  so,"  quoth  the  Squire,  who  had  quite  re- 
covered his  good-humor.  "  And  the  Parson  is  as  soft  as 
buttermilk.  We  must  be  firm  here — firm,  sir."  And  the 
Squire  struck  the  end  of  his  stick  on  the  pavement,  nodded 
to  Randal,  and  went  on  to  May  Fair  as  sturdily  and  as  con- 
fidently as  if  to  purchase  a  prize-cow  at  a  cattle-show. 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  821 


CHAPTER  XII. 

"  BRING  the  light  nearer,"  said  John  Burley  —  "  nearer 
still." 

Leonard  obeyed,  and  placed  the  candle  on  a  little  table 
by  the  sick  man's  bedside. 

Burley's  mind  was  partially  wandering  ;  but  there  was 
method  in  his  madness.  Horace  Walpole  said  that  "  his 
stomach  would  survive  all  the  rest  of  him."  That  which  in 
Burley  survived  the  last  was  his  quaint  wild  genius.  He 
looked  wistfully  at  the  still  flame  of  the  candle  :  "  It  lives 
ever  in  the  air  !  "  said  he. 

"  What  lives  ever  ?  " 

Burley's  voice  swelled  —  "  Light  !  "  He  turned  from 
Leonard,  and  again  contemplated  the  little  flame.  "  In  the 
fixed  star,  in  the  will-o'-the-wisp,  in  the  great  sun  that  il- 
lumes half  a  world,  or  the  farthing  rushlight  by  which  the 
ragged  student  strains  his  eyes  —  still  the  same  flower  of  the 
elements  !  Light  in  the  universe,  thought  in  the  soul  —  ay  — 
ay  —  Go  on  with  the  simile.  My  head  swims.  Extinguish 
the  light  !  You  cannot  ;  fool,  it  vanishes  from  your  eye,  but 
it  is  still  in  the  space.  Worlds  must  perish,  suns  shrivel  up, 
matter  and  spirit  both  fall  into  nothingness,  before  the  com- 
binations whose  union  makes  that  little  flame,  which  the 
breath  of  a  babe  can  restore  to  darkness,  shall  lose  the 
power  to  form  themselves  into  light  once  more.  Lose  the 
power  !  —  no,  the  necessity  ;  —  it  is  the  one  Must  in  creation. 
Ay,  ay,  very  dark  riddles  grow  clear  now  —  now  when  I 
could  not  cast  up  an  addition  sum  in  the  baker's  bill  !  What 
wise  man  denied  that  two  and  two  made  four  ?  Do  they  not 
make  four  ?  I  can't  answer  him.  But  I  could  answer  a 
question  that  some  wise  men  have  contrived  to  make  much 
knottier."  He  smiled  softly,  and  turned  his  face  for  some 
minutes  to  the  wall. 

This  was  the  second  night  on  which  Leonard  had  watched 
by  his  bedside,  and  Burley's  state  had  grown  rapidly  worse. 
He  could  not  last  many  days,  perhaps  many  hours.  But  he 
had  evinced  an  emotion  beyond  mere  delight  at  seeing  Leon- 
ard again.  He  had  since  then  been  calmer,  more  himself. 
"  I  feared  I  might  have  ruined  you  by  my  bad  example," 


822  MY  NOVEL;    ORt 

he  said,  with  a  touch  of  humor  that  became  pathos  as  he 
added,  "  that  idea  preyed  on  me." 

"No,  no  ;  you  did  me  great  good." 

"Say  that— say  it  often,"  said  Burley,  earnestly;  "it 
makes  my  heart  feel  so  light." 

He  had  listened  to  Leonard's  story  with  deep  interest, 
and  was  fond  of  talking  to  him  of  little  Helen.  He  detected 
the  secret  at  the  young  man's  heart,  and  cheered  the  hopes 
that  lay  there,  amidst  hopes  and  sorrows.  Burley  never 
talked  seriously  of  his  repentance  ;  it  was  not  in  his  nature 
to  talk  seriously  of  the  things  which  he  felt  solemnly.  But 
his  high  animal  spirits  were  quenched  with  the  animal 
power  that  fed  them.  Now,  we  go  out  of  our  sensual  ex- 
istence only  when  we  are  no  longer  enthralled  by  the  Pres- 
ent, in  which  the  senses  have  their  realm.  The  sensual  be- 
ing vanishes  when  we  are  in  the  Past  or  the  Future.  The 
Present  was  gone  from  Burley  ;  he  could  no  more  be  its 
slave  and  its  king. 

It  was  most  touching  to  see  how  the  inner  character 
of  this  man  unfolded  itself,  as  the  leaves  of  the  outer  char- 
acter fell  off  and  withered — a  character  no  one  would  have 
guessed  in  him — an  inherent  refinement  that  'was  almost 
womanly  ;  and  he  had  all  a  woman's  abnegation  of  self. 
He  took  the  cares  lavished  on  him  so  meekly.  As  the 
features  of  the  old  man  return  in  the  stillness  of  death  to 
the  aspect  of  youth — the  lines  effaced,  the  wrinkles  gone — • 
so,  in  seeing  Burley  now,  you  saw  what  he  had  been  in  his 
spring  of  promise.  But  he  himself  saw  only  what  he  had 
failed  to  be — powers  squandered — life  wasted.  "  I  once  be- 
held," he  said,  "  a  ship  in  a  storm.  It  was  a  cloudy,  fitful 
day,  and  I  could  see  the  ship  with  all  its  masts  fighting  hard 
for  life  and  for  death.  Then  carne  night,  dark  as  pitch, 
and  I  could  only  guess  that  the  ship  fought  on. — Toward 
the  dawn  the  stars  grew  visible,  and  once  more  I  saw  the 
ship — it  was  a  wreck — it  went  down  just  as  the  stars  shone 
forth." 

When  he  had  made  that  allusion  to  himself,  he  sat  very 
still  for  some  time,  then  he  spread  out  his  wasted  hands, 
and  gazed  on  them,  and  on  his  shrunken  limbs.  "  Good," 
said  he,  laughing  low  ;  "these  hands  were  too  large  and 
rude  for  handling  the  delicate  webs  of  my  own  mechanism, 
and  these  strong  limbs  ran  away  with  me.  If  I  had  been 
a  sickly,  puny  fellow,  perhaps  my  mind  would  have  had 
fair  play.  There  was  too  much  of  the  brute  body  here  ! 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  823 

Look  at  this  hand  now  !  you  can  see  the  light  through  it ! 
Good,  good ! " 

Now,  that  evening,  until  he  had  retired  to  bed,  Burley 
had  been  unusually  cheerful,  and  had  talked  with  much 
of  his  old  eloquence,  if  with  little  of  his  old  humor. 
Amongst  other  matters,  he  had  spoken  with  considerable 
interest  of  some  poems  and  other  papers  in  manuscript 
which  had  been  left  in  the  house  by  a  former  lodger,  and 
which,  the  reader  may  remember,  that  Mrs.  Goodyer  had 
urged  him  in  vain  to  read,  in  his  last  visit  to  her  cottage. 
But  then  he  had  her  husband  Jacob  to  chat  with  and  the 
spirit-bottle  to  finish,  and  the  wild  craving  for  excitement 
plucked  his  thoughts  back  to  his  London  revels.  Now 
poor  Jacob  was  dead,  and  it  was  not  brandy  that  the  sick 
man  drank  from  the  widow's  cruse.  And  London  lay  far 
amidst  its  fogs,  like  a  world  resolved  back  into  nebulae. 
So  to  please  his -hostess  and  distract  his  thoughts,  he  had 
condescended  (just  before  Leonard  found  him  out)  to 
peruse  the  memorials  of  a  life  obscure  to  the  world,  and 
new  to  his  own  experience  of  coarse  joys  and  woes.  "I 
have  been  making  a  romance,  to  amuse  myself,  from  their 
contents,"  said  he.  "They  may  be  of  use  to  you,  brother 
author.  I  have  told  Mrs.  Goodyer  to  place  them  in  your 
room.  Amongst  those  papers  is  a  sort  of  journal — a 
woman's  journal ;  it  moved  me  greatly.  A  man  gets  into 
another  world,  strange  to  him  as  the  orb  of  Sirius,  if  he 
can  transport  himself  into  the  centre  of  a  woman's  heart, 
and  see  the  life  there,  so  wholly  unlike  our  own.  Things 
of  moment  tons,  to  it  so  trivial  ;  things  trifling  to  us,  to 
it  so  vast.  There  was  this  journal — dn  its  dates  reminding 
me  of  stormy  events  in  my  own  existence,  and  grand  doings 
in  the  world's.  And  those  dates  there,  chronicling  but  the 
mysterious  unrevealed  record  of  some  obscure  loving  heart ! 
And  in  that  chronicle,  O  Sir  Poet,  there  was  as  much 
genius,  vigor  of  thought,  vitality  of  being,  poured  and 
wasted,  as  ever  kind  friend  will  say  was  lavished  on  the 
rude  outer  world  by  big  John  Burley  !  Genius,  genius  ; 
are  we  all  alike,  then,  save  when  we  leash  ourselves  to  some 
matter-of-fact  material,  and  float  over  the  roaring  seas  on  a 
wooden  plank  or  a  herring-tub  ? "  And  after  he  had  ut- 
tered that  cry  of  a  secret  anguish,  John  Burley'  had  begun 
to  show  symptoms  of  growing  fever  and  disturbed  brain  ; 
and  when  they  had  got  him  into  bed,  he  lay  there  mutter- 


824  MY  NOVEL;    OR, 

ing  to  himself,  until  toward  midnight,  he  had  asked  Leon- 
ard to  bring  the  light  nearer  to  him. 

So  now  he  again  was  quiet — with  his  face  turned  toward 
the  wall ;  and  Leonard  stood  by  the  bedside  sorrowfully, 
and  Mrs.  Goodyer,  who  did  not  heed  Burley's  talk,  and 
thought  only  of  his  physical  state,  was  dipping  cloths  into 
iced  water  to  apply  to  his  forehead.  But  as  she  approached 
with  these,  and  addressed  him  soothingly,  Burley  raised 
himself  on  his  arm,  and  waved  aside  the  bandages.  "  I  do 
not  need  them,"  said  he,  in  a  collected  voice.  "  I  am  better 
now.  I  and  that  pleasant  light  understand  one  another, 
and  I  believe  all  it  tells  me.  Pooh,  pooh,  I  do  not  rave." 
He  looked  so  smilingly  and  so  kindly  into  her  face,  that 
the  poor  woman,  who  loved  him  as  her  own  son,  fairly  burst 
into  tears.  He  drew  her  toward  him,  and  kissed  her  fore- 
head. 

"  Peace,  old  fool,"  said  he,  fondly.  "  You  shall  tell  anglers 
hereafter  how  John  Burley  came  to  fish  for  the  one-eyed 
perch  which  he  never  caught  ;  and  how,  when  he  gave  it  up 
at  the  last,  his  baits  all  gone,  and  the  line  broken  amongst 
the  weeds,  you  comforted  the  baffled  man.  There  are  many 
good  fellows  yet  in  the  world  who  will  like  to  know  that 
poor  Burley  did  not  die  on  a  dunghill.  Kiss  me  !  Come, 
boy,  you  too.  Now,  God  bless  you,  I  should  like  to  sleep." 
His  cheeks  were  wet  with  the  tears  of  both  his  listeners,  and 
there  was  a  moisture  in  his  own  eyes,  which,  nevertheless, 
beamed  bright  through  the  moisture. 

He  laid  himself  down  again,  and  the  old  woman  would 
have  withdrawn  the  light.  He  moved  uneasily.  "  Not 
that,"  he  murmured — "  light  to  the  last !  "  And  putting 
forth  his  wan  hand,  he  drew  aside  the  curtain,  so  that  the 
light  might  fall  full  on  his  face.  In  a  few  minutes  he  was 
asleep,  breathing  calmly  and  regularly  as  an  infant. 

The  old  woman  wiped  her  eyes,  and  drew  Leonard 
softly  into  the  adjoining  room,  in  which  a  bed  had  been 
made  up  for  him.  He  had  not  left  the  house  since  he  had 
entered  it  with  Dr.  Morgan.  "  You  are  young,  sir,"  said 
she  with  kindness,  "and  the  young  want  sleep.  Lie  down 
a  bit ;  I  will  call  you  when  he  wakes." 

"  No,  I  could  not  sleep,"  said  Leonard.  "  I  will  watch 
for  you." 

The  old  woman  shook  her  head.  "  I  must  see  the  last 
of  him,  sir  ;  but  I  know  he  will  be  angry  when  his  eyes 
open  on  me,  for  he  has  grown  very  thoughtful  of  others." 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  825 

"  Ah,  if  he  had  but  been  as  thoughtful  of  himself !  " 
murmured  Leonard  ;  and  he  seated  himself  by  the  table, 
on  which,  as  he  leaned  his  elbow,  he  dislodged  some  papers 
placed  there.  They  fell  to  the  ground  with  a  dumb,  moan- 
ing, sighing  sound. 

"  What  is  that  ?  "  said  he,  starting. 

The  old  woman  picked  up  the  manuscrips  and  smoothed 
them  carefully. 

"  Ah,  sir,  he  bade  me  place  these  papers  here.  He 
thought  they  might  keep  you  from  fretting  about  him,  in 
case  you  would  sit  up  and  wake.  And  he  had  a  thought  of 
me,  too  ;  for  I  have  so  pined  to  find  out  the  poor  young 
lady  who  left  them  years  ago.  She  was  almost  as  dear  to 
me  as  he  is  ;  dearer  perhaps  until  now — when — when  I  am 
about  to  lose  him  ! " 

Leonard  turned  from  the  papers,  without  a  glance  at 
their  contents  ;  they  had  no  interest  for  him  at  such  a 
moment. 

The  hostess  went  on — 

"Perhaps  she  is  gone  to  heaven  before  him;  she  did 
not  look  like  one  long  for  this  world.  She  left  us  so  sud- 
denly. Many  things  of  hers  besides  these  papers  are  still 
here  ;  but  I  keep  them  aired  and  dusted,  and  strew  lav- 
ender over  them,  in  case  she  ever  come  for  them  again. 
You  never  heard  tell  of  her,  did  you,  sir  ? "  she  added,  with 
great  simplicity,  and  dropping  a  half-curtsey. 

"  Of  her — of  whom  ?  " 

"Did  not  Mr.  John  tell  you  her  name — dear — dear  ;  Mrs. 
Bertram." 

Leonard  started  ;  the  very  name  so  impressed  upon  his 
memory  by  Harley  L'Estrange. 

"  Bertram  ! "  he  repeated.     "  Are  you  sure  ? " 

"  Oh,  yes,  sir !  And  many  years  after  she  had  left  us, 
and  we  had  heard  no  more  of  her,  there  came  a  packet  ad- 
dressed to  her  here,  from  over  sea,  sir.  We  took  it  in,  and 
kept  it,  and  John  would  break  the  seal,  to  know  if  it  would 
tell  us  anything  about  her  ;  but  it  was  all  in  a  foreign  lan- 
guage like — we  could  not  read  a  word." 

"  Have  you  the  packet  ?  Pray  show  it  to  me.  It  may 
be  of  the  greatest  value.  To-morrow  will  do — I  cannot 
think  of  that  just  now.  Poor  Burley  !  " 

Leonard's  manner  indicated  that  he  wished  to  talk  no 
more,  and  to  be  alone.  So  Mrs.  .Goodyer  left  him,  and 
stole  back  to  Burley's  room  on  tiptoe. 

.35* 


826  MY  NOVEL;    OR, 

The  young  man  remained  in  deep  reverie  for  some  mo- 
ments. "  Light,"  he  murmured.  "  How  often  '  Light '  is 
the  last  word  of  those  round  whom  the  shades  are  gather- 
ing !  "  *  He  moved,  and  straight  on  his  view  through  the 
cottage  lattice  there  streamed  light,  indeed- — not  the  miser- 
able ray  lit  by  a  human  hand — but  the  still  and  holy  efful- 
gence of  a  moonlit  heaven.  It  lay  broad  upon  the  humble 
floors — pierced  across  the  threshold  of  the  death-chamber, 
and  halted  clear  amidst  its  shadows. 

Leonard  stood  motionless,  his  eye  following  the  silvery 
silent  splendor. 

"  And,"  he  said  inly — "  and  does  this  large  erring  nature, 
marred  by  its  genial  faults — this  soul  which  should  have 
filled  the  land,  as  yon  orb  the  room,  with  a  light  that  linked 
earth  to  heaven — does  it  pass  away  into  the  dark,  and  leave 
not  a  ray  behind  ?  Nay,  if  the  elements  of  light  are  ever 
in  the  space,  and  when  the  flame  goes  out  return  to.  the 
vital  air — so  thought,  once  kindled,  lives  for  ever  round  and 
about  us,  a  part  of  our  breathing  atmosphere.  Many  a 
thinker,  many  a  poet,  may  yet  illumine  the  world,  from  the 
thoughts  which  yon  genius,  that  will  have  no  name,  gave 
forth  to  wander  through  air,  and  recombine  again  in  some 
new  form  of  light." 

Thus  he  went  on  in  vague  speculations,  seeking,  as  youth 
enamored  of  fame  seeks  too  fondly,  to  prove  that  mind 
never  works,  however  erratically,  in  vain — and  to  retain  yet, 
as  an  influence  upon  earth,  the  soul  about  to  soar  far  be- 
yond the  atmosphere  where  the  elements  that  make  fame 
abide.  Not  thus  had  the  dying  man  interpreted  the  endu- 
rance of  light  and  thought. 

Suddenly,  in  the  midst  of  his  reverie,  a  loud  cry  broke 
on  his  ear.  He  shuddered  as  he  heard,  and  hastened  fore- 
bodingly into  the  adjoining  room.  The  old  woman  was 
kneeling  by  the  bedside,  and  chafing  Burley's  hand — eagerly 
looking  into  his  face.  A  glance  sufficed  to  Leonard.  All 
was  over.  Burley  had  died  in  sleep — calmly,  and  without 
a  groan. 

*  Every  one  remembers  that  Goethe's  last  words  are  said  to  have  been  "  More  light ; " 
and  perhaps  what  has  occurred  in  the  text  may  be  supposed  a  plagiarism  from  those  words. 
But,  in  fact,  nothing  is  more  common  than  the  craving  and  demand  for  light  a  little  before 
death.  Let  any  consult  his  own  sad  experience  in  the  last  moments  of  those  whose  gradual 
close  he  has  watched  and  tended.  What  more  frequent  than  a  prayer  to  open  the  shutters 
and  let  in  the  sun  ?  What  complaint  more  repeated,  and  more  touching,  than  "  that  it  is 
growing  dark  ?  "  I  once  knew  a  sufferer — who  did  not  then  seem  in  immediate  danger,  sud- 
denly order  the  sick-room  to  be  lit  up  as  if  for  a  gala.  When  this  was  told  to  the  physician, 
he  said  gravely,  "  No  worse  sign.  " 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  827 

The  eyes  were  half-open,  with  that  look  of  inexpressible 
softness  which  death  sometimes  leaves  ;  and  still  they  were 
turned  toward  the  light ;  and  the  light  burned  clear. 
^Leonard  closed  tenderly  the  heavy  lids  ;  and,  as  he  covered 
the  face,  the  lips  smiled  a  serene  farewell. 


CHAPTER   XIII. 

WE  have  seen  Squire  Hazeldean  (proud  of  the  contents 
of  his  pocket-book,  and  his  knowledge  of  the  mercenary 
nature  of  foreign  women)  set  off  on  his  visit  to  Beatrice  di 
Negra.  Randal  thus  left,  musing  lone  in  the  crowded 
streets,  revolved  with  astute  complacency  the  probable 
results  of  Mr.  Hazeldean's  bluff  negotiation  ;  and,  convin- 
cing himself  that  one  of  his  vistas  toward  Fortune  was  be- 
coming more  clear  and  clear,  he  turned,  with  the  restless 
activity  of  some  founder  of  destined  cities  in  a  new  settle- 
ment, to  lop  the  boughs  that  cumbered  and  obscured  the 
others.  For  truly,  like  a  man  in  a  vast  Columbian  forest, 
opening  entangled  space,  now  with  the  ready  axe,  now  with 
the  patient  train  that  kindles  the  slower  fire,  this  child  of 
civilized  life  went  toiling  on  against  surrounding  obstacles, 
resolute  to  destroy,  but  ever  scheming  to  construct.  And 
now  Randal  has  reached  Levy's  dainty  business-room,  and 
is  buried  deep  in  discussion  how  to  secure  to  himself,  at  the 
expense  of  his  patron,  the  representation  of  Lansmere,  and 
how  to  complete  the  contract  which  shall  re-annex  to  his 
forlorn  inheritance  some  fragments  of  its  ancient  wealth. 

Meanwhile,  Chance  fought  on  his  side  in  the  boudoir  of 
May  Fair.  The  Squire  had  found  the  Marchesa  at  home, — • 
briefly  introduced  himself  and  his  business, — told  her  she 
was  mistaken  if  she  had  fancied  she  had  taken  in  a  rich 
heir  in  his  son, — that,  thank  Heaven,  he  could  leave  his 
estates  to  his  ploughman,  should  he  so  please,  but  that 
he  was  willing  to  do  things  liberally  ;  and  whatever  she 
thought  Frank  was  worth,  he  was  very  ready  to  pay  for. 

At  another  time  Beatrice  would  perhaps  have  laughed 
at  this  strange  address  ;  or  she  might,  in  some  prouder 
moment,  have  fired  up  with  all  a  patrician's  resentment, 
and  a  woman's  pride  ;  but  now  her  spirit  was  crushed,  her 
nerves  shattered ;  the  sense  of  her  degraded  position,  of 


828  MY  NOVEL;    OR, 

her  dependence  on  her  brother,  combined  with  her  supreme 
unhappiness  at  the  loss  of  those  dreams  with  which  Leon- 
ard had  for  a  while  charmed  her  wearied,  waking  life — all 
came  upon  her.  She  listened,  pale  and  speechless  ;  and  the 
poor  Squire  thought  he  was  quietly  advancing  toward  a 
favorable  result,  when  she  suddenly  burst  into  a  passion  of 
hysterical  tears  ;  and  just  at  that  moment  Frank  himself 
entered  the  room.  At  the  sight  of  his  father,  of  Beatrice's 
grief,  his  sense  of  filial  duty  gave  way.  He  was  maddened 
by  irritation — by  the  insult  offered  to  the  woman  he  loved, 
which  a  few  trembling  words  from  her  explained  to  him  ; 
maddened  yet  more  by  the  fear  that  the  insult  had  lost  her 
to  him — warm  words  ensued  between  son  and  father,  to 
close  with  the  peremptory  command  and  vehement  threat 
of  the  last. 

"  Come  away  this  instant,  sir !  Come  with  me,  or  before 
the  day  is  over  I  strike  you  out  of  my  will  !  " 

The  son's  answer  was  not  to  his  father  ;  he  threw  him- 
self at  Beatrice's  feet. 

"  Forgive  him — forgive  us  both " 

"  What !  you  prefer  that  stranger  to  me — to  the  inheri- 
tance of  Hazeldean  !  "  cried  the  Squire,  stamping  his  foot. 

"  Leave  your  estates  to  whom  you  will ;  all  that  I  care 
for  in  life  is  here  !  " 

The  Squire  stood  still  a  moment  or  so,  gazing  on  his 
son,  with  a  strange  bewildered  marvel  at  the  strength  of 
that  mystic  passion,  which  none  not  laboring  under  its  fear- 
ful charm  can  comprehend, — which  creates  the  sudden  idol 
that  no  reason  justifies,  and  sacrifices  to  its  fatal  shrine 
alike  the  Past  and  the  Future.  Not  trusting  himself  to 
speak,  the  father  drew  his  hand  across  his  eyes,  and  dashed 
away  the  bitter  tear  that  sprang  from  a  swelling  indignant 
heart  ;  then  he  uttered  an  inarticulate  sound,  and,  finding 
his  voice  gone,  moved  away  to  the  door,  and  left  the  house. 

He  walked  through  the  streets,  bearing  his  head  very 
erect,  as  a  proud  man  does  when  deeply  wounded,  and  striv- 
ing to  shake  off  some  affection  that  he  deems  a  weakness  ; 
and  his  trembling,  nervous  fingers  fumbled  at  the  button  of 
his  coat,  trying  to  tighten  the  garment  across  his  chest,  as 
if  to  confirm  a  resolution  that  still  sought  to  struggle  out 
of  the  revolting  heart. 

Thus  he  went  on,  and  the  reader,  perhaps,  will  wonder 
whither,  and  the  wonder  may  not  lessen  when  he  finds  the 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  829 

Squire  come  to  a  dead  pause  in  Grosvenor  Square,  and  at 
the  portico  of  his  "  distant  brother's  "  stately  house. 

At  the  Squire's  brief  inquiry  whether  Mr.  Egerton  was 
at  home,  the  porter  summoned  the  groom  of  the  chambers  ; 
and  the  groom  of  the  chambers,  seeing  a  stranger,  doubted 
whether  his  master  was  not  engaged,  but  wrould  take  in  the 
stranger's  card,  and  see. 

"Ay,  ay,"  muttered  the  Squire,  "  this  is  true  relation- 
ship ! — my  child  prefers  a  stranger  to  me ;  why  should  I 
complain  that  I  am  a  stranger  in  my  brother's  house  ?  Sir," 
added  the  Squire,  aloud,  and  very  meekly—"  sir,  please  to 
say  to  your  master  that  I  am  William  Hazeldean." 

The  servant  bowed  low,  and  without  another  word  con- 
ducted the  visitor  into  the  statesman's  library,  and  announ- 
cing Mr.  Hazeldean,  closed  the  door. 

Audley  was  seated  at  his  desk,  the  grim  iron  boxes  still 
at  his  feet,  but  they  were  now  closed  and  locked.  And  the 
ex-minister  was  no  longer  looking  over  official  documents  ; 
letters  spread  open  before  him  of  far  different  nature  ;  in 
his  hand  there  lay  a  long  lock  of  fair  silken  hair,  on  which 
his  eyes  were  fixed  sadly  and  intently.  He  started  at  the 
sound  of  his  visitor's  name,  and  the  tread  of  the  Squire's 
stalwart  footstep  ;  and  mechanically  thrust  into  his  bosom 
the  relic  of  younger  and  warmer  years,  keeping  his  hand  to 
his  heart,  which  beat  loud  with  disease  under  the  light  pres- 
sure of  that  golden  hair. 

The  two  brothers  stood  on  the  great  man's  lonely  hearth, 
facing  each  other  in  silence,  and  noting  unconsciously  the 
change  made  in  each  during  the  long  years  in  which  they 
had  never  met. 

The  Squire,  with  his  portly  size,  his  hardy  sun-burnt 
cheeks,  the  partial  baldness  of  his  unfurrowed,  open  fore- 
head, looked  his  full  age — deep  into  middle  life.  Unmis- 
takably he  seemed  ihe pater  familias — the  husband  and  the 
father — the  man  of  social  domestic  ties.  But  about  Audley 
(really  some  few  years  junior  to  the  Squire),  despite  the 
lines  of  care  on  his  handsome  face,  there  still  lingered  the 
grace  of  youth.  Men  of  cities  retain  youth  longer  than 
those  of  the  country — a  remark  which  Buffon  has  not  failed 
to  make  and  to  account  for.  Neither  did  Egerton  betray 
the  air  of  the  married  man  ;  for  ineffable  solitariness  seemed 
stamped  upon  one  whose  private  life  had  long  been  so  stern 
a  solitude.  No  ray  from  the  focus  of  Home  played  round 
that  reserved,  unjoyous,  melancholy  brow.  In  a  word,  Aud- 


830  MY  NOVEL;    OR, 

ley  looked  still  the  man  for  whom  some  young  female  heart 
might  fondly  sigh  ;  and  not  the  less  because  of  the  cold  eye 
and  compressed  lip,  which  challenged  interest  even  while 
seeming  to  repel  it. 

Audley  was  the  first  to  speak,  and  to  put  forth  the  right 
hand,  which  he  stole  slowly  from  its  place  at  his  breast,  on 
which  the  lock  of  hair  still  stirred  to  and  fro  at  the  heave 
of  the  laboring  heart.  "William,"  said  he,  with  his  rich 
deep  voice,  "  this  is  kind.  You  are  come  to  see  me,  now 
that  men  say  1  am  fallen.  The  minister  you  censured  is  no 
more  ;  and  you  see  again  the  brother." 

The  Squire  was  softened  at  once  by  this  address.  He 
shook  heartily  the  hand  tendered  to  him  ;  and,  then,  turn- 
ing away  his  head,  with  an  honest  conviction  that  Audley 
ascribed  to  him  a  credit  which  he  did  not  deserve,  he  said, 
"  No,  no,  Audley  ;  I  am  more  selfish  than  you  think  me.  I 
have  come — I  have  come  to  ask  your  advice- — no,  not  exactly 
that — your  opinion.  But  you  are  busy  ? " 

"  Sit  down,  William.  Old  days  were  coming  over  me 
when  you  entered  ;  days  earlier  still  return  now — days,  too, 
that  leave  no  shadow  when  their  suns  are  set." 

The  proud  man  seemed  to  think  he  had  said  too  much. 
His  practical  nature  rebuked  the  poetic  sentiment  and 
phrase.  He  recollected  himself,  and  added,  more  coldly, 
"You  would  ask  my  opinion?  What  on?  Some  public 
matter — some  parliamentary  bill  that  may  affect  your 
property  ? " 

"  Am  I  such  a  mean  miser  as  that  ?  Property — property  ? 
What  does  property  matter,  when  a  man  is  struck  down  at 
his  own  hearth?  Property,  indeed!  But  you  have  no 
child — happy  brother  !  " 

"Ay,  ay  ;  as  you  say,  I  am  a  happy  man  ;  childless  !  Has 
your  son  displeased  you  ?  I  have  heard  him  well  spoken 
of,  too." 

"  Don't  talk  of  him.  Whether  his  conduct  be  good  or 
ill,  is  my  affair,"  resumed  the  poor  father  with  a  testy 
voice — jealous  alike  of  Audley's  praise  or  blame  of  his  re- 
bellious son.  Then  he  rose  a  moment,  and  made  a  strong 
gulp,  as  if  for  air ;  and  laying  his  broad  brown  hand  on  his 
brother's  shoulder,  said — "  Randal  Leslie  tells  me  you  are 
wise — a  consummate  man  of  the  world.  No  doubt  you  are 
so.  And  Parson  Dale  tells  me  that  he  is  sure  you  have 
warm  feelings — which  I  take  to  be  a  strange  thing  for  one 
who  has  lived  so  long  in  London,  and  has  no  wife  and  no 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  831 

child — a  widower,  and  a  Member  of  Parliament — for  a  com- 
mercial city,  too.  Never  smile  ;  it  is  no  smiling  matter 
with  me.  You  know  a  foreign  woman,  called  Negra,  or 
Negro — not  a  blackymoor  though,  by  any  means — at  least 
on  the  outside  of  her.  Is  she  such  a  woman  as  a  plain 
country  gentleman  would  like  his  only  son  to  marry — ay  or 
no  ?  " 

"  No,  indeed,"  answered  Audley,  gravely  ;  "  and  I  trust 
your  son  will  commit  no  action  so  rash.  Shall  I  see  him 
or  her  ?  Speak,  my  dear  William.  What  would  you  have 
me  do  ?" 

"  Nothing  ;  you  have  said  enough,"  replied  the  Squire, 
gloomily  ;  and  his  head  sank  on  his  breast. 

Audley  took  his  hand  and  pressed  it  fraternally. 
"William,"  said  the  statesman,  "we  have  been  long 
estranged  ;  but  I  do  not  forget  that  when  we  last  met,  at 
— at  Lord  Lansmere's  house,  and  when  I  took  you  aside, 
and  said,  '  William,  if  I  lose  this  election,  I  must  resign 
all  chance  of  public  life  ;  my  affairs  are  embarrassed — I 
would  not  accept  money  from  you — I  would  seek  a  pro- 
fession, and  you  can  help  me  there,'  you  divined  my  mean- 
ing, and  said — '  Take  orders ;  the  Hazeldean  living  is 
just  vacant.  I  will  get  some  one  to  hold  it  till  you  are 
ordained.'  I  do  not  forget  that.  Would  that  I  had  thought 
earlier  of  so  serene  an  escape  from  all  that  then  tormented 
me.  My  lot  might  have  been  far  happier." 

The  Squire  eyed  Audley  with  a  surprise  that  broke 
forth  from  his  more  absorbing  emotions.  "Happier! 
Why,  all  things  have  prospered  with  you  ;  and  you  are 
rich  enough  now  ;  and — you  shake  your  head.  Brother,  is 
it  possible  !  do  you  want  money  ?  Pooh,  not  accept  money 
from  your  mother's  son  ! — stuff."  Out  came  the  Squire's 
pocket-book.  Audley  put  it  gently  aside. 

"  Nay,"  said  he,  "  I  have  enough  for  myself  ;  but  since 
you  seek  and  speak  with  me  thus  affectionately,  I  will  ask 
you  one  favor.  Should  I  die  before  I  can  provide  for 
my  wife's  kinsman,  Randal  Leslie,  as  I  could  wish,  will  you 
see  to  his  fortunes,  so  far  as  you  can,  without  injury  to 
others — to  your  own  son  ?  " 

"  My  son  !  He  is  provided  for..i  He  has  the  Casino 
estate — much  good  may  it  do  him.  You  have  touched  on 
the  very  matter  that  brought  me  here.  This  boy,  Randal 
Leslie,  seems  a  praiseworthy  lad,  and  has  Hazeldean  blood 
in  his  veins.  You  have  taken  him  up  because  he  is  con- 


832  MY  NOVEL;    OR, 

nected  wvth  your  late  wife.  Why  should  not  I  take  him  up, 
too,  when  his  grandmother  was  a  Hazeldean  ?  My  main 
object  in  calling  was  to  ask  what  you  mean  to  do  for  him  ; 
for  if  you  do  not  mean  to  provide  for  him,  why,  I  will,  as  in 
duty  bound.  So  your  request  comes  at  the  right  time  ;  I 
think  of  altering  my  will.  I  can  put  him  into  the  entail, 
besides  a  handsome  legacy.  You  are  sure  he  is  a  good  lad 
— and  it  will  please  you  too,  Audley  !  " 

"But  not  at  the  expense  of  your  son.  And  stay, 
William — as  to  this  foolish  marriage  with  Madame  di 
Ncgra, — who  told  you  Frank  meant  to  take  such  a  step  ?  " 

"  He  told  me  himself  ;  but  it  is  no  matter.  Randal  and 
I  both  did  all  we  could  to  dissuade  him  ;  and  Randal  ad- 
vised me  to  come  to  you." 

"  He  has  acted  generously,  then,  our  kinsman  Randal — 
I  am  glad  to  hear  it,"  said  Audley,  his  brow  somewhat 
clearing.  "  I  have  no  influence  with  this  lady  ;  but,  at 
least,  I  can  counsel  her.  Do  not  consider  the  marriage 
fixed  because  a  young  man  desires  it.  Youth  is  ever  hot 
and  rash." 

"Your  youth  never  was,"  retorted  the  Squire  bluntly. 
"You  married  well  enough,  I'm  sure.  I  will  say  one  thing 
for  you  :  you  have  been,  to  my  taste,  a  bad  politician — beg 
pardon — but  you  were  always  a  gentleman.  You  would 
never  have  disgraced  your  family  and  married  a " 

"  Hush  !  "  interrupted  Egerton,  gently.  "  Do  not  make 
matters  worse  than  they  are.  Madame  di  Negra  is  of  high 
birth  in  her  own  country  ;  and  if  scandal " 

"  Scandal  ! "  cried  the  Squire,  shrinking  and  turning 
pale.  "Are  you  speaking  of  the  wife  of  a  Hazeldean  ?  At 
least  she  shall  never  sit  by  the  hearth  at  which  now  sits  his 
mother  ;  and  whatever  I  may  do  for  Frank,  her  children 
shall  not  succeed.  No  mongrel  cross-breed  shall  kennel  in 
English  Hazeldean.  Much  obliged  to  you,  Audley,  for 
your  good  feelings — glad  to  have  seen  you  ;  and  harkye, 
you  startled  me  by  that  shake  of  your  head,  when  I  spoke 
of  your  wealth  ;  and,  from  what  you  say  about  Randal's 
prospects,  I  guess  that  you  London  gentlemen  are  not  so 
thrifty  as  we  are.  You  shall  let  me  speak.  I  say  again,  that 
I  have  some  thousands  quite  at  your  service.  And  though 
you  are  not  a  Hazeldean,  still  you  are  my  mother's  son  ;  and 
now  that  I  am  about  to  alter  my  will,  I  can  as  well  scratch 
in  the  name  of  Egerton  as  that  of  Leslie.  Cheer  up,  cheer 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  833 

up  ;  you  are  younger  than  I  am,  and  you  have  no  child  ;  so 
you  will  live  longer  than  I  shall." 

"  My  dear  brother,"  answered  Audley,  "  believe  me,  I 
shall  never  live  to  want  your  aid.  And  as  to  Leslie,  add  to 
the  ^5000  I  mean  to  give  him,  an  equal  sum  in  your  will, 
and  I  shall  feel  that  he  has  received  justice." 

Observing  that  the  Squire,  though  he  listened  attentively, 
made  no  ready  answer,  Audley  turned  the  subject  again  to 
Frank  ;  and  with  the  adroitness  of  a  man  of  the  world, 
backed  by  a  cordial  sympathy  in  his  brother's  distress,  he 
pleaded  so  well  Frank's  lame  cause,  urged  so  gently  the 
wisdom  of  patience  and  delay,  and  the  appeal  to  filial  feel- 
ing rather  than  recourse  to  paternal  threats,  that  the  Squire 
grew  mollified  in  spite  of  himself,  and  left  his  brother's 
house  a  much  less  angry,  and  less  doleful  man. 

Mr.  Hazeldean  was  still  in  the  square,  when  he  came 
upon  Randal  himself,  who  was  walking  with  a  dark-whisk- 
ered, showy  gentleman,  toward  Egerton's  house.  Randal 
and  the  gentleman  exchanged  a  hasty  whisper,  and  the  for- 
mer then  exclaimed — 

"  What,  Mr.  Hazeldean,  have  you  just  left  your  brother's 
house  ?  Is  it  possible  ?  " 

"  Why,  you  advised  me  to  go  there,  and  I  did.  I  scarcely 
knew  what  I  was  about.  I  am  very  glad  I  did  go.  Hang 
politics !  hang  the  landed  interest  !  what  do  I  care  for 
either  now  ? " 

"  Foiled  with  Madame  di  Negra  ? "  asked  Randal,  draw- 
ing the  Squire  aside. 

"  Never  speak  of  her  again  !  "  cried  the  Squire,  fiercely. 
"And  as  to  that  ungrateful  boy — but  I  don't  mean  to  be- 
have harshly  to  him — he  shall  have  money  enough  to  keep 
her  if  he  likes — keep  her  from  coming  to  me — keep  him, 
too,  from  counting  on  my  death,  and  borrowing  post-obits 
on  the  Casino — for  he'll  be  doing  that  next — no,  I  hope  I 
wrong  him  there  ;  I  have  been  too  good  a  father  for  him  to 
count  on  my  death  already.  After  all,"  continued  the 
Squire,  beginning  to  relax,  "  as  Audley  says,  the  marriage 
is  not  yet  made  ;  and  if  the  woman  has  taken  him  in,  he  is 
young,  and  his  heart  is  warm.  Make  yourself  easy,  my  boy. 
I  don't  forget  how  kindly  you  took  his  part;  and  before  I 
do  anything  rash,  I'll  at  least  consult  with  his  poor  mother." 

Randal  gnawed  his  pale  lip,  and  a  momentary  cloud  of 
disappointment  passed  over  his  face. 

*  True,  sir,"  said   he  gently  ;   "  true,  you  must   not  be 


834  MY  NOVEL;    OR, 

rash.  Indeed,  I  was  thinking  of  you  and  poor  dear  Frank 
at  the  very  moment  I  met  you.  It  occurred  to  me  whether 
we  might  not  make  Frank's  very  embarrassments  a  reason 
to  induce  Madame  di  Negra  to  refuse  him  ;  and  I  was  on 
my  way  to  Mr.  Egerton,  in  order  to  ask  his  opinion,  in  com- 
pany with  the  gentleman  yonder." 

"  Gentleman  yonder !  Why  should  he  thrust  his  long 
nose  into  my  family  affairs  ?  Who  the  devil  is  he  ? " 

"  Don't  ask,  sir.     Pray  let  me  act." 

But  the  Squire  continued  to  eye  askant  the  dark-whisk- 
ered personage  thus  interposed  between  himself  and  his  son, 
and  who  waited  patiently  a  few  yards  in  the  rear,  carelessly 
re-adjusting  the  camelia  in  his  button-hole. 

"He  looks  very  outlandish.  Is  he  a  foreigner  too?" 
asked  the  Squire  at  last. 

"  No,  not  exactly.  However,  he  knows  all  about  Frank's 
embarrassments  ;  and — 

"  Embarrassments  !  What,  the  debt  he  paid  for  that  wo- 
man ?  How  did  he  raise  the  money  ? " 

"I  don't  know,"  answered  Randal,  "and  that  is  the  rea- 
son I  asked  Baron  Levy  to  accompany  me  to  Egerton's, 
that  he  might  explain  in  private  what  I  have  no  rea- 
son  " 

"  Baron  Levy  !  "  interrupted  the  Squire.  "  Levy,  Levy 
— I  have  heard  of  a  Levy  who  has  nearly  ruined  my  neigh- 
bor Thornhill — a  money-lender.  Zounds  !  is  that  the  man 
who  knows  my  son's  affairs  !  I'll  soon  learn,  sir." 

Randal  caught  hold  of  the  Squire's  arm.  "  Stop,  stop  ; 
if  you  really  insist  upon  learning  more  about  Frank's  debts, 
you  must  not  appeal  to  Baron  Levy  directly,  and  as  Frank's 
father  ;  he  will  not  answer  you.  But  if  I  present  you  to 
him  as  a  mere  acquaintance  of  mine,  and  turn  the  conver- 
sation, as  if  carelessly,  upon  Frank — why,  since,  in  the  Lon- 
don world,  such  matters  are  never  kept  secret,  except  from 
the  parents  of  young  men — I  have  no  doubt  he  will  talk  out 
openly." 

"  Manage  it  as  you  will,"  said  the  Squire. 

Randal  took  Mr.  Hazeldean's  arm,  and  joined  Levy — "  A 
friend  of  mine  from  the  country,  Baron."  Levy  bowed 
profoundly,  and  the  three  walked  slowly  on. 

"  By  the  bye,"  said  Randal,  pressing  significantly  upon 
Levy's  arm,  "my  friend  lias  come  to  town  upon  the  some- 
what unpleasant  business  of  settling  the  debts  of  another — 
a  young  man  of  fashion — a  relation  of  his  own.  No  one, 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  835 

sir  (turning  to  the  Squire),  could  so  ably  assist  you  in  such 
arrangements  as  could  Baron  Levy." 

BARON  (modestly,  and  with  a  moralizing  air). — I  have 
some  experience  in  such  matters,  and  I  hold  it  a  duty  to 
assist  the  parents  and  relations  of  young  men,  who,  from 
want  of  reflection,  often  ruin  themselves  for  life.  I  hope 
the  young  gentleman  in  question  is  not  in  the  hands  of  the 
Jews?  »q.;ji 

RANDAL. — Christians  are  as  fond  of  good  interest  for 
their  money  as  ever  the  Jews  can  be. 

BARON. — Granted,  but  they  have  not  always  so  much 
money  to  lend.  The  first  thing,  sir  (addressing  the  Squire) 
— the  first  thing  for  you  to  do  is  to  buy  up  such  of  your  re- 
lation's bills  and  notes  of  hand  as  may  be  in  the  market. 
No  doubt  we  can  get  them  a  bargain,  unless  the  young  man 
is  heir  to  some  property  that  may  soon  be  his  in  the  course 
of  nature. 

RANDAL. — Not  soon — Heaven  forbid  !  His  father  is  still 
a  young  man — a  fine  healthy  man  (leaning  heavily  on  Levy's 
arm)  ;  and  as  to  the  post-obits 

BARON. — Post-obits  on  sound  security  cost  more  to  buy 
up,  however  healthy  the  obstructing  relative  may  be. 

RANDAL. — I  should  hope  that  there  are  not  many  sons 
who  can  calculate,  in  cold  blood,  on  the  death  of  their  fa- 
thers. 

BARON. — Ha,  ha — he  is  young,  our  friend  Randal;  eh, 
sir  ? 

RANDAL. — Well,  I  am  not  more  scrupulous  than  others, 
I  dare  say  ;  and  I  have  often  been  pinched  hard  for  money, 
but  I  would  go  barefoot  rather  than  give  security  upon  a 
father's  grave  !  I  can  imagine  nothing  more  likely  to  des- 
troy natural  feeling,  nor  to  instil  ingratitude  and  treachery 
into  the  whole  character,  than  to  press  the  hand  of  a  parent, 
and  calculate  when  that  hand  may  be  dust — than  to  sit  down 
with  strangers  and  reduce  his  life  to  the  measure  of  an  in- 
surance-table— than  to  feel  difficulties  gathering  round  one, 
and  mutter  in  fashionable  slang,  "  But  it  will  be  all  well  if 
the  governor  would  but  die."  And  he  who  has  accustomed 
himself  to  the  relief  of  post-obits  must  gradually  harden 
his  mind  to  all  this. 

The  Squire  groaned  heavily  ;  and  had  Randal  proceeded 
another  sentence  in  the  same  strain,  the  Squire  would  have 
wept  outright.  "  But,"  continued  Randal,  altering  the  tone 
of  his  voice,  "  I  think  that  our  young  friend,  of  whom  we 


836  MY  NOVEL;    OX, 

were  talking  just  now,  Levy,  before  this  gentleman  joined 
us,  has  the  same  opinions  as  myself  on  this  head.  He  may 
accept  bills,  but  he  would  never  sign  post-obits." 

BARON  (who  with  the  apt  docility  of  a  managed  charger 
to  the  touch  of  a  rider's  hand,  had  comprehended  and  com- 
plied with  each  quick  sign  of  Randal's). — Pooh  !  the  young 
fellow  we  are  talking  of  ?  Nonsense.  He  would  not  be  so 
foolish  as  to  give  five  times  the  percentage  he  otherwise 
might.  Not  sign  post-obits !  Of  course  he  has  signed  one. 

RANDAL. — Hist — you  mistake,  you  mistake. 

SQUIRE  (leaving  Randal's  arm  and  seizing  Levy's). — 
Were  you  speaking  of  Frank  Hazeldean  ? 

BARON. — My  dear  sir,  excuse  me  ;  I  never  mention 
names  before  strangers. 

SQUIRE. — Strangers  again  !  Man,  I  am  the  boy's  father  ! 
Speak  out,  sir ;  and  his  hand  closed  on  Levy's  arm  with 
the  strength  of  an  iron  vice. 

BARON. — Gently  ;  you  hurt  me,  sir  ;  but  I  excuse  your 
feelings.  Randal,  you  are  to  blame  for  leading  me  into  this 
indiscretion  ;  but  I  beg  to  assure  Mr.  Hazeldean,  that  though 
his  son  has  been  a  little  extravagant 

RANDAL. — Owing  chiefly  to  the  arts  of  an  abandoned 
woman. 

BARON. — Of  an  abandoned  woman  ;  still  he  has  shown 
more  prudence  than  you  would  suppose  ;  and  this  very 
post-obit  is  a  proof  of  it.  A  simple  act  of  that  kind  has 
enabled  him  to  pay  off  bills  that  were  running  on  till  they 
would  have  ruined  even  the  Hazeldean  estate ;  whereas  a 
charge  on  the  reversion  of  the  Casino 

SQUIRE. — He  has  done  it  then  ?  He  has  signed  a  post- 
obit  ? 

RANDAL. — No,  no,  Levy  must  be  wrong. 

BARON. — My  dear  Leslie,  a  man  of  Mr.  Hazeldean's 
time  of  life  cannot  have  your  romantic  boyish  notions.  He 
must  allow  that  Frank  has  acted  in  this  like  a  lad  of  sense — 
very  good  head  for  business  has  my  young  friend  Frank  ! 
And  the  best  thing  Mr.  Hazeldean  can  do  is  quietly  to  buy 
up  the  post-obit,  and  thus  he  will  place  his  son  henceforth 
in  his  power. 

SQUIRE. — Can  I  see  the  deed  with  my  own  eyes  ? 

BARON. — Certainly,  or  how  could  you  be  induced  to  buy 
it  up.  But  on  one  condition  :  you  must  not  betray  me  to 
your  son.  And,  indeed,  take  my  advice,  and  don't  say  a 
word  to  him  on  the  matter. 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  837 

SQUIRE. — Let  me  see  it,  let  me  see  it  with  my  own  eyes. 
His  mother  else  will  never  believe  it — nor  will  I. 

BARON. — I  can  call  on  you  this  evening. 

SQUIRE. — Now,  now. 

BARON. — You  can  spare  me,  Randal ;  and  you  yourself 
can  open  to  Mr.  Egerton  the  other  affair  respecting  Lans- 
mere.  No  time  should  be  lost,  lest  L'Estrange  suggest  a 
candidate. 

RANDAL  (whispering). — Never  mind  me.  This  is  more 
important.  (Aloud.) — Go  with  Mr.  Hazeldean.  My  dear 
kind  friend  (to  the  Squire),  do  not  let  this  vex  you  so  much. 
After  all,  it  is  what  nine  young  men  out  of  ten  would  do  in 
the  same  circumstances.  And  it  is  best  you  should  know 
it ;  you  may  save  Frank  from  farther  ruin,  and  prevent, 
perhaps,  this  very  marriage. 

"We  will  see,"  exclaimed  the  Squire,  hastily.  "Now, 
Mr.  Levy,  come." 

Levy  and  the  Squire  walked  on,  not  arm  in  arm,  but 
side  by  side.  Randal  proceeded  to  Egerton's  house. 

"  I  am  glad  to  see  you,  Leslie,"  said  the  ex-minister. 
"  What  is  it  I  have  heard  ?  My  nephew,  Frank  Hazeldean, 
proposes  to  marry  Madame  di  Negra  against  his  father's 
consent  ?  How  could  you  suffer  him  to  entertain  an  idea 
so  wild  ?  And  how  never  confide  it  to  me  ?" 

RANDAL. — My  dear  Mr.  Egerton,  it  is  only  to-day  that  I 
was  informed  of  Frank's  engagement.  I  have  already  seen 
him,  and  expostulated  in  vain ;  till  then,  though  I  "knew 
your  nephew  admired  Madame  di  Negra,  I  could  never 
suppose  he  harbored  a  serious  intention. 

EGERTON. — I  must  believe  you,  Randal.  I  will  myself 
see  Madame  di  Negra,  though  I  have  no  power,  and  no  right, 
to  dictate  to  her.  I  have  but  little  time  for  all  such 
private  business.  The  dissolution  of  Parliament  is  so  close 
at  hand. 

RANDAL  (looking  down). — It  is  on  that  subject  that  I 
wished  to  speak  to  you,  sir.  You  think  of  standing  for 
Lansmere.  Well,  Baron  Levy  has  suggested  to  me  an  idea 
that  I  could  not,  of  course,  even  countenance,  till  I  had 
spoken  to  you.  It  seems  that  he  has  some  acquaintance 
with  the  state  of  parties  in  that  borough.  He  is  informed 
that  it  is  not  only  as  easy  to  b/ing  in  two  of  our  side,  as  to 
carry  one,  but  that  it  would  make  your  election  still  more 
safe  not  to  fight  single-handed  against  two  opponents  ;  that 
if  canvassing  for  yourself  alone,  you  could  not  carry  a  suffi- 


838  MY  NOVEL;    OK, 

cient  number  of  plumper  votes  ;  that  split  votes  would  go 
from  you  to  one  or  other  of  the  adversaries  ;  that,  in  a  word, 
it  is  necessary  to  pair  you  with  a  colleague.  If  it  really  be 
so,  you,  of  course,  will  learn  best  from  your  own  commit- 
tee ;  but  should  they  concur  in  the  opinion  Baron  Levy  has 
formed — do  I  presume  too  much  on  your  kindness — to 
deem  it  possible  that  you  might  allow  me  to  be  the  second 
candidate  on  your  side  ?  I  should  not  say  this,  but  that 
Levy  told  me  you  had  some  wish  to  see  me  in  Parliament, 
amongst  the  supporters  of  your  policy.  And  what  other 
opportunity  can  occur  ?  Here  the  cost  of  carrying  two 
would  be  scarcely  more  than  that  of  carrying  one.  And 
Levy  says,  the  party  would  subscribe  for  my  election  ;  you, 
of  course,  would  refuse  all  such  aid  for  your  own  ;  and,  in- 
deed, with  your  great  name,  and  Lord  Lansmere's  interest, 
there  can  be  little  beyond  the  strict  legal  expenses. 

As  Randal  spoke  thus  at  length,  he  watched  anxiously 
his  patron's  reserved,  unrevealing  countenance. 

EGERTON  (dryly). — I  will  consider.  You  may  safely 
leave  in  my  hands  any  matter  connected  with  your  ambi- 
tion and  advancement.  I  have  before  told  you  I  hold  it  a 
duty  to  do  all  in  my  power  for  the  kinsman  of  my  late  wife 
— for  one  whose  career  I  undertook  to  forward — for  one 
whom  honor  has  compelled  to  share  in  my  own  political 
reverses. 

Here  Egerton  rang  the  bell  for  his  hat  and  gloves,  and 
walkhig  into  the  hall,  paused  at  the  street-door.  There 
beckoning  to  Randal,  he  said,  slowly,  "  You  seem  intimate 
with  Baron  Levy  ;  I  caution  you  against  him — a  dangerous 
acquaintance,  first  to  the  purse,  next  to  the  honor." 

RANDAL. — I  know  it,  sir  ;  and  am  surprised  myself  at  the 
acquaintance  that  has  grown  up  between  us.  Perhaps  its 
cause  is  in  his  respect  for  yourself. 

EGERTON. — Tut. 

RANDAL. — Whatever  it  be,  he  contrives  to  obtain  a  sin- 
gular hold  over  one's  mind,  even  where,  as  in  my  case,  he 
lias  no  evident  interest  to  serve.  How  is  this  ?  It  puzzles 
me  ! 

EGERTON. — For  his  interest,  it  is  most  secured  where 
he  suffers  it  to  be  least  evident  ;  for  his  hold  over  the 
mind,  it  is  easily  accounted  .for.  He  ever  appeals  to  two 
temptations,  strong  with  all  men — Avarice  and  Ambition. 
Good  day. 

RANDAL. — Are  you  going  to  Madame  di  Negra's?    Shall 


VARIETIES   IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  839 

I  not  accompany  you  ?  Perhaps  I  may  be  able  to  back 
your  own  remonstrances. 

EGERTON. — No,  I  shall  not  require  you. 

RANDAL. — I  trust  I  shall  hear  the  result  of  your  inter- 
view ?  I  feel  so  much  interested  in  it.  Poor  Frank! 

Audley  nodded.     "  Of  course,  of  course." 

<•  i':'.  ••'.'.'.•ilSlii  oi  rfi  Oil   Wi-'Ufi  1   JU;J    ;V/iuifJ'>Jl  Y):t   JlJlV.'  ''••'til 


CHAPTER  XIV. 

ON  entering  the  drawing-room  of  Madame  di  Negra,  the 
peculiar  charm  which  the  severe  Audley  Egerton  had  been 
ever  reputed  to  possess  with  women,  would  have  sensibly 
struck  one  who  had  hitherto  seen  him  chiefly  in  his  relations 
with  men  in  the  business-like  affairs  of  life.  It  was  a  charm 
in  strong  contrast  to  the  ordinary  manners  of  those  who  are 
emphatically  called  "Ladies'  men."  No  artificial  smile,  no 
conventional  hollow  blandness,  no  frivolous  gossip,  no 
varnish  either  of  ungenial  gaiety  or  affected  grace.  The 
charm  was  in  a  simplicity  that  unbent  more  into  kindness 
than  it  did  with  men.  Audley's  nature,  whatever  its  faults 
and  defects,  was  essentially  masculine  ;  and  it  was  the  sense 
of  masculine  power  that  gave  to  his  voice  a  music  when 
addressing  the  gentler  sex,  and  to  his  manner  a  sort  of 
indulgent  fenderness  that  appeared  equally  void  of  insince- 
rity and  presumption. 

Frank  had  been  gone  about  half  an  hour,  and  Madame 
di  Negra  was  scarcely  recovered  from  the  agitation  into 
which  she  had  been  thrown  by  the  affront  from  the  father 
and  the  pleading  of  the  son. 

Egerton  took  her  passive  hand  cordially,  and  seated 
himself  by  her  side. 

"  My  dear  Marchesa,"  said  he,  "are  we  then  likely  to  be 
near  connections  ?  And  can  you  seriously  contemplate 
marriage  with  my  young  nephew,  Frank  Hazeldean  ?  You 
turn  away.  Ay,  my  fair  friend,  there  are  but  two  induce- 
ments to  a  free  woman  to  sign  away  her  liberty  at  the  altar. 
I  say  a  free  woman,  for  widows  are  free,  and  girls  are  not. 
These  inducements  are,  first,  wordly  position  ;  secondly, 
love.  Which  of  these  motives  can  urge  Madame  di  Negra 
to  marry  Mr.  Frank  Hazeldean?" 

"  There  are  other  motives  than  those  you  speak  of — the 


840  MY  NOVF.L;    OR, 

need  of  protection — the  sense  of  solitude — the  curse  of 
dependence — gratitude  for  honorable  affection.  But  you 
men  never  know  women  !  " 

"  I  grant  that  you  are  right  there — we  never  do  ;  ncithcr 
do  women  ever  know  men.  And  yet  each  sex  contrives  to 
dupe  and  to  fool  the  other  !  Listen  to  me.  I  have  little 
acquaintance  with  my  nephew,  but  I  allow  he  is  a  handsome 
young  gentleman,  with  whom  a  handsome  young  lady  in  her 
teens  might  fall  in  love  in  a  ball-room.  But  you,  who  have 
known  the  higher  order  of  our  species — you  who  have 
received  the  homage  of  men,  whose  thoughts  and  mind 
leave  the  small-talk  of  drawing-room  triflers  so  poor  and 
bald — you  cannot  look  me  in  the  face  and  say  that  it  is  any 
passion  resembling  love  which  you  feel  for  my  nephew. 
And  as  to  position,  it  is  right  that  I  should  inform  you  that 
if  he  marry  you  he  will  have  none.  He  may  risk  his  inheri- 
tance. You  will  receive  no  countenance  from  his  parents. 
You  will  be  poor,  but  not  free.  You  will  not  gain  the  inde- 
pendence you  seek  for.  The  sight  of  a  vacant  discontented 
face  in  that  opposite  chair  will  be  worse  than  solitude.  And 
as  to  grateful  affection,"  added  the  man  of  the  world,  "it  is 
a  polite  synonym  for  tranquil  indifference." 

"  Mr.  Egerton,"  said  Beatrice,  "  people  say  you  are 
made  of  bronze.  Did  you  ever  feel  the  want  of  a  home  ? " 

"I  answer  you  frankly,"  replied  the  statesman  ;  "if  I 
had  not  felt  it,  do  you  think  I  should  have  been,  and  that 
I  should  be  to  the  last,  the  joyless  drudge  of  public  life  ? 
Bronze  though  you  may  call  my  nature,  it  would  have  mel- 
ted away  long  since  like  wax  in  the  fire,  if  I  had  sat  idly 
down  and  dreamed  of  a  home  !  " 

"But  we  women,"  answered  Beatrice,  with  pathos, 
"  have  no  public  life,  and  we  do  idly  sit  down  and  dream. 
Oh,"  she  continued  after  a  short  pause,  and  clasping  her 
hands  firmly  together,  "  you  think  me  worldly,  grasping, 
ambitious  ;  how  different  my  fate  had  been,  had  I  known  a 
home ! — known  one  whom  I  could  love  and  venerate — 
known  one  whose  smiles  would  have  developed  the  good 
that  was  once  within  me,  and  the  fear  of  whose  rebuking  or 
sorrowful  eye  would  have  corrected  what  is  evil." 

"  Yet,"  answered  Audley,  "  nearly  all  women  in  the 
great  world  have  had  that  choice  once  in  their  lives,  and 
nearly  all  have  thrown  it  away.  How  few  of  your  rank 
really  think  of  home  when  they  marry— how  few  ask  to 
venerate  as  well  as  to  love — and  how  many,  of  every  rank, 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  841 

when  the  home  has  been  really  gained,  have  wilfully  lost 
its  shelter  ;  some  in  neglectful  weariness — some  from  a 
momentary  doubt,  distrust,  caprice— a  wild  fancy — a  pas- 
sionate fit — a  trifle — a  straw — a  dream  !  True,  you  women 
are  ever  dreamers.  Common  sense,  common  earth,  is  above 
or  below  your  comprehension." 

Both  now  are  silent.  Audley  first  roused  himself  with 
a  quick  writhing  movement.  "We  two,"  said  he,  smiling 
half  sadly,  half  cynically — "we  two  must  not  longer  waste 
time  in  talking  sentiment.  We  know  both  too  well  what 
life,  as  it  has  been  made  for  us  by  our  faults  or  our  mis- 
fortunes, truly  is.  And  once  again,  I  entreat  you  to  pause 
before  you  yield  to  the  foolish  suit  of  my  foolish  nephew. 
Rely  on  it,  you  will  either  command  a  higher  offer  for  your 
prudence  to  accept  ;  or,  if  you  needs  must  sacrifice  rank 
and  fortune,  you,  with  your  beauty  and  your  romantic 
heart,  will  see  one  who,  at  least  for  a  fair  holiday  season  (if 
human  love  allows  no  more),  can  repay  you  for  the  sacrifice. 
Frank  Hazeldean  never  can." 

Beatrice  turned  away  to  conceal  the  tears  that  rushed  to 
her  eyes. 

"Think  over  this  well,"  said  Audley,  in  the  softest  tones 
of  his  mellow  voice.  "  Do  you  remember  that  when  you 
first  came  to  England,  I  told  you  that  neither  wedlock  nor 
love  had  any  lures  for  me  ?  We  grew  friends  upon  that 
rude  avowal,  and  therefore  I  now  speak  to  you  like  some 
sage  of  old,  wise  because  standing  apart  and  aloof  from  all 
the  affections  and  ties  that  mislead  our  wisdom.  Nothing 
but  real  love  (how  rare  it  is  !  has  one  human  heart  in  a  mil- 
lion ever  known  it  ?) — nothing  but  real  love  can  repay  us  for 
the  loss  of  freedom — the  cares  and  fears  of  poverty — the 
cold  pity  of  the  world  that  we  both  despise  and  respect. 
And  all  these,  and  much  more,  follow  the  step  you  would 
inconsiderately  take — an  imprudent  marriage." 

"  Audley  Egerton,"  said  Beatrice,  lifting  her  dark, 
moistened  eyes,  "  you  grant  that  real  love  does  compensate 
for  an  imprudent  marriage.  You  speak  as  if  you  had 
known  such  love — you  !  Can  it  be  possible  ?" 

"  Real  love — I  thought  that  I  knew  it  once.  Looking 
back  with  remorse,  I  should  doubt  it  now  but  for  one  curse, 
that  only  real  love,  when  lost,  has  the  power  to  leave  ever- 
more behind  it." 

"What  is  that?" 
36 


842  My  NOVEL;    OR, 

"  A  void  here,"  answered  Egerton,  striking  his  heart. 
"  Desolation  ! — Adieu  !  " 

He  rose  and  left  the  room. 

"  Is  it,"  murmured  Egerton,  as  he  pursued  his  way 
through  the  streets — "  is  it  that,  as  we  approach  death,  all 
the  first  fair  feelings  of  young  life  come  back  to  us  mys- 
teriously ?  Thus  I  have  heard,  or  read,  that  in  some  coun- 
try of  old,  children  scattering  flowers  preceded  a  funeral 
bier." 


CHAPTER  XV. 

AND  so  Leonard  stood  beside  his  friend's  mortal  clay, 
and  watched,  in  the  ineffable  smile  of  death,  the  last  gleam 
which  the  soul  had  left  there  ;  and  so,  after  a  time,  he  crept 
back  to  the  adjoining  room  with  a  step  as  noiseless  as  if  he 
had  feared  to  disturb  the  dead.  Wearied  as  he  was  with 
watching,  he  had  no  thought  of  sleep.  He  sat  himself  down 
by  the  little  table,  and  leaned  his  face  on  his  hand,  musing 
sorrowfully.  Thus  time  passed.  He  heard  the  clock  from 
below  strike  the  hours.  In  the  house  of  death  the  sound 
of  a  clock  becomes  so  solemn.  The  soul  that  we  miss  has 
gone  so  far  beyond  the  reach  of  time  !  A  cold  superstitious 
awe  gradually  stole  over  the  young  man.  He  shivered, 
and  lifted  his  eyes  with  a  start,  half-scornful,  half-defying. 
The  moon  was  gone — the  gray  comfortless  dawn  gleamed 
through  the  casement,  and  carried  its  raw  chilling  light 
through  the  open  door-way  into  the  death-room.  And 
there,  near  the  extinguished  fire,  Leonard  saw  the  solitary 
woman,  weeping  low,  and  watching  still.  He  returned  to 
say  a  word  of  comfort — she  pressed  his  hand,  but  waved 
him  away.  He  understood.  She  did  not  wish  for  other 
comfort  than  her  quiet  relief  of  tears.  Again,  he  returned 
to  his  own  chamber,  and  his  eye  this  time  fell  upon  the 
papers  which  he  had  hitherto  disregarded.  What  made  his 
heart  stand  still,  and  the  blood  then  rush  so  quickly  through 
his  veins?  Why  did  he  seize  upon  those  papers  with  so 
tremulous  a  hand — then  lay  them  down — pause,  as  if  to 
nerve  himself — and  look  so  eagerly  again  ?  He  recognized 
the  handwriting — those  fair,  clear  characters — so  peculiar 
in  their  woman-like  delicacy  and  grace — the  same  as  in  the 
wild,  pathetic  poems,  the  sight  of  which  had  made  an  era 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  843 

in  his  boyhood.  From  these  pages  the  image  of  the 
mysterious  Nora  rose  once  more  before  him.  He  felt  that 
»he  was  with  a  mother.  He  went  back,  and  closed  the  door 
gently,  as  if  with  a  jealous  piety,  to  exclude  each  ruder 
shadow  from  the  world  of  spirits,  and  be  alone  with  that 
mournful  ghost.  For  a  thought  written  in  warm,  sunny 
life,  and  then  suddenly  rising  up  to  us,  with  the  hand  that 
traced,  and  the  heart  that  cherished  it,  are  dust — is  verily 
as  a  ghost.  It  is  a  likeness  struck  off  of  the  fond  human 
being,  and  surviving  it.  Far  more  truthful  than  bust  or 
portrait,  it  bids  us  see  the  tear  flow,  and  the  pulse  beat. 
What  ghost  can  the  church-yard  yield  to  us  like  the  writing 
of  the  dead  ? 

The  bulk  of  the  papers  had  been  once  lightly  sewn  to 
each  other — they  had  come  undone,  perhaps  in  Burley's 
rude  hands  ;  but  their  order  was  easily  apparent.  Leonard 
soon  saw  that  they  formed  a  kind  of  journal — not,  indeed, 
a  regular  diary,  nor  always  relating  to  the  things  of  the  day. 
There  were  gaps  in  time— no  attempt  at  successive  narra- 
tive. Sometimes,  instead  of  prose,  a  hasty  burst  of  verse, 
gushing  evidently  from  the  heart — sometimes  all  narrative 
was  left  untold,  and  yet,  as  it  were,  epitomized  by  a  single 
burning  line — a  single  exclamation — of  woe  or  joy !  Every- 
where you  saw  records  of  a  nature  exquisitely  suceptible  ; 
and,  where  genius  appeared,  it  was  so  artless,  that  you  did 
not  call  it  genius,  but  emotion.  At  the  onset  the  writer  did 
not  speak  of  herself  in  the  first  person.  The  MS.  opened 
with  descriptions  and  short  dialogues,  carried  on  by  per- 
sons to  whose  names  only  initial  letters  were  assigned,  all 
written  in  a  style  of  simple  innocent  freshness,  and  breath- 
ing of  purity  and  happiness,  like  a  dawn  of  spring.  Two 
young  persons,  humbly  born — a  youth  and  a  girl — the  last 
still  in  childhood,  each  chiefly  self-taught,  are  wandering 
on  Sabbath  evenings  among  green  dewy  fields  near  the 
busy  town,  in  which  labor  awhile  is  still.  Few  words  pass 
between  them.  You  see  at  once,  though  the  writer  does 
not  mean  to  convey  it,  how  far  beyond  the  scope  of  her 
male  companion  flies  the  heavenward  imagination  of  the 
girl.  It  is  he  who  questions — it  is  she  who  answers  ;  and 
soon  there  steals  upon  you,  as  you  read,  the  conviction  that 
the  youth  loves  the  girl,  and  loves  in  vain.  All  in  this 
writing,  though  terse,  is  so  truthful !  Leonard,  in  the 
youth,  already  recognizes  the  rude  imperfect  scholar — the 
village  bard — Mark  Fairfield.  Then,  there  is  a  gap  in  de- 


844  MY  NOVEL;   OR, 

scription — but  there  are  short  weighty  sentences,  which 
show  deepening  thought,  increasing  years,  in   the  writer. 
And  though  the  innocence  remains,  the  happiness  begins  to4 
be  less  vivid  on  the  page. 

Now,  insensibly,  Leonard  finds  that  there  is  a  new  phase 
in  the  writer's  existence.  Scenes,  no  longer  of  humble 
work-day  rural  life,  surround  her  ;  and  a  fairer  and  more 
dazzling  image  succeeds  to  the  companion  of  the  Sabbath 
eves.  This  image  Nora  evidently  loves  to  paint — it  is  akin 
to  her  own  genius — -it  captivates  her  fancy — it  is  an  image 
that  she  (inborn  artist,  and  conscious  of  her  art)  feels  to  be- 
long to  a  brighter  and  higher  school  of  the  Beautiful.  And 
yet  the  virgin's  heart  is  not  awakened — no  trace  of  the  heart 
yet  there  !  The  new  image  thus  introduced  is  one  of  her 
own  years,  perhaps  ;  nay,  it  may  be  younger  still,  for  it  is  a 
boy  that  is  described,  with  his  profuse  fair  curls,  and  eyes 
new  to  grief,  and  confronting  the  sun  as  a  young  eagle's  ; 
with  veins  so  full  of  the  wine  of  life,  that  they  overflow  into 
every  joyous  whim  ;  with  nerves  quiveringly  alive  to  the 
desire  of  glory  ;  with  the  frank,  generous  nature,  rash  in  its 
laughing  scorn  of  the  world,  which  it  has  not  tried.  Who 
was  this  boy,  it  perplexed  Leonard  ;  he  feared  to  guess. 
Soon,  less  told  than  implied,  you  saw  that  this  companion- 
ship, however  it  chanced,  brings  fear  and  pain  on  the 
writer.  Again,  as  before,  with  Mark  Fairfield,  there  is  love 
on  the  one  side  and  not  on  the  other — with  her  there  is  af- 
fectionate, almost  sisterly,  interest,  admiration,  gratitude — 
but  a  something  of  pride  or  of  terror  that  keeps  back  love. 

Here  Leonard's  interest  grew  intense.  There  were 
touches  by  which  conjecture  grew  certainty  ;  and  he  re- 
cognized, through  the  lapse  of  years,  the  boy-lover  in  his 
own  generous  benefactor ! 

Fragments  of  dialogue  now  began  to  reveal  the  suit  of 
an  ardent,  impassioned  nature,  and  the  simple  wonder  and 
strange  alarm  of  a  listener  who  pitied,  but  could  not  sym- 
pathize. Some  great  worldly  distinction  of  rank  between 
the  two  became  visible — that  distinction  seemed  to  arm  the 
virtue  and  steel  the  affections  of  the  lowlier  born.  Then  a 
few  sentences,  half-blotted  out  with  tears,  told  of  wounded 
and  humbled  feelings — some  one  invested  with  authority, 
as  if  the  suitor's  parent,  had  interfered,  questioned,  re- 
proached, counselled.  And  it  was  evident  that  the  suit  was 
not  one  that  dishonored — it  wooed  to  flight,  but  still  to 
marriage. 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE,  845 

And  now  these  sentences  grew  briefer  still,  as  with  the 
decision  of  a  strong  resolve.  And  to  these  there  followed 
a  passage  so  exquisite,  that  Leonard  wept  unconsciously  as 
he  read.  It  was  the  ciescription  of  a  visit  spent  at  home 
previous  to  some  sorrowful  departure.  He  caught  the 
glimpse  of  a  proud  and  vain,  but  a  tender  wistful  mother 
— of  a  father's  fonder  but  less  thoughtful  love.  And  then 
came  a  quiet  soothing  scene  between  the  girl  and  her  first 
village  lover,  ending  thus — "  So  she  put  M.'s  hand  into  her 
sister's,  and  said  :  '  You  loved  me  through  the  fancy,  love 
her  with  the  heart,'  and  left  them  comprehending  each 
other,  and  betrothed." 

Leonard  sighed.  He  understood  now  how  Mark  Fair- 
field  saw,  in  the  homely  features  of  his  unlettered  wife,  the 
reflection  of  the  sister's  soul  and  face. 

A  few  words  told  the  final  parting — words  that  were  a 
picture.  The  long  friendless  highway,  stretching  on — on — 
toward  the  remorseless  city.  And  the  doors  of  home  open- 
ing on  the  desolate  thoroughfare — and  the  old  pollard  tree 
beside  the  threshold,  with  the  ravens  wheeling  round  it  and 
calling  to  their  young.  He  too  had  watched  that  threshold 
from  the  same  desolate  thoroughfare.  He  too  had  heard 
the  cry  of  the  ravens.  Then  came  some  pages  covered  with 
snatches  of  melancholy  verse,  or  some  reflections  of  dreamy 
gloom. 

The  writer  was  in  London,  in  the  house  of  some  high- 
born patroness — that  friendless  shadow  of  a  friend  which 
the  jargon  of  society  calls  "companion."  And  she  was 
looking  on  the  bright  storm  of  the  world  as  through  prison 
bars.  Poor  bird,  afar  from  the  greenwood,  she  had  need  of 
song — it  was  her  last  link  with  freedom  and  nature.  The 
patroness  seems  to  share  in  her  apprehensions  of  the  boy 
suitor,  whose  wild  rash  prayers  the  fugitive  had  resisted  ; 
but  to  fear  lest  the  suitor  should  be  degraded,  not  the  one 
whom  he  pursues — fear  an  alliance  ill-suited  to  a  high-born 
heir.  And  this  kind  of  fear  stings  the  writer's  pride,  and 
she  grows  harsh  in  her  judgment  of  him  who  thus  causes 
but  pain  where  he  proffers  love.  Then  there  is  a  reference 
to  some  applicant  for  her  hand,  who  is  pressed  upon  her 
choice.  And  she  is  told  that  it  is  her  duty  so  to  choose,  and 
thus  deliver  a  noble  family  from  a  dread  that  endures  so 
long  as  her  hand  is  free.  And  of  this  fear,  and  of  this  ap- 
plicant, there  breaks  out  a  petulant  yet  pathetic  scorn. 
After  this  the  narrative,  to  judge  by  the  dates,  pauses  for 


846  MY  NOVEL;    OR, 

days  and  weeks,  as  if  the  writer  had  grown  weary  and  list- 
less— suddenly  to  re-open  in  a  new  strain,  eloquent  with 
hopes  and  with  fears  never  known  before.  The  first  person 
was  abruptly  assumed — it  was  the  living  "  I  "  that  now 
breathed  and  moved  along  the  lines.  How  was  this  ?  The 
woman  was  no  more  a  shadow  and  a  secret  unknown  to  her- 
self ;  she  had  assumed  the  intense  and  vivid  sense  of  indi- 
vidual being  ;  and  love  spoke  loud  in  the  awakened  human 
heart. 

A  personage  not  seen  till  then  appeared  on  the  page. 
And  ever  afterward  this  personage  was  only  named  as  "He" 
as  if  the  one  and  sole  representative  of  all  the  myriads  that 
walk  the  earth.  The  first  notice  of  this  prominent  character 
on  the  scene  showed  the  restless  agitated  effect  produced 
on  the  writer's  imagination.  He  was  invested  with  a 
romance  probably  not  his  own.  He  was  described  in  contrast 
to  the  brilliant  boy  whose  suit  she  had  feared,  pitied,  and 
now  sought  to  shun — described  with  a  grave  and  serious, 
but  gentle  mien — a  voice  that  imposed  respect — an  eye  and 
lip  that  showed  collected  dignity  of  will.  Alas  !  the  writer 
betrayed  herself,  and  the  charm  was  in  the  contrast,  not  to 
the  character  of  the  earlier  lover,  but  her  own.  And  now, 
leaving  Leonard  to  explore  and  guess  his  way  through  the 
gaps  and  chasms  of  the  narrative,  it  is  time  to  place  before 
the  reader  what  the  narrative  alone  will  not  reveal  to 
Leonard. 


CHAPTER  XVI. 

NORA  AVENEL  had  fled  from  the  boyish  love  of  Harley 
L'Estrange — recommended  by  Lady  Lansmere  to  a  valetu- 
dinarian relative  of  her  own,  Lady  Jane  Horton,  as  a  com- 
panion. But  Lady  Lansmere  could  not  believe  it  possible 
that  the  low-born  girl  could  long  sustain  her  generous  pride, 
and  reject  the  ardent  suit  of  one  who  could  offer  to  her  the 
prospective  coronet  of  a  countess.  She  continually  urged 
upon  Lady  Jane  the  necessity  of  marrying  Nora  to  some  one 
of  rank  less  disproportioned  to  her  own,  and  empowered 
that  lady  to  assure  any  such  wooer  of  a  dowry  far  beyond 
Nora's  station.  Lady  Jane  looked  around,  and  saw  in  the 
outskirts  of  her  limited  social  ring,  a  young  solicitor,  a 
peer's  natural  son,  who  was  on  terms  of  more  than  business- 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  847 

like  intimacy  with  the  fashionable  clients  whose  distresses 
made  the  origin  of  his  wealth.  The  young  man  was  hand- 
some, well-dressed,  and  bland.  Lady  Jane  invited  him  to 
her  house  ;  and,  seeing  him  struck  with  the  rare  loveliness 
of  Nora,  whispered  the  hint  of  the  dower.  The  fashionable 
solicitor,  who  afterward  ripened  into  Baron  Levy,  did  not 
need  that  hint ;  for,  though  then  poor,  he  celied  on  himself 
for  fortune,  and  unlike  Randal,  he  had  warm  blood  in  his 
veins.  But  Lady  Jane's  suggestions  made  him  sanguine  of 
success  ;  and  when  he  formally  proposed,  and  was  as  for- 
mally refused,  his  self-love  was  bitterly  wounded.  Vanity 
in  Levy  was  a  powerful  passion  ;  and  with  the  vain,  hatred 
is  strong,  revenge  is  rankling.  Levy  retired,  concealing  his 
rage  ;  nor  did  he  himself  know  how  vindictive  that  rage, 
when  it  cooled  into  malignancy,  could  become,  until  the 
arch-fiend  OPPORTUNITY  prompted  its  indulgence  and  sug- 
gested its  design. 

Lady  Jane  was  at  first  very  angry  with  Nora  for  the  re- 
jection of  a  suitor  whom  she  had  presented  as  eligible. 
But  the  pathetic  grace  of  this  wonderful  girl  had  crept  into 
her  heart,  and  softened  it  even  against  family  prejudice  ;  and 
she  gradually  owned  to  herself  that  Nora  was  worthy  of 
some  one  better  than  Mr.  Levy. 

Now,  Harley  had  ever  believed  that  Nora  returned  his 
love,  and  that  nothing  but  her  own  sense  of  gratitude  to 
his  parents — her  own  instincts  of  delicacy,  made  her  deaf  to 
his  prayers.  To  do  him  justice,  wild  and  headstrong  as  he 
then  was,  his  suit  would  have  ceased  at  once,  had  he  really 
deemed  it  persecution.  Nor  was  his  error  unnatural ;  for 
his  conversation,  till  it  had  revealed  his  own  heart,  could 
not  fail  to  have  dazzled  and  delighted  the  child  of  genius  ; 
and  her  frank  eyes  would  have  shown  the  delight.  How,  at 
his  age,  could  he  see  the  distinction  between  the  Poetess 
and  the  Woman  ?  The  poetess  was  charmed  with  rare  pro- 
mise in  a  soul  of  which  the  very  errors  were  the  extrava- 
gances of  richness  and  beauty.  But  the  woman — no !  the 
woman  required  some  nature  not  yet  developed,  and  all  at 
turbulent,  if  brilliant  strife,  with  its  own  noble  elements, — 
but  a  nature  formed  and  full-grown.  Harley  was  a  boy, 
and  Nora  was  one  of  those  women  who  must  find  or  fancy 
an  Ideal  that  commands  and  almost  awes  them  into  love. 

Harley  discovered,  not  without  difficulty,  Nora's  new 
residence.  He  presented  himself  at  Lady  Jane's,  and  she, 
with  grave  rebuke,  forbade  him  the  house.  He  found  it 


848  MY  NOVEL;    OR, 

impossible  to  obtain  an  interview  with  Nora.  He  wrote, 
but  he  felt  sure  that  his  letters  never  reached  her,  since  they 
were  unanswered.  His  young  heart  swelled  with  rage.  He 
dropped  threats,  which  alarmed  all  the  fears  of  Lady  Lans- 
mere,  and  even  the  prudent  apprehensions  of  his  friend, 
Audley  Egerton.  At  the  request  of  the  mother,  and  equally 
at  the  wish  of  the  son,  Audley  consented  to  visit  at  Lady 
Jane's  and  make  acquaintance  with  Nora. 

"I  have  such  confidence  in  you,"  said  Lady  Lansmere, 
"  that  if  you  once  know  the  girl,  your  advice  will  be  sure  to 
have  weight  with  her. — You  will  show  her  how  wicked  it 
would  be  to  let  Harley  break  our  hearts  and  degrade  his 
station." 

"  I  have  such  confidence  in  you,"  said  young  Harley, 
"  that  if  you  once  know  rny  Nora,  you  will  no  longer  side 
with  my  mother.  You  will  recognize  the  nobility  which 
nature  only  can  create — you  will  own  that  Nora  is  worthy 
a  rank  more  lofty  than  mine  ;  and  my  mother  so  believes  in 
your  wisdom,  that,  if  you  plead  in  my  cause,  you  will  con- 
vince even  her." 

Audley  listened  to  both  with  intelligent,  half-incredulous 
smile  ;  and  wholly  of  the  same  opinion  as  Lady  Lansmere, 
and  sincerely  anxious  to  save  Harley  from  an  indiscretion 
that  his  own  notions  led  him  to  regard  as  fatal,  he  resolved 
to  examine  this  boasted  pearl,  and  to  find  out  its  flaws. 
Audley  Egerton  was  then  in  the  prime  of  his  earnest,  res- 
olute, ambitious  youth.  The  stateliness  of  his  natural 
manners  had  then  a  suavity  and  polish  which,  even  in  later 
and  busier  life,  it  never  wholly  lost  ;  since,  in  spite  of  the 
briefer  words  and  the  colder  looks  by  which  care  and  power 
mark  the  official  man,  the  Minister  had  ever  enjoyed  that 
personal  popularity  which  the  indefinable,  external  some- 
thing, that  wins  and  pleases,  can  alone  confer.  But  he  had 
even  then,  as  ever,  that  felicitous  reserve  which  Rochefou- 
cauld has  called  the  "mystery  of  the  body" — that  thin  yet 
guardian  veil  which  reveals  but  the  strong  outlines  of  char- 
acter, and  excites  so  much  of  interest  by  provoking  so  much 
of  conjecture.  To  the  man  who  is  born  with  this  reserve, 
which  is  wholly  distant  from  shyness,  the  world  gives  credit 
for  qualities  and  talents  beyond  those  that  it  perceives  ;  and 
such  characters  are  attractive  to  others  in  proportion  as 
these  last  are  gifted  with  the  imagination  which  loves  to 
divine  the  unknown. 

At  the  first  interview,  the  impression  which  this  man 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  849 

produced  upon  Nora  Avenel  was  profound  and  strange. 
She  had  heard  of  him  before  as  the  one  whom  Harley  .most 
loved  and  looked  up  to  ;  and  she  recognized  at  once  in  his 
mien,  his  aspect,  his  words,  the  very  tone  of  his  deep  tran- 
quil voice,  the  power  to  which  woman,  whatever  her  intellect, 
never  attains  ;  and  to  which,  therefore,  she  imputes  a 
nobility  not  always  genuine — viz.,  the  power  of  deliberate 
purpose,  and  self-collected,  serene  ambition.  The  effect 
that  Nora  produced  on  Egerton  was  not  less  sudden.  He 
was  startled  by  a  beauty  of  face  and  form  that  belonged  to 
that  rarest  order,  which  we  never  behold  but  once  or  twice 
in  our  lives.  He  was  yet  more  amazed  to  discover  that  the 
aristocracy  of  mind  could  bestow  a  grace  that  no  aristocracy 
of  birth  could  surpass.  He  was  prepared  for  a  simple, 
blushing  village  girl,  and  involuntarily  he  bowed  low  his 
proud  front  at  the  first  sight  of  that  delicate  bloom,  and 
that  exquisite  gentleness  which  is  woman's  surest  passport 
to  the  respect  of  man.  Neither  in  the  first,  nor  the  second, 
nor  the  third  interview,  nor,  indeed,  till  after  many  inter- 
views, could  he  summon  up  courage  to  commence  his 
mission,  and  allude  to  Harley.  And  when  he  did  so  at  last, 
his  words  faltered.  But  Nora's  words  were  clear  to  him. 
He  saw  that  Harley  was  not  loved  ;  and  a  joy,  which  he  felt 
as  guilty,  darted  through  his  whole  frame.  From  that  inter- 
view Audley  returned  home,  greatly  agitated,  and  at  war 
with  himself.  Often,  in  the  course  of  this  story,  has  it 
been  hinted  that,  under  all  Egerton's  external  coldness,  and 
measured  self-control,  lay  a  nature  capable  of  strong  and 
stubborn  passions.  Those  passions  broke  forth  then.  He 
felt  that  love  had  already  entered  into  the  heart,  which  the 
trust  of  his  friend  should  have  sufficed  to  guard. 

"  I  will  go  there  no  more,"  said  he,  abruptly,  to  Harley. 

"  But  why  ?  " 

"  The  girl  does  not  love  you.  Cease,  then,  to  think  of 
her." 

Harley  disbelieved  him,  and  grew  indignant.  But  Aud- 
ley had  every  worldly  motive  to  assist  his  sense  of  honor. 
He  was  poor,  though  with  the  reputation  of  wealth — deeply 
involved  in  debt — resolved  to  rise  in  life — tenacious  of  his 
position  in  the  world's  esteem.  Against  a  host  of  counter- 
acting influences,  love  fought  single-handed.  Audley's  was 
a  strong  nature  ;  but,  alas  !  in  strong  natures,  if  resistance 
to  temptation  is  of  granite,  so  the  passions  that  they  admit 
are  of  fire. 

36* 


850  MY  NOVEL;    OR, 

Trite  is  the  remark,  that  the  destinies  of  our  lives  often 
date  from  the  impulses  of  unguarded  moments.  It  was  so 
with  this  man,  to  an  ordinary  eye  so  cautious  and  so  delib- 
erate. Harley  one  day  came  to  him  in  great  grief  ;  he  had 
heard  that  Nora  was  ill ;  he  implored  Audley  to  go  once 
more  and  ascertain.  Audley  went.  Lady  Jane  Horton, 
who  was  suffering  under  a  disease  which  not  long  afterward 
proved  fatal,  was  too  ill  to  receive  him.  He  was  shown  in- 
to the  room  set  apart  as  Nora's.  While  waiting  for  her  en- 
trance, he  turned  mechanically  over  the  leaves  of  an  album 
which  Nora,  suddenly  summoned  away  to  attend  Lady  Jane, 
had  left  behind  her  on  the  table.  He  saw  the  sketch  of  his 
own  features  ;  he  read  words  inscribed  below  it — words  of 
such  artless  tenderness,  and  such  unhoping  sorrow — words 
written  by  one  who  had  been  accustomed  to  regard  her 
genius  as  her  sole  confidant,  under  Heaven  ;  to  pour  out  to 
it,  as  the  solitary  poet-heart  is  impelled  to  do,  thoughts, 
feelings,  the  confession  of  mystic  sighs,  which  it  would 
never  breathe  to  a  living  ear,  and,  save  at  such  moments, 
scarcely  acknowledge  to  itself.  Audley  saw  that  he  was  be- 
loved, rnd  the  revelation,  with  a  sudden  light,  consumed  all 
the  baraiers  between  himself  and  his  owrn  love.  And  at  that 
moment  Nora  entered.  She  saw  him  bending  over  the  book. 
She  uttered  a  cry — sprang  forward — and  then  sank  down, 
covering  her  face  with  her  hands.  But  Audley  was  at  her 
feet.  He  forgot  his  friend — his  trust ;  he  forgot  ambition — 
he  forgot  the  world.  It  was  his  own  cause  that  he  pleaded 
— his  own  love  that  burst  forth  from  his  lips.  And  when 
the  two  that  day  parted,  they  were  betrothed  each  to  each. 
Alas  for  them,  and  alas  for  Harley! 

And  now  this  man,  who  had  hitherto  valued  himself  as 
the  very  type  of  gentleman — whom  all  his  young  contem- 
poraries had  so  regarded  and  so  revered — had  to  press  the 
hand  of  a  confiding  friend,  and  bid  adieu  to  truth.  He  had 
to  amuse,  to  delay,  to  mislead  his  boy-rival — to  say  that  he 
was  already  subduing  Nora's  hesitating  doubts — and  that 
with  a  little  lime,  she  could  be  induced  to  consent  to  forget 
Harley 's  rank,  and  his  parents'  pride,  and  become  his  wife. 
And  Harley  believed  in  Egerton,  without  one  suspicion  on 
the  mirror  of  his  loyal  soul. 

Meanwhile,  Audley,  impatient  of  his  own  position — im- 
patient, as  strong  minds  ever  are,  to  hasten  what  they  have 
once  resolved — to  terminate  a  suspense  that  every  interview 
with  Harley  tortured  alike  by  jealousy  and  shame — to  pass 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  851 

out  of  the  reach  of  scruples,  and  to  say  to  himself,  "  Right 
or  wrong,  there  is  no  looking  back;  the  deed  is  done," — 
Audley,  thus  hurried  on  by  the  impetus  of  his  own  power 
of  will,  pressed  for  speedy  and  secret  nuptials — secret,  till 
his  fortunes,  then  wavering,  were  more  assured — his  career 
fairly  commenced.  This  was  not  his  strongest  motive, 
though  it  was  one.  He  shrank  from  the  discovery  of  his 
wrong  to  his  friend— desired  to  delay  the  self-humiliation 
of  such  announcement,  until,  as  he  persuaded  himself,  Har- 
ley's  boyish  passion  was  over — had  yielded  to  the  new  al- 
lurements that  would  naturally  beset  his  way.  Stifling  his 
conscience,  Audley  sought  to  convince  himself  that  the  day 
would  soon  come  when  Harley  could  hear  with  indifference 
that  Nora  Avenel  was  another's.  "  The  dream  of  an  hour, 
at  his  age,"  murmured  the  elder  friend  ;  "  but  at  mine  the 
passion  of  a  life  ! "  He  did  not  speak  of  these  latter  mo- 
tives for  concealment  to  Nora.  He  felt  that,  to  own  the 
extent  of  his  treason  to  a  friend,  would  lower  him  in  her 
eyes.  He  spoke  therefore  but  slightingly  of  Harley — 
treated  the  boy's  suit  as  a  thing  past  and  gone.  He  dwelt 
only  on  reasons  that  compelled  self-sacrifice  on  his  side  or 
hers.  She  did  not  hesitate  which  to  choose.  And  so, 
where  Nora  loved,  so  submissively  did  she  believe  in  the 
superiority  of  the  lover,  that  she  would  not  pause  to  hear  a 
murmur  from  her  own  loftier  nature,  or  question  the  pro- 
priety of  what  he  deemed  wise  and  good. 

Abandoning  prudence  in  this  arch  affair  of  life,  Audley 
still  preserved  his  customary  caution  in  minor  details.  And 
this  indeed  was  characteristic  of  him  throughout  all  his 
career — heedless  in  large  things — wary  in  small.  He  would 
not  trust  Lady  Jane  Horton  with  his  secret,  still  less  Lady 
Lansmere.  He  simply  represented  to  the  former,  that  Nora 
was  no  longer  safe  from  Harley's  determined  pursuit  under 
Lady  Jane's  roof,  and  that  she  had  better  elude  the  boy's 
knowledge  of  her  movements,  and  go  quietly  away  for  a 
while,  to  lodge  with  some  connection  of  her  own. 

And  so,  with  Lady  Jane's  acquiescence,  Nora  went  first 
to  the  house  of  a  very  distant  kinswoman  of  her  mother's, 
and  afterward  to  one  that  Egerton  took  as  their  bridal  home, 
under  the  name  of  Bertram.  He  arranged  all  that  might  ren- 
der their  marriage  most  free  from  the  chance  of  premature 
discovery.  But  it  so  happened,  on  the  very  morning  of 
their  bridal,  that  one  of  the  witnesses  he  selected  (a  confi- 
dential servant  of  his  own)  was  seized  with  apoplexy.  Con- 


852  MY  NOVEL;   OK, 

sidering,  in  haste,  where  to  find  a  substitute,  Egerton 
thought  of  Levy,  his  own  private  solicitor,  his  own  fashion- 
able money-lender,  a  man  with  whom  he  was  then  as  inti- 
mate as  a  fine  gentleman  is  with  the  lawyer  of  his  own  age, 
who  knows  all  his  affairs,  and  has  helped,  from  pure  friend- 
ship, to  make  them  as  bad  as  they  are  !  Levy  was  thus 
suddenly  summoned.  Egerton,  who  was  in  great  haste, 
did  not  at  first  communicate  to  him  the  name  of  the  intended 
bride  ;  but  he  said  enough  of  the  imprudence  of  the  mar- 
riage, and  his  reasons  for  secrecy,  to  bring  on  himself  the 
strongest  remonstrances  ;  for  Levy  had  always  reckoned  on 
Egerton's  making  a  wealthy  marriage, — leaving  to  Egerton 
the  wife,  and  hoping  to  appropriate  to  himself  the  wealth, 
all  in  the  natural  course  of  business.  Egerton  did  not  lis- 
ten to  him,  but  hurried  him  on  toward  the  place  at  which 
the  ceremony  was  to  be  performed  ;  and  Levy  actually  saw 
the  bride  before  he  had  learned  her  name.  The  usurer 
masked  his  raging  emotions,  and  fulfilled  his  part  in  the 
rites.  His  smile,  when  he  congratulated  the  bride,  might 
have  shot  cold  into  her  heart ;  but  her  eyes  were  cast  on  the 
earth,  seeing  there  but  a  shadow  from  heaven,  and  her 
heart  was  blindly  sheltering  itself  in  the  bosom  to  which  it 
was  given  evermore.  She  did  not  perceive  the  smile  of  hate 
that  barbed  the  words  of  joy.  Nora  never  thought  it  neces- 
sary later  to  tell  Egerton  that  Levy  had  been  a  refused 
suitor.  Indeed,  with  the  exquisite  tact  of  love,  she  saw  that 
such  a  confidence,  the  idea  of  such  a  rival,  would  have 
wounded  the  pride  of  her  high-bred,  well-born  husband. 

And  now,  while  Harley  L'Estrange,  frantic  with  the  news 
that  Nora  had  left  Lady  Jane's  roof,  and  purposely  misled 
into  wrong  directions,  was  seeking  to  trace  her  refuge  in 
vain — now  Egerton,  in  an  assumed  name,  in  a  remote  quar- 
ter, far  from  the  clubs  in  which  his  word  was  oracular — far 
from  the  pursuits,  whether  of  pastime  or  toil,  that  had 
hitherto  engrossed  his  active  mind,  gave  himself  up,  with 
wonder  at  his  own  surrender,  to  the  only  vision  of  fairy-land 
that  ever  weighs  down  the  watchful  eyelids  of  hard  ambition. 
The  world  for  a  while  shut  out,  he  missed  it  not.  He  knew 
not  of  it.  He  looked  into  two  loving  eyes  that  haunted  him 
ever  after,  through  a  stern  and  arid  existence,  and  said, 
murmuringly,  "Why,  this,  then,  is  real  happiness  !  "  Often, 
often,  in  the  solitude  of  other  years,  he  repeated  to  himself 
the  same  words,  save  that  for  is,  he  then  murmured  was .'  And 
Nora,  with  her  grand,  full  heart,  all  her  luxuriant  wealth  of 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  853 

fancy  and  of  thought,  child  of  light  and  of  song,  did  she 
then  never  discover  that  there  was  something  comparatively 
narrow  and  sterile  in  the  nature  to  which  she  had  linked  her 
fate  ?  Not  there,  could  ever  be  sympathy  in  feelings,  brilliant 
and  shifting  as  the  tints  of  the  rainbow.  When  Audley 
pressed  her  heart  to  his  own,  could  he  comprehend  one 
liner  throb  of  its  beating  ?  Was  all  the  iron  of  his  mind 
worth  one  grain  of  the  gold  she  had  cast  away  in  Harley's 
love  ? 

Did  Nora  already  discover  this  ?  Surely  no.  Genius 
feels  no  want,  no  repining  while  the  heart  is  contented. 
Genius  in  her  paused  and  slumbered ;  it  had  been  as  the 
ministrant  of  solitude  ;  it  was  needed  no  more.  If  a  woman 
love  deeply  some  one  below  her  own  grade  in  the  mental 
and  spiritual  orders,  how  often  we  see  that  she  uncon- 
sciously quits  her  own  rank,  comes  meekly  down  to  the 
level  of  the  beloved,  is  afraid  lest  he  should  deem  her  the 
superior — she  who  would  not  even  be  the  equal.  Nora 
knew  no  more  that  she  had  genius  ;  she  only  knew  that  she 
had  love. 

And  so  here,  the  journal  which  Leonard  was  reading, 
changed  its  tone,  sinking  into  that  quiet  happiness  which 
is  but  quiet  because  it  is  so  deep.  This  interlude  in  the 
life  of  a  man  like  Audley  Egerton  could  never  have  been 
long ;  many  circumstances  conspired  to  abridge  it.  His 
affairs  were  in  great  disorder ;  they  were  all  under  Levy's 
management.  Demands  that  had  before  slumbered,  or  been 
mildly  urged,  grew  menacing  and  clamorous.  Harley,  too, 
returned  to  London  from  his  futile  researches,  and  looked 
out  for  Audley.  Audley  was  forced  to  leave  his  secret 
Eden,  and  reappear  in  the  common  world  ;  and  thencefor- 
ward it  was  only  by  stealth  that  he  came  to  his  bridal  home 
— a  visitor,  no  more  the  inmate.  But  more  loud  and  fierce 
grew  the  demands  of  his  creditors,  now  when  Egerton  had 
most  need  of  all  which  respectability,  and  position,  and  be- 
lief of  pecuniary  independence  can  do  to  raise  the  man  who 
has  encumbered  his  arms,  and  crippled  his  steps  toward 
fortune.  He  was  threatened  with  writs,  with  prison.  Levy 
said  "that  to  borrow  more  would  be  but  larger  ruin," — 
shrugged  his  shoulders,  and  even  recommended  a  voluntary 
retreat  to  the  King's  Bench.  "  No  place  so  good  for  fright- 
ening one's  creditors  into  compounding  their  claims  ;  but 
why,"  added  Levy,  with  covert  sneer,  "why  not  go  to  young 
L' Estrange — a  boy  made  to  be  borrowed  from  ! " 


854  MY  NOVEL;    OR, 

Levy,  who  had  known  from  Lady  Jane  of  Harley's  pui- 
suit  of  Nora,  had  learned  already  how  to  avenge  himself  on 
F.gerton.  Audley  could  not  apply  to  the  friend  he  had 
betrayed.  And  as  to  the  other  friends,  no  man  in  town 
had  a  greater  number  ;  and  no  man  in  town  knew  better 
that  he  should  lose  them  all  if  he  were  once  known  to  be 
in  want  of  their  money.  Mortified,  harassed,  tortured — 
shunning  Harley — yet  ever  sought  by  him — fearful  of  each 
knock  at  his  door,  Audley  Egerton  escaped  to  the  mort- 
gaged remnant  of  his  paternal  estate,  on  which  there  was  a 
gloomy  manor-house,  long  uninhabited,  and  there  applied 
a  mind,  afterward  renowned  for  its  quick  comprehension 
of  business,  to  the  investigation  of  his  affairs,  with  a  view 
to  save  some  wreck  from  the  flood  that  swelled  momently 
around  him. 

And  now — to  condense  as  much  as  possible  a  record 
that  runs  darkly  on  into  pain  and  sorrow — now  Levy  began 
to  practise  his  vindictive  arts  ;  and  the  arts  gradually  pre- 
vailed. On  pretence  of  assisting  Egerton  in  the  arrange- 
ments of  his  affairs — which  he  secretly  contrived,  however, 
still  more  to  complicate — he  came  down  frequently  to 
Egerton  Hall  for  a  few  hours,  arriving  by  the  mail,  and 
watching  the  effect  which  Nora's  almost  daily  letters  pro- 
duced on  the  bridegroom,  irritated  by  the  practical  cares  of 
life.  He  was  thus  constantly  at  hand  to  instil  into  the  mind 
of  the  ambitious  man  a  regret  for  the  imprudence  of  hasty 
passion,  or  to  embitter  the  remorse  which  Audley  felt  for 
his  treachery  to  L'Estrange.  Thus  ever  bringing  before 
the  mind  of  the  harassed  debtor  images  at  war  with  love, 
and  with  the  poetry  of  life,  he  disattuned  it  (so  to  speak) 
for  the  reception  of  Nora's  letters,  all  musical  as  they  were 
with  such  thoughts  as  the  most  delicate  fancy  inspires  to 
the  most  earnest  love.  Egerton  was  one  of  those  men  who 
never  confide  their  affairs  frankly  to  women.  Nora,  when 
she  thus  wrote,  was  wholly  in  the  dark  as  to  the  extent  of 
his  stern  prosaic  distress.  And  so — and  so — Levy  always 
near  (type  of  the  prose  of  life  in  its  most  cynic  form) — so 
by  degrees,  all  that  redundant  affluence  of  affection,  with 
its  gushes  of  grief  for  his  absence,  prayers  for  his  return, 
sweet  reproach  if  a  post  failed  to  bring  back  an  answer  to 
the  woman's  yearning  sighs — all  this  grew,  to  the  sensible, 
positive  man  of  real  life,  like  sickly  romantic  exaggeration. 
The  bright  arrows  shot  too  high  into  heaven  to  hit  the  mark 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  855 

set  so  near  to  the  earth.  Ah  ;  common  fate  of  all  superior 
natures!  What  treasure,  and  how  wildly  wasted  ! 

"  By  the  bye,"  said  Levy  one  morning,  as  he  was  about 
to  take  leave  of  Audley  and  return  to  town — "by  the  bye, 
I  shall  be  this  evening  in  the  neighborhood  of  Mrs. 
Egerton." 

EGERTON. — Say  Mrs.  Bertram  ! 

LEVY. — Ay  ;  will  she  not  be  in  want  of  some  pecuniary 
supplies  ? 

EGERTON. — My  wife  ! — Not  yet.  I  must  first  be  wholly 
ruined  before  she  can  want  ;  and  if  I  were  so,  do  you  think 
I  should  not  be  by  her  side  ? 

LEVY. — I  beg  pardon,  my  dear  fellow ;  your  pride  of 
gentleman  is  so  susceptible  that  it  is  hard  for  a  lawyer  not 
to  wound  it  unawares.  Your  wife,  then,  does  not  know  the 
exact  state  of  your  affairs  ? 

EGERTON. — Of  course  not.  Who  would  confide  to  a 
woman  things  in  which  she  could  do  nothing,  except  to 
tease  one  the  more  ? 

LEVY. — True,  and  a  poetess  too  !  I  have  prevented  your 
finishing  your  answer  to  Mrs.  Bertram's  last  letter.  Can  I 
take  it — it  may  save  a  day's  delay — that  is,  if  you  do  not  ob- 
ject to  my  calling  on  her  this  evening. 

EGERTON  (sitting  down  to  his  unfinished  letter). — Ob- 
ject !  no. 

LEVY  (looking  at  his  watch). — Be  quick,  or  I  shall  lose 
the  coach. 

EGERTON  (sealing  the  letter).- — There.  And  I  should  be 
obliged  to  you  if  you  woidd  call ;  and  without  alarming  her 
as  to  my  circumstances,  you  can  just  say  that  you  know  I 
am  much  harassed  about  important  affairs  at  present,  and 
so  soothe  the  effect  of  my  very  short  answers 

LEVY. — To  those  doubly-crossed,  very  long  letters — I 
will. 

"Poor  Nora,"  said  Egerton,  sighing,  "she  will  think 
this  answer  brief  and  churlish  enough.  Explain  my  ex- 
cuses kindly,  so  that  they  will  serve  for  the  future.  I  really 
have  no  time,  and  no  heart  for  sentiment.  The  little  I  ever 
had  is  well-nigh  worried  out  of  me.  Still  I  love  her  fondly 
and  deeply." 

LEVY. — You  must  have  done  so.  I  never  thought  it  in 
you  to  sacrifice  the  world  to  a  woman. 

EGERTON. — Nor  I  either ;  but  (added  the  strong  man, 
conscious  of  that  power  which  rules  the  world  infinitely 


856  MY  NOVEL;    OR, 

more  than  knowledge — conscious  of  tranquil  courage)—* 
but  I  have  not  sacrificed  the  world  yet.  This  right  arm 
shall  bear  up  her  and  myself  too. 

LEVY. — Well  said  !  but  in  the  meanwhile,  for  heaven's 
sake,  don't  attempt  to  go  to  London,  nor  to  leave  this 
place  ;  for,  in  that  case,  I  know  you  will  be  arrested,  and 
then  adieu  to  all  hopes  of  Parliament — of  a  career. 

Audley's  haughty  countenance  darkened  ;  as  the  dog,  in 
his  bravest  mood,  turns  dismayed  from  the  stone  plucked 
from  the  mire,  so,  when  Ambition  rears  itself  to  defy  man- 
kind, whisper  "disgrace  and  a  gaol," — and,  lo,  crestfallen, 
it  slinks  away  !  That  evening  Levy  called  on  Nora,  and 
ingratiating  himself  into  her  favor  by  praise  of  Egerton, 
with  indirect  humble  apologetic  allusions  to  his  own  former 
presumption,  he  prepared  the  way  to  renewed  visits  ; — she 
was  ?o  lonely,  and  she  so  loved  to  see  one  who  was  fresh 
from  seeing  Audley — one  who  would  talk  to  her  of  him  ! 
By  degrees  the  friendly  respectful  visitor  thus  stole  into 
her  confidence  ;  and  then,  with  all  his  panegyrics  on  Aud- 
ley's superior  powers  and  gifts,  he  began  to  dwell  upon  the 
young  husband's  worldly  aspirations,  and  care  for  his  ca- 
reer; dwell  on  them  so  as  vaguely  to  alarm  Nora — to  imply 
that,  dear  as  she  was,  she  was  still  but  second  to  Ambition. 
His  way  thus  prepared,  he  next  began  to  insinuate  his  re- 
spectful pity  at  her  equivocal  position,  dropped  hints  of 
gossip  and  slander,  feared  that  the  marriage  might  be 
owned  too  late  to  preserve  reputation.  And  then  what 
would  be  the  feelings  of  the  proud  Egerton  if  his  wife  were 
excluded  from  that  world,  whose  opinion  he  so  prized  ?  In- 
sensibly thus  he  led  her  on  to  express  (though  timidly)  her 
own  fear — her  own  natural  desire,  in  her  letters  to  Audley. 
When  could  the  marriage  be  proclaimed  ?  Proclaimed  ! 
Audley  felt  that  to  proclaim  such  a  marriage,  at  such  a 
moment,  would  be  to  fling  away  his  last  cast  for  fame  »and 
fortune.  And  Harley,  too — Harley  still  so  uncured  of  his 
frantic  love  !  Levy  was  sure  to  be  at  hand  when  letters 
like  these  arrived. 

And  now  Levy  went  further  still  in  his  determination  to 
alienate  these  two  hearts.  He  contrived,  by  means  of  his 
various  agents,  to  circulate  through  Nora's  neighborhood 
the  very  slanders  at  which  he  had  hinted.  He  contrived 
that  she  should  be  insulted  when  she  went  abroad,  outraged 
at  home  by  the  sneers  of  her  own  servants,  and  tremble 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  .      857 

with  shame  at  her  own  shadow  upon  her  abandoned  bridal 
hearth. 

Just  in  the  midst  of  this  intolerable  anguish,  Levy  reap- 
peared. His  crowning  hour  was  ripe.  He  intimated  his 
knowledge  of  the  humiliations  Nora  had  undergone,  ex- 
pressed his  deep  compassion,  offered  to  intercede  with  Eger- 
ton  "to  do  her  justice."  He  used  ambiguous  phrases,  that 
shocked  her  ear  and  tortured  her  heart,  and  thus  provoked 
her  on  to  demand  him  to  explain  ;  and  then,  throwing  her 
into  a  wild  state  of  indefinite  alarm,  in  which  he  obtained 
her  solemn  promise  not  to  divulge  to  Audley  what  he  was 
about  to  communicate,  he  said,  with  villanous  hypocrisy  of 
reluctant  shame,  "  that  her  marriage  was  not  strictly  legal ; 
that  the  forms  required  by  the  law  had  not  been  complied 
with;  that- Audley,  unintentionally  or  purposely,  had  left 
himself  free  to  disown  the  rite  and  desert  the  bride." 
While  Nora  stood  stunned  and  speechless  at  a  falsehood 
which,  with  lawyer-like  show,  he  contrived  to  make  truth- 
like  to  her  inexperience,  he  hurried  rapidly  on,  to  re-awake 
on  her  mind  the  impression  of  Audlev's  pride,  ambition, 
and  respect  for  worldly  position.  "These  are  your  ob- 
stacles," said  he  ;  "  but  I  think  I  may  induce  him  to  repair 
the  wrong,  and  right  you  at  last."  Righted  at  last — oh  in- 
famy ! 

Then  Nora's  anger  burst  forth.  She  believe  such  a  stain 
on  Audley's  honor  ! 

14  But  where  was  the  honor  when  he  betrayed  his  friend  ? 
Did  you  not  know  that  he  was  intrusted  by  Lord  L'Estrange 
to  plead  for  him  ?  How  did  he  fulfil  the  trust  ?" 

Plead  for  L'Estrange !  Nora  had  not  been  exactly 
aware  of  this.  In  the  sudden  love  preceding  those  sudden 
nuptials,  so  little  touching  Harley  (beyond  Audley's  first 
timid  allusions  to  his  suit,  and  her  calm  and  cold  reply)  had 
been  spoken  by  either. 

Levy  resumed.  He  dwelt  fully  on  the  trust  and  the 
breach  of  it,  and  then  said — "  In  Egerton's  world,  man 
holds  it  far  more  dishonor  to  betray  a  man  than  to  dupe  a 
woman  ;  and  if  Egerton  could  do  the  one,  why  doubt  that 
he  would  do  the  other  ?  But  do  not  look  at  me  with  those 
indignant  eyes.  Put  himself  to  the  test ;  write  to  him  to 
say  that  the  suspicions  amidst  which  you  live  have  become 
intolerable — that  they  infect  even  yourself,  despite  your 
reason — that  the  secrecy  of  your  nuptials,  his  prolonged 
absence,  his  brief  refusal,  on  unsatisfactory  grounds,  to  pro- 


858  MY  NOVEL;    OR, 

claim  your  tie,  all  distract  you  with  a  terrible  doubt.     Ask 
him,  at  least  (if  he  will  not  yet  declare  your  marriage),  to 
satisfy  you  that  the  rites  were  legal." 
.  "I  will  go  to  him,"  cried  Nora,  impetuously. 

"  Go  to  him  ! — in  his  own  house  !  What  a  scene,  what  a 
scandal !  Could  he  ever  forgive  you  ? " 

"  At  least,  then,  I  will  implore  him  to  come  here.  I 
cannot  write  such  horrible  words  ;  I  cannot — I  cannot — Go, 

go-" 

Levy  left  her,  and  hastened  to  two  or  three  of  Audley's 
most  pressing  creditors — men,  in  fact,  who  went  entirely 
by  Levy's  own  advice.  He  bade  them  instantly  surround 
Audley's  country  residence  with  bailiffs*.  Before  Egerton 
could  reach  Nora,  he  would  thus  be  lodged  in  gaol.  These 
preparations  made,  Levy  himself  went  down  to  Audley,  and 
arrived,  as  usual,  an  hour  or  two  before  the  delivery  of 
the  post. 

And  Nora's  letter  came  ;  and  never  was  Audley's  grave 
brow  more  dark  than  when  he  read  it.  Still,  with  his  usual 
decision,  he  resolved  to  obey  her  wish — rang  the  bell,  and 
ordered  his  servant  to  put  up  a  change  of  dress,  and  send 
for  post-horses. 

Levy  then  took  him  aside,  and  led  him  to  the  window. 

"  Look  under  yon  tree.  Do  you  see  those  men  ?  They 
are  bailiffs.  This  is  the  true  reason  why  I  come  to  you 
to-day.  You  cannot  leave  this  house." 

Egerton  recoiled.  "And  this  frantic  foolish  letter  at 
such  a  time,"  he  muttered,  striking  the  open  page,  full  of 
love  in  the  midst  of  terror,  with  his  clenched  hand. 

O  Woman,  Woman  !  if  thy  heart  be  deep,  and  its  chords 
tender,  beware  how  thou  lovest  the  man  with  whom  all 
that  plucks  him  from  the  hard  cares  of  the  work-day  world 
is  a  frenzy  or  a  folly !  He  will  break  thy  heart,  he  will 
shatter  its  chords,  he  will  trample  out  from  its  delicate 
framework  every  sound  that  now  makes  musical  the  com- 
mon air,  and  swells  into  unison  with  the  harps  of  angels. 

"  She  has  before  written  to  me,"  continued  Audley,  pac- 
ing the  room  with  angry  disordered  strides,  "  asking  me 
when  our  marriage  can  be  proclaimed,  and  I  thought  my 
replies  would  have  satisfied  any  reasonable  woman.  But 
now,  now  this  is  worse,  immeasurably  worse — she  actually 
doubts  my  honor!  I,  who  have  made  such  sacrifices — 
actually  doubts  whether  I,  Audley  Egerton,  an  English 
gentleman,  could  have  been  base  enough  to " 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  859 

"What?"  interrupted  Levy,  "to  deceive  your  friend 
L'Estrange  ?  Did  not  she  know  that?  " 

"  Sir  ! "  exclaimed  Egerton,  turning  white. 

"  Don't  be  angry — all's  fair  in  love  as  in  war  ;  and 
L'Estrange  will  live  yet  to  thank  you  for  saving  him  from 
such  a  mesalliance.  But  you  are  seriously  angry  ;  pray 
forgive  me." 

With  some  difficulty,  and  much  fawning,  the  usurer  ap- 
peased the  storm  he  had  raised  in  Audley's  conscience. 
And  he  then  heard,  as  if  with  surprise,  the  true  purport  of 
Nora's  letter. 

"  It  is  beneath  me  to  answer,  much  less  to  satisfy,  such 
a  doubt,"  said  Audley.  "  I  could  have  seen  her,  and  a  look 
of  reproach  would  have  sufficed  ;  but  to  put  my  hand  to 
paper,  and  condescend  to  write,  '  I  am  not  a  villain,  and  I 
will  give  you  the  proofs  that  I  am  not,' — never." 

"You  are  quite  right ;  but  let  ue  see  if  we  cannot  re- 
concile matters  between  your  pride  and  her  feelings.  Write 
simply  this  : — '  All  that  you  ask  me  to  say  or  to  explain,  I 
have  instructed  Levy,  as  my  solicitor,  to  say  and  explain 
for  me ;  and  you  may  believe  him  as  you  would  myself." 

"  Well,  the  poor  fool,  she  deserves  to  be  punished  ;  and 
I  suppose  that  answer  will  punish  her  more  than  a  lengthier 
rebuke.  My  mind  is  so  distracted,  I  cannot  judge  of  these 
trumpery  woman-fears  and  whims  ;  there,  I  have  written 
as  you  suggest.  Give  her  all  the  proof  she  needs,  and  tell 
her  that  in  six  months  at  farthest,  come  what  will,  she  shall 
bear  the  name  of  Egerton,  as  henceforth  she  must  share  his 
fate." 

"  Why  say  six  months  ? " 

"  Parliament  must  be  dissolved,  and  there  must  be  a 
general  election  before  then.  I  shall  either  obtain  a  seat, 
be  secure  from  a  gaol,  have  won  a  field  for  my  energies, 
or " 

"  Or  what  ?  " 

"  I  shall  renounce  ambition  altogether — ask  my  bro- 
ther to  assist  me  toward  whatever  debts  remain  when  all 
my  property  is  fairly  sold — they  cannot  be  much.  He 
has  a  living  in  his  gift — the  incumbent  is  old,  and,  I  hear, 
very  ill,  I  can  take  orders." 

"  Sink  into  a  country  parson  ! " 

"  And  learn  content.  I  have  tasted  it  already.  She  was 
then  by  my  side.  Explain  all  to  her.  This  letter,  I  fear,  is 
too  unkind — but  to  doubt  me  thus  !  " 


860  MY  NOVEL;    OR, 

Levy  hastily  placed  the  letter  in  his  pocket-book  ;  and, 
for  fear  it  should  be  withdrawn,  took  his  leave. 

And  of  that  letter  he  made  such  use,  that  the  day  after 
he  had  given  it  to  Nora,  she  had  left  the  house — the  neigh- 
borhood ;  fled,  and  not  a  trace  !  Of  all  the  agonies  in  life, 
that  which  is  most  poignant  and  harrowing — that  which  for 
the  time  most  annihilates  reason,  and  leaves  our  whole 
organization  one  lacerated,  mangled  heart — is  the  conviction 
that  we  have  been  deceived  where  we  placed  all  the  trust  of 
love.  The  moment  the  anchor  snaps,  the  storm  comes  on — 
the  stars  vanish  behind  the  cloud. 

When  Levy  returned,  filled  with  the  infamous  hope 
which  had  stimulated  his  revenge — the  hope  that  if  he 
could  succeed  in  changing  into  scorn  and  indignation 
Nora's  love  for  Audley,  he  might  succeed  also  in  replacing 
that  broken  and  degraded  Idol — his  amaze  and  dismay  were 
great  on  hearing  of  her  departure.  For  several  days  he 
sought  her  traces  in  vain.  He  went  to  Lady  Jane  Horton's — 
Nora  had  not  been  there.  He  trembled  to  go  back  to  Eger- 
ton.  Surely  Nora  would  have  written  to  her  husband,  and, 
in  spite  of  her  promise,  revealed  his  own  falsehood  ;  but  as 
days  passed  and  not  a  clue  was  found,  he  had  no  option  but 
to  repair  to  Egerton  Hall,  taking  care  that  the  bailiffs  still 
surrounded  it.  Audley  had  received  no  line  from  Nora. 
The  young  husband  was  surprised,  perplexed,  uneasy — but 
had  no  suspicion  of  the  truth. 

At  length  Levy  was  forced  to  break  to  Audley  the 
intelligence  of  Nora's  flight.  He  gave  his  own  color  to  it. 
Doubtless  she  had  gone  to  seek  her  own  relations,  and, 
by  their  advice,  take  steps  to  make  her  marriage  publicly 
known.  This  idea  changed  Audley's  first  shock  into  deep 
and  stern  resentment.  His  mind  so  little  comprehended 
Nora's,  and  was  ever  so  disposed  to  what  is  called  the 
common-sense  view  of  things,  that  he  saw  no  other  mode  to 
account  for  her  flight  and  her  silence.  Odious  to  Egerton 
as  such  a  proceeding  would  be,  he  was  far  too  proud  to  take 
any  steps  to  guard  against  it.  "Let  her  do  her  worst," 
said  he,  coldly,  masking  emotion  with  his  usual  self- 
command  ;  "  it  will  be  but  a  nine  days' wonder  to  the  world 
— a  fiercer  rush  of  my  creditors  on  their  hunted  prey " 

"And  a  challenge  from  Lord  L'Estrange." 

"So  be  it,"  answered  Egerton,  suddenly  placing  his  hand 
at  his  heart. 

"  What  is  the  matter  ?    Arc  you  ill  ? " 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  86 1 

"  A  strange  sensation  here.  My  father  died  of  a  com- 
plaint of  the  heart,  and  I  myself  was  once  told  to  guard, 
through  life,  against  excess  of  emotion.  I  smiled  at  such  a 
warning  then.  Let  us  sit  down  to  business." 

But  when  Levy  had  gone,  and  solitude  reclosed  round 
that  Man  of  the  Iron  Mask,  there  grew  upon  him  more  and 
more  the  sense  of  a  mighty  loss.  Nora's  sweet  loving  face 
started  from  the  shadows  of  the  forlorn  walls.  Her  docile, 
yielding  temper — her  generous,  self-immolating  spirit  — 
came  back  to  his  memory,  to  refute  the  idea  that  wronged 
her.  His  love,  that  had  been  suspended  for  awhile  by  busy 
cares,  but  which,  if  without  much  refining  sentiment,  was 
still  the  master  passion  of  his  soul,  flowed  back  into  all  his 
thoughts — circumfused  the  very  atmosphere  with  a  fearful 
softening  charm.  He  escaped  under  cover  of  the  night 
from  the  watch  of  the  bailiffs.  He  arrived  in  London.  He 
himself  sought  everywhere  he  could  think  of  for  his  miss- 
ing bride.  Lady  Jane  Horton  was  confined  to  her  bed, 
dying  fast — incapable  even  to  receive  and  reply  to  his  letter. 
He  secretly  sent  down  to  Lansmere,  to  ascertain  if  Nora 
had  gone  back  to  her  parents.  She  was  not  there.  The 
Avenels  believed  her  still  with  Lady  Jane  Horton. 

He  now  grew  most  seriously  alarmed  ;  and  in  the  midst 
of  that  alarm,  Levy  secretly  contrived  that  he  should  be  ar- 
rested for  debt ;  but  he  was  not  detained  in  confinement 
many  days.  Before  the  disgrace  got  wind,  the  writs  were 
discharged — Levy  baffled.  He  was  free.  Lord  L'Estrange 
had  learned  from  Audley's  servant  what  Audley  would  have 
concealed  from  him  out  of  all  the  world.  And  the  gener- 
ous boy, — who,  besides  the  munificent  allowance  he  re- 
ceived from  the  Earl,  was"  heir  to  an  independent  and  con- 
siderable fortune  of  his  own,  when  he  should  attain  his 
majority — hastened  to  borrow  the  money  and  discharge  all 
the  obligations  of  his  friend.  The  benefit  was  conferred 
before  Audley  knew  of  it,  or  could  prevent.  Then  a  new 
emotion,  and  perhaps  scarce  less  stinging  than  the  loss  of 
Nora,  tortured  the  man  who  had  smiled  at  the  warning  of 
science  ;  and  the  strange  sensation  at  the  heart  was  felt 
again  and  again. 

And  Harley,  too,  was  still  in  search  of  Nora — would  talk 
of  nothing  but  her — and  looked  so  haggard  and  grief-worn. 
The  bloom  of  the  boy's  youth  was  gone.  Could  Audley 
then  have  said,  "  She  you  seek  is  another's  ;  your  love  is 
razed  out  of  your  life  ;  and,  for  consolation,  learn  that  your 


862  MY  NOVEL;    OR, 

friend  has  betrayed  you?"  Could  Audley  say  this  ?  He 
did  not  dare.  Which  of  the  two  suffered  the  most  ? 

And  these  two  friends,  of  characters  so  different,  were 
so  singularly  attached  to  ea"ch  other.  Inseparable  at  school 
— thrown  together  in  the  world,  with  a  wealth  of  frank  con- 
fidences between  them,  accumulated  since  childhood.  And 
now,  in  the  midst  of  all  his  own  anxious  sorrow,  Harley 
still  thought  and  planned  for  Egerton.  And  self-accusing 
remorse,  and  all  the  sense  of  painful  gratitude,  deepened 
Audley's  affection  for  Harley  into  a  devotion  as  to  a  super- 
ior, while  softening  it  into  a  reverential  pity  that  yearned 
to  relieve,  to  atone  ; — but  how — oh,  how  ? 

A  general  election  was  now  at  hand,  still  no  news  of 
Nora.  Levy  kept  aloof  from  Audley,  pursuing  his  own  si- 
lent search.  A  seat  for  the  borough  of  Lansmere  was  pressed 
upon  Audley,  not  only  by  Harley,  but  his  parents,  especially 
by  the  Countess,  who  tacitly  ascribed  to  Audley's  wise  coun- 
sels Nora's  mysterious  disappearance. 

Egerton  at  first  resisted  the  thought  of  a  new  obligation 
to  his  injured  friend  ;  but  he  burned  to  have  it,  some  day, 
in  his  power  fo  repay  at  least  his  pecuniary  debt ;  the  sense 
of  that  debt  humbled  him  more  than  all  else.  Parliamentary 
success  might  at  last  obtain  for  him  some  lucrative  situation 
abroad,  and  thus  enable  him  gradually  to  remove  this  load 
from  his  heart  and  his  honor.  No  other  chance  of  repay- 
ment appeared  open  to  him.  He  accepted  the  offer,  and 
went  down  to  Lansmere.  His  brother,  lately  married,  was 
asked  to  meet  him  ;  and  there,  also,  was  Miss  Leslie  the 
heiress,  whom  Lady  Lansmere  secretly  hoped  her  son  Harley 
would  admire,  but  who  had  long  since,  no  less  secretly,  given 
her  heart  to  the  unconscious  Egerton. 

Meanwhile,  the  miserable  Nora,  deceived  by  the  arts 
and  representations  of  Levy — acting  on  the  natural  impulse 
of  a  heart  so  susceptible  to  shame — flying  from  a  home 
which  she  deemed  dishonored — flying  from  a  lover  whose 
power  over  her  she  knew  to  be  so  great,  that  she  dreaded 
lest  he  might  reconcile  her  to  dishonor  itself — had  no 
thought  save  to  hide  herself  for  ever  from  Audley's  eye. 
She  would  not  go  to  her  relations — to  Lady  Jane  ;  that  were 
to  give  the  clue,  and  invite  the  pursuit.  An  Italian  lady  of 
high  rank  had  visited  at  Lady  Jane's — taken  a  great  fancy 
to  Nora — and  the  lady's  husband,  having  been  obliged  to 
precede  her  return  to  Italy,  had  suggested  the  notion  of  en- 
gaging some  companion — the  lady  had  spoken  of  this  to 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  863 

Nora  and  to  Lady  Jane  Horton,  who  had  urged  Nora  to  ac- 
cept the  offer,  elude  Harley's  pursuit,  and  go  abroad  for  a 
time.  Nora  then  had  refused  ;  for  she  then  had  seen  Aud- 
ley  Egerton. 

To  this  Italian  lady  she  now  went,  and  the  offer  was  re- 
newed with  the  most  winning  kindness,  and  grasped  at 
in  the  passion  of  despair.  But  the  Italian  had  accepted  in- 
vitations to  English  country-houses  before  she  finally  de- 
parted for  the  Continent.  Meanwhile,  Nora  took  refuge 
in  a  quiet  lodging  in  a  sequestered  suburb,  which  an  Eng- 
lish servant  in  the  employment  of  the  fair  foreigner  recom- 
mended. Thus  had  she  first  come  to  the  cottage  in  which 
Burley  died.  Shortly  afterward,  she  left  England  with  her 
new  companion,  unknown  to  all — to  Lady  Jane  as  to  her 
parents. 

All  this  time  the  poor  girl  was  under  a  moral  delirium — 
a  confused  fever— haunted  by  dreams  from  which  she  sought 
to  fly.  Sound  physiologists  agree  that  madness  is  rarest 
among  persons  of  the  finest  imagination.  But  those  persons 
are,  of  all  others,  liable  to  a  temporary  state  of  mind  in 
which  judgment  sleeps — imagination  alone  prevails  with  a 
dire  and  awful  tyranny.  A  single  idea  gains  ascendency — 
expels  all  others — presents  itself  every  where  with  an  intoler- 
able blinding  glare.  Nora  was  at  that  time  under  the  dread 
one  idea — to  fly  from  shame ! 

But,  when  the  seas  rolled,  and  the  dreary  leagues  in- 
terposed between  her  and  her  lover — when  new  images 
presented  themselves — when  the  fever  slaked,  and  reason 
returned — doubt  broke  upon  the  previous  despair.  Had  she 
not  been  too  credulous,  too  hasty  ?  Fool,  fool  !  Audley 
have  been  so  poor  a  traitor  !  How  guilty  was  she,  if  she 
had  wronged  him.  And  in  the  midst  of  this  revulsion  of 
feeling,  there  stirred  within  her  another  life.  She  was 
destined  to  become  a  mother.  At  that  thought  her  high 
nature  bowed  ;  the  last  struggle  of  pride  gave  way  ;  she 
would  return  to  England,  see  Audley,  learn  from  his  lips 
the  truth,  and  even  if  the  truth  were  what  she  had  been 
taught  to  believe,  plead,  not  for  herself,  but  for  the  false 
one's  child. 

Some  delay  occurred  in  the  then  warlike  state  of  affairs 
on  the  Continent,  before  she  could  put  this  purpose  into 
execution  ;  and  on  her  journey  back,  various  obstructions 
lengthened  the  way.  But  she  returned  at  last,  and  resought 
the  suburban  cottage  in  which  she  had  last  lodged  before 


864  MY  NOVEL;   OR, 

quitting  England.  At  night,  she  went  to  Audley's  London 
house  ;  there  was  only  a  woman  in  charge  of  it.  Mr.  Egerton 
was  absent — electioneering  somewhere  —  Mr.  Levy,  his 
lawyer,  called  every  day  for  any  letters  to  be  forwarded  to 
him.  Nora  shrank  from  seeing  Levy,  shrank  from  writing 
even  a  letter  that  would  pass  through  his  hands.  If  she  had 
been  deceived,  it  had  been  by  him,  and  wilfully.  But 
Parliament  was  already  dissolved  ;  the  election  would  soon 
be  over  ;  Mr.  Egerton  was  expected  to  return  to  town  within 
a  week.  Nora  went  back  to  Mrs.  Goodyer's  and  resolved  to 
wait,  devouring  her  own  heart  in  silence.  But  the  news- 
papers might  inform  her  where  Audley  really  was  ;  the 
newspapers  were  sent  for  and  conned  daily. 

And  one  morning  this  paragraph  met  her  eye  : — 
"The  Earl  and  Countess  of  Lansmere  are  receiving  a 
distinguished  party  at  their  country-seat.  Among  the  guests 
is  Miss  Leslie,  whose  wealth  and  beauty  have  excited  such 
sensation  in  the  fashionable  world.  To  the  disappointment 
of  numerous  aspirants  among  our  aristocracy,  we  hear  that 
this  lady  has,  however,  made  her  distinguished  choice  in 
Mr.  Audley  Egerton.  That  gentleman  is  now  a  candidate 
for  the  borough  of  Lansmere,  as  a  supporter  of  the  Govern- 
ment ;  his  success  is  considered  certain,  and,  according  fo 
the  report  of  a  large  circle  of  friends,  few  new  members  will 
prove  so  valuable  an  addition  to  the  Ministerial  ranks;  a 
great  career  may,  indeed,  be  predicted  for  a  young  man  so 
esteemed  for  talent  and  character,  aided  by  a  fortune  so 
immense  as  that  which  he  will  shortly  receive  with  the  hand 
of  the  accomplished  heiress." 

Again  the  anchor  snapped — again  the  storm  descended 
— again  the  stars  vanished.  Nora  was  now  once  more  un- 
der the  dominion  of  a  single  thought,  as  she  had  been  when 
she  fled  from  her  bridal  home.  Then,  it  was  to  escape  from 
her  lover — now,  it  was  to  see  him.  As  the  victim  stretched 
on  the  rack  implores  to  be  led  at  once  to  death,  so  there 
are  moments  when  the  annihilation  of  hope  seems  more 
merciful  than  the  torment  of  suspense. 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  865 


CHAPTER  XVII. 

WHEN  the  scenes  in  some  long  diorama  pass  slowly  be- 
fore us,  there  is  sometimes  one  solitary  object,  contrasting, 
perhaps,  the  view  of  stately  cities  or  the  march  of  a  mighty 
river,  that  halts  on  the  eye  for  a  moment,  and  then  glides 
away,  leaving  on  the  mind  a  strange,  comfortless,  undefined 
impression. 

Why  was  the  object  presented  to  us  ?  In  itself  it  seemed 
comparatively  insignificant.  It  may  have  been  but  a  broken 
column — a  lonely  pool  with  a  star-beam  on  its  quiet  surface 
— yet  it  awes  us.  We  remember  it  when  phantasmal  pict- 
ures of  bright  Damascus,  or  of  colossal  pyramids — of  ba- 
zaars in  Stamboul,  or  lengthened  caravans  that  defile  slow 
amidst  the  sands  of  Araby — have  sated  the  wondering  gaze. 
Why  were  we  detained  in  the  shadowy  procession  by  a 
thing  that  would  have  been  so  commonplace  had  it  not 
been  so  lone  ?  Some  latent  interest  must  attach  to  it.  Was 
it  there  that  a  vision  of  woe  had  lifted  the  wild  hair  of  a 
Prophet  ? — there  where  some  Hagar  had  stilled  the  wail  of 
her  child  on  her  indignant  breast  ?  We  would  fain  call 
back  the  pageantry  procession — fain  see  again  the  solitary 
thing  that  seemed  so  little  worth  the  hand  of  the  artist — and 
ask,  "  Why  art  thou  here,  and  wherefore  dost  thou  haunt 
us?" 

Rise  up — rise  up  once  more — by  the  broad  great  thor- 
oughfare that  stretches  onward  to  the  remorseless  London 
— Rise  up — rise  up,  O  solitary  tree  with  the  green  leaves 
on  thy  bough,  and  the  deep  rents  in  thy  heart ;  and  the 
ravens,  dark  birds  of  omen  and  sorrow,  that  build  their 
nest  amidst  the  leaves  of  the  bough,  and  drop  with  noiseless 
plumes  down  through  the  hollow  rents  of  the  heart — or  are 
heard,  it  may  be,  in  the  growing  shadows  of  twilight,  call- 
ing out  to  their  young  ! 

Under  the  old  pollard  tree,  by  the  side  of  John  Avenel's 
house,  there  cowered,  breathless  and  listening,  John  Ave- 
nel's daughter  Nora.  Now,  when  that  fatal  newspaper 
paragraph,  which  lied  so  like  tnith,  met  her  eyes,  she 
obeyed  the  first  impulse  of  her  passionate  heart — she  tore 
the  wedding  ring  from  her  finger — she  inclosed  it,  with  the 

37 


866  MY  NOVEL;    OR, 

paragraph  itself,  in  a  letter  to  Audley — a  letter  that  she  de- 
signed to  convey  scorn  and  pride  ; — alas  !  it  expressed  only 
jealously  and  love.  She  could  not  rest  till  she  had  put  this 
letter  into  the  post  with  her  own  hand,  addressed  to  Aud- 
ley, at  Lord  Lansmere's.  Scarce  had  it  left  her,  ere  she  re- 
pented. What  had  she  done  ? — resigned  the  birthright  of 
the  child  she  was  so  soon  to  bring  into  the  world — resigned 
her  last  hope  in  her  lover's  honor — given  up  her  life  of  life 
— and  from  belief  in  what  ?- — a  report  in  a  newspaper !  No, 
no ;  she  would  go  herself  to  Lansmere — to  her  father's 
home — she  could  contrive  to  see  Audley  before  that  letter 
reached  his  hand.  The  thought  was  scarcely  conceived  be- 
fore obeyed.  She  found  a  vacant  place  in  a  coach  that 
started  from  London  some  hours  before  the  mail,  and  went 
within  a  few  miles  of  Lansmere  ;  those  last  miles  she 
travelled  on  foot.  Exhausted — fainting — she  gained,  at 
last,  the  sight  of  home,  and  there  halted — for  in  the  little 
garden  in  front  she  saw  her  parents  seated.  She  heard  the 
murmur  of  their  voices,  and  suddenly  she  remembered  her 
altered  shape,  her  terrible  secret.  How  answer  the  ques- 
tion, "  Daughter,  where  and  who  is  thy  husband  ?  "  Her 
heart  failed  her  ;  she  crept  under  the  old  pollard  tree,  to 
gather  up  resolve,  to  watch  and  to  listen.  She  saw  the 
rigid  face  of  the  thrifty,  prudent  mother,  with  the  deep 
lines  that  told  of  the  cares  of  an  anxious  life,  and  the  chafe  of 
excitable  temper  and  warm  affections  against  the  restraint 
of  decorous  sanctimony  and  resolute  pride.  The  dear, 
stern  face  never  seemed  to  her  more  dear  and  more  stern. 
She  saw  the  comely,  easy;  indolent,  good-humored  father  ; 
not  then  the  poor  paralytic  sufferer,  who  could  yet -recog- 
nize Nora's  eyes  under  the  lids  of  Leonard,  but  stalwart 
and  jovial — first  bat  in  the  Cricket  Club,  first  voice  in  the 
Glee  Society,  the  most  popular  canvasser  of  the  Lansmere 
Constitutional  True  Blue  Party,  and  the  pride  and  idol  of 
the  Calvinistical  prim  wife  ;  never  from  those  pinched  lips 
of  hers  had  come  forth  even  one  pious  rebuke  to  the  care- 
less, social  man.  As  he  sat,  one  hand  in  his  vest,  his  pro- 
file turned  to  the  road,  the  light  smoke  curling  playfully  up 
from  the  pipe,  over  which  his  lips,  accustomed  to  bland 
smile  and  hearty  laughter,  closed  as  if  reluctant  to  be 
closed  at  all,  he  was  the  very  model  of  the  respectable  re- 
tired trader  in  easy  circumstances,  and  released  from  the 
toil  of  making  money  while  life  could  yet  enjoy  the  delight 
of  spending  it. 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  867 

"  Well,  old  woman,"  said  John  Avenel,  "  I  must  be  off 
presently  to  see  to  those  three  shaky  voters  in  Fish  Lane  ; 
they  will  have  done  their  work  soon,  and  I  shall  catch 
'em  at  home.  They  do  say  as  how  we  may  have  an  op- 
position ;  and  I  know  that  old  Smikes  has  gone  to  Lon- 
non  in  search  of  a  candidate.  We  can't  have  the  Lans- 
mere  Constitutional  Blues  beat  by  a  Lonnoner!  Ha,  ha, 
ha!" 

"  But  you  will  be  home  before  Jane  and  her  husband 
Mark  come  ?  How  ever  she  could  marry  a  common  car- 
penter ! " 

"  Yes,"  said  John,  "  he  is  a  carpenter  ;  but  he  has  a 
vote,  and  that  strengthens  the  family  interest.  If  Dick 
was  not  gone  to  Amerikay,  there  would  be  three  on  us. 
But  Mark  is  a  real  good  Blue  !  A  Lonnoner,  indeed  ! — a 
Yellow  from  Lonnon  beat  my  Lord  and  the  Blues  !  Ha, 
ha!" 

"  But,  John,  this  Mr.  Egerton  is  a  Lonnoner  ! " 

"  You  don't  understand  things,  talking  such  nonsense. 
Mr.  Egerton  is  the  Blue  candidate,  and  the  Blues  are  the 
County  Party  ;  therefore,  how  can  he  be  a  Lonnoner  ?  An 
uncommon  clever,  well-grown,  handsome  young  man,  eh! 
and  my  young  lord's  particular  friend." 

Mrs.  Avenel  sighed. 

"  What  are  you  sighing  and  shaking  your  head  for  ? " 

"  I  was  thinking  of  our  poor,  dear,  dear  Nora !  " 

"  God  bless  her  !  "  cried  John,  heartily. 

There  was  a  rustle  under  the  boughs  of  the  old  hollow- 
hearted  pollard  tree. 

"  Ha  !  ha !  Hark  !  I  said  that  so  loud,  that  I  have 
startled  the  ravens  !  " 

"  How  he  did  love  her ! "  said  Mrs.  Avenel,  thought- 
fully. "  I  am  sure  he  did  ;  and  no  wonder,  for  she  looks 
every  inch  a  lady  ;  and  why  should  not  she  be  my  lady, 
after  all  ? " 

"  He  ?  Who  ?  Oh,  that  foolish  fancy  of  yours  about  my 
young  lord?  A  prudent  woman  like  you! — stuff!  I  am 
glad  my  little  beauty  is  gone  to  Lonnon,  out  of  harm's 
way." 

"  John — John — John  !  No  harm  could  ever  come  to  my 
Nora.  She's  too  pure  and  too  good,  and  has  too  proper  a 
pride  in  her,  to " 

"  To  listen  to  any  young  lords,  I  hope,"  said  John  ; 
"  though,"  he  added,  after  a  pause,  "  she  might  well  be  a 


868  MY  NOVEL;    OR, 

lady,  too.  My  lord,  the  young  one,  took  me  by  the  hand 
so  kindly  the  other  day,  and  said,  '  Have  not  you  heard 
from  her — I  mean  Miss  Avenel — lately?'  and  those 
bright  eyes  of  his  were  as  full  of  tears  as — as — as  yours  are 
now." 

"  Well,  John,  well ;  go  on." 

"  That  is  all.  My  lady  came  up  and  took  me  away  to 
talk  about  the  election  ;  and  just  as  I  was  going,  she  whis- 
pered, '  Don't  let  my  wild  boy  talk  to  you  about  that  sweet 
girl  of  yours.  We  must  both  see  that  she  does  not  come  to 
disgrace.'  '  Disgrace  ! ' — that  word  made  me  very  angry  for 
the  moment.  But  my  lady  has  such  a  way  with  her,  that 
she  soon  put  me  right  again.  Yet,  I  do  think  Nora  must 
have  loved  my  young  lord,  only  she  was  too  good  to 
show  it.  What  do  you  say  ? "  and  the  father's  voice  was 
thoughtful. 

"  I  hope  she'll  never  love  any  man  till  she's  married  to 
him  ;  it  is  not  proper,  John,"  said  Mrs.  Avenel,  somewhat 
starchly,  though  very  mildly. 

"Ha!  ha!"  laughed  John,  chucking  his  prim  wife  un- 
der the  chin,  "you  did  not  say  that  to  me  when  I  stole  your 
first  kiss  under  that  very  pollard  tree — no  house  near  it 
then  ! " 

"  Hush,  John,  hush  !  "  and  the  prim  wife  blushed  like  a 
girl. 

"  Pooh,"  continued  John,  merrily,  "  I  don't  see  why  we 
plain  folks  should  pretend  to  be  more  saintly  and  prudish- 
like  than  our  betters.  There's  that  handsome  Miss  Leslie, 
Avho  is  to  marry  Mr.  Egerton — easy  enough  to  see  how 
much  she  is  in  love  with  him — could  not  keep  her  eyes  off 
from  him  even  in  church,  old  girl !  Ha,  ha !  What  the 
deuce  is  the  matter  with  the  ravens  ?  " 

"They'll  be  a  comely  couple,  John.  And  I  hear  tell  she 
has  a  power  of  money.  When  is  the  marriage  to  be  ?" 

"  Oh,  they  say  as  soon  as  ever  the  election  is  over.  A 
fine  wedding  we  shall  have  of  it !  I  dare  say  my  young  lord 
will  be  bridesman.  We'll  send  for  our  little  Nora,  to  see 
the  gay  doings  ! " 

Out  from  the  boughs  of  the  old  tree  came  the  shriek  of  a 
lost  spirit — one  of  those  strange  appalling  sounds  of  human 
agony,  which,  once  heard,  are  never  forgotten.  It  is  as  the 
wail  of  Hope,  when  SHE,  too,  rushes  forth  from  the  Coffer 
of  Woes,  and  vanishes  into  viewless  space  ; — it  is  the  dread 
cry  of  Reason  parting  from  clay — and  of  Soul  that  would 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  869 

wrench  itself  from  life !  For  a  moment  all  was  still — and 
then  a  dull,  dumb,  heavy  fall ! 

The  parents  gazed  on  each  other,  speechless  ;  they  stole 
close  to  the  pales  and  looked  over.  Under  the  boughs,  at 
the  gnarled  roots  of  the  oak,  they  saw — gray  and  indistinct 
— a  prostrate  form.  John  opened  the  gate  and  went  round  ; 
the  mother  went  to  the  roadside,  and  there  stood  still. 

"Oh,  wife,  wife!"  cried  John  Avenel,  from  under  the 
green  bough,  "  it  is  our  child  Nora !  Our  child — our  child !  " 

And,  as  he  spoke,  out  from  the  green  boughs  started  the 
dark  ravens,  wheeling  round  and  round,  and  calling  to  their 
young. 


And  when  they  had  laid  her  on  the  bed,  Mrs.  Avenel 
whispered  John  to  withdraw  a  moment ;  and,  with  set  lips 
but  trembling  hands,  began  to  unlace  the  dress,  under 
the  pressure  of  which  Nora's  heart  heaved  convulsively. 
And  John  went  out  of  the  room  bewildered  and  sat  himself 
down  on  the  landing-place,  and  wondered  whether  he 
was  awake  or  sleeping  ;  and  a  cold  numbness  crept  over 
one  side  of  him,  and  his  head  felt  very  heavy,  with  a  loud, 
booming  noise  in  his  ears.  Suddenly  his  wife  stood  by  his 
side,  and  said,  in  a  very  low  voice — 

"  John,  run  for  Mr.  Morgan — make  haste.  But  mind — 
don't  speak  to  any  one  on  the  way.  Quick,  quick  !" 

"  Is  she  dying?" 

"  I  don't  know.  Why  not  die  before  ? "  said  Mrs.  Ave- 
nel between  her  teeth.  "  But  Mr.  Morgan  is  a  discreet, 
friendly  man." 

"A  true  Blue  !"  muttered  poor  John,  as  if  his  mind 
wandered  ;  and  rising  with  difficulty,  he  stared  at  his  wife  a 
moment,  shook  his  head,  and  was  gone. 

An  hour  or  two  later,  a  little  covered  taxed-cart  stopped 
at  Mr.  Avenel's  cottage,  out  of  which  stepped  a  young  man 
with  pale  face  and  spare  form,  dressed  in  the  Sunday  suit 
of  a  rustic  craftsman  ;  then  a  homely,  but  pleasant,  honest 
face,  bent  down  to  him  smilingly  ;  and  two  arms  emerging 
from  under  covert  of  a  red  cloak,  extended  an  infant  which 
the  young  man  took  tenderly.  The  baby  was  cross  and 
very  sickly ;  it  began  to  cry.  The  father  hushed  and  rocked, 
and  tossed  it,  with  the  air  of  one  to  whom  such  a  charge 
was  familiar. 

"He'll  be  good  when  we  get  in,  Mark,"  said  the  young 


870  MY  NOVEL;    OR, 

woman,  as  she  extracted  from  the  depths  of  the  cart  a  large 
basket  containing  poultry  and  home-made  bread. 

"  Don't  forget  the  flowers  that  the  Squire's  gardener 
gave  us,"  said  Mark  the  Poet. 

Without  aid  from  her  husband,  the  wife  took  down  bas- 
ket and  nosegay,  settled  her  cloak,  smoothed  her  gown,  and 
said,  "Very  odd! — they  don't  seem  to  expect  us,  Mark. 
How  still  the  house  is  !  Go  and  knock ;  they  can't  ha'  gone 
to  bed  yet." 

Mark  knocked  at  the  door — no  answer.  A  light  passed 
rapidly  across  the  windows  on  the  upper  floor,  but  still  no 
one  came  to  his  summons.  Mark  knocked  again.  A  gen- 
tleman, dressed  in  clerical  costume,  now  coming  from  Lans- 
mere  Park,  on  the  opposite  side  of  the  road,  paused  at  the 
sound  of  Mark's  second  and  more  impatient  knock,  and 
said,  civilly — 

"  Are  you  not  the  young  folks  my  friend  John  Avenel 
told  me  this  morning  he  expected  to  visit  him  ?" 

"Yes,  please,  Mr.  Dale,"  said  Mrs.  Fairfield,  dropping 
her  curtsey.  "  You  remember  me  !  and  this  is  my  dear 
good  man  ! " 

"What!  Mark  the  Poet?"  said  the  curate  of  Lansmere 
with  a  smile.  "  Come  to  write  squibs  for  the  election  ?" 

"  Squibs,  sir  !  "  cried  Mark,  indignantly. 

"  Burns  wrote  squibs,"  said  the  curate,  mildly. 

Mark  made  no  answer,  but  again  knocked  at  the  door. 

This  time,  a  man,  whose  face,  even  seen  by  the  starlight, 
was  much  flushed,  presented  himself  at  the  threshold. 

"  Mr.  Morgan ! "  exclaimed  the  curate,  in  benevolent 
alarm  ;  "no  illness  here,  I  hope  ?" 

"  Cott !  it  is  you,  Mr.  Dale  ! — Come  in,  come  in  ;  I  want 
a  word  with  you.  But  who  the  teuce  are  these  people  ? " 

"Sir,"  said  Mark,  pushing  through  the  doorway,  "my 
name  is  Fairfield,  and  my  wife  is  Mr.  Avenel's  daughter!" 

"  Oh,  Jane — and  her  baby  too  ! — Good — cood  !  Come 
in  ;  but  be  quiet,  can't  you  ?  Still,  still — still  as  death  !  " 

The  party  entered,  the  door  closed  ;  the  moon  rose,  and 
shone  calmly  on  the  pale  silent  house,  on  the  sleeping  flow- 
ers of  the  little  garden,  on  the  old  pollard  with  its  hollow 
core.  The  horse  in  the  taxed-cart  dozed,  unheeded  ;  the 
light  still  at  times  flitted  across  the  upper  windows.  These 
were  the  only  signs  of  life,  except  when  a  bat,  now  and 
then  attracted  by  the  light  that  passed  across  the  windows, 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  871 

brushed  against  the  panes,  and  then,  dipping  downward, 
struck  up  against  the  nose  of  the  slumbering  horse,  and 
darted  merrily  after  the  moth  that  fluttered  round  the 
raven's  nest  in  the  old  pollard. 


CHAPTER   XVIII. 

ALL  that  day  Harley  L'Estrange  had  been  more  than 
usually  mournful  and  dejected.  Indeed,  the  return  to  scenes 
associated  with  Nora's  presence  increased  the  gloom  that 
had  settled  on  his  mind  since  he  had  lost  sight  and  trace  of 
her.  Audley,  in  the  remorseful  tenderness  he  felt  for  his 
injured  friend,  had  induced  L'Estrange  toward  evening  to 
leave  the  Park,  and  go  into  a  district  some  miles  off,  on 
pretence  that  he  required  Harley's  aid  there  to  canvass 
certain  important  outvoters  ;  the  change  of  scene  might 
rouse  him  from  his  reveries.  Harley  himself  was  glad  to 
escape  from  the  guests  at  Lansmere.  He  readily  consented 
to  go.  He  would  not  return  that  night.  The  outvoters 
lay  remote  and  scattered — he  might  be  absent  for  a  day  or 
two.  When  Harley  was  gone,  Egerton  himself  sank  into 
deep  thought.  There  was  rumor  of  some  unexpected  op- 
position. His  partisans  were  alarmed  and  anxious.  It  was 
clear  that  the  Lansmere  interest,  if  attacked,  was  weaker 
than  the  Earl  would  believe ;  Egerton  might  lose  his  elec- 
tion. If  so,  what  would  become  of  him  ?  How  support  his 
wife,  whose  return  to  him  he  always  counted  on,  and  whom 
it  would  then  become  him  at  all  hazards  to  acknowledge  ? 
It  was  that  day  that  he  had  spoken  to  William  Hazeldean 
as  to  the  family  living. — "  Peace  at  least,"  thought  the  am- 
bitious man — "  I  shall  have  peace  ! "  And  the  Squire  had 
promised  him  the  rectory  if  needed  ;  not  without  a  secret 
pang,  for  his  Harry  was  already  using  her  conjugal  influ- 
ence in  favor  of  her  old  school-friend's  husband,  Mr.  Dale  ; 
and  the  Squire  thought  Audley  would  be  but  a  poor  coun- 
try parson,  and  Dale — if  he  would  only  grow  a  little  plumper 
than  his  curacy  would  permit  him  to  be — would  be  a  parson 
in  ten  thousand.  But  while  Audley  thus  prepared  for  the 
worst,  he  still  brought  his  energies  to  bear  on  the  more 
brilliant  option  ;  and  sat  with  his  committee,  looking  into 
canvass-books,  and  discussing  the  characters,  politics,  and 


872  MY  NOVEL;    OR, 

local  interests  of  every  elector,  until  the  night  was  well- 
nigh  gone.  When  he  gained  his  room,  the  shutters  were 
unclosed,  and  he  stood  a  few  moments  at  the  window  gaz- 
ing on  the  moon.  At  that  sight,  the  thought  of  Nora,  lost 
and  afar,  stole  over  him.  The  man,  as  we  know,  had  in  his 
nature  little  of  romance  and  sentiment.  Seldom  was  it  his 
wont  to  gaze  upon  moon  or  stars.  But  whenever  some 
whisper  of  romance  did  soften  his  hard,  strong  mind,  or 
whenever  moon  or  stars  did  charm  his  gaze  from  earth, 
Nora's  bright  Muse-like  face — Nora's  sweet  loving  eyes, 
were  seen  in  moon  and  starbeam — Nora's  low  tender  voice, 
heard  in  the  whisper  of  that  which  we  call  romance,  and 
which  is  but  the  sound  of  the  mysterious  poetry  that  is 
ever  in  the  air,  would  we  but  deign  to  hear  it !  He  turned 
with  a  sigh,  undressed,  threw  himself  on  his  bed,  and  ex- 
tinguished his  light.  But  the  light  of  the  moon  would  fill 
the  room.  It  kept  him  awake  for  a  little  time  ;  he  turned 
his  face  from  the  calm  heavenly  beam,  resolutely  toward 
the  dull  blind  wall,  and  fell  asleep.  And,  in  the  sleep,  he 
was  with  Nora  ; — again  in  the  humble  bridal-home.  Never 
in  his  dreams  had  she  seemed  to  him  so  distinct  and  life-like 
— her  eyes  upturned  to  his — her  hands  clasped  together, 
and  resting  on  his  shoulder,  as  had  been  her  graceful  wont 
— her  voice  murmuring  meekly,  "  Has  it,  then,  been  my 
fault  that  we  parted  ? — forgive,  forgive  me  ! " 

And  the  sleeper  imagined  that  he  answered,  "  Never 
part  from  me  again — never,  never ! "  and  that  he  bent  down 
to  kiss  the  chaste  lips  that  so  tenderly  sought  his  own.  And 
suddenly  he  heard  a  knocking  sound,  as  of  a  hammer — 
regular,  but,  soft,  subdued.  Did  you  ever,  O  reader,  hear 
the  sound  of  the  hammer  on  the  lid  of  a  coffin  in  a  house 
of  woe, — when  the  undertaker's  decorous  hireling  fears  that 
the  living  may  hear  how  he  parts  them  from  the  dead  ? 
Such  seemed  the  sound  to  Audley — the  dream  vanished 
abruptly.  He  woke,  and  again  heard  the  knock  ;  it  was  at 
his  door.  He  sat  up  wistfully — the  moon  was  gone — it  was 
morning.  "  Who  is  there  ?  "  he  cried,  peevishly. 

A  low  voice  from  without  answered,  "  Hush,  it  is  I  ; 
dress  quick  ;  let  me  see  you." 

Egerton  recognized  Lady  Lansmere's  voice.  Alarmed 
and  surprised,  he  rose,  dressed  in  haste,  and  went  to  the 
door.  Lady  Lansmere  was  standing  without,  extremely 
pale.  She  put  her  finger  to  her  lip,  and  beckoned  him  to 
follow  her.  He  obeyed  mechanically.  They  entered  her 


VARIETIES  IN1  ENGLISH  LIFE.  873 

dressing-room,  a  few  doors  from   his  own  chamber,    and 
the  Countess  closed  the  door. 

Then  laying  her  slight  firm  hand  on  his  shoulder,  she 
said,  in  suppressed  and  passionate  excitement — 

"  Oh,  Mr.  Egerton,  you  must  serve — serve  me,  and  at 
once — Harley — Harley — save  my  Harley — go  to  him — pre- 
vent his  coming  back  here  ;  stay  with  him — give  up  the 
election — it  is  but  a  year  or  two  lost  in  your  life — you  will 
have  other  opportunities — make  that  sacrifice  to  your 
friend." 

"  Speak — what  is  the  matter  ?  I  can  make  no  sacrifice 
too  great  for  Harley  ! " 

"Thanks — I  was  sure  of  it.  Go  then,  I  say,  at  once, 
to  Harley  ;  keep  him  away  from  Lansmere  on.  any  excuse 
you  can  invent,  until  you  can  break  the  sad  news  to  him — 
gently,  gently.  Oh,  how  will  he  bear  it- — how  recover  the 
shock  ?  My  boy,  my  boy  ! " 

"  Calm  yourself !  Explain  !  Break  what  news  ? — re- 
cover what  shock  ? " 

"  True,  you  do  not  know — you  have  not  heard.  Nora 
Avenel  lies  yonder,  in  her  father's  house — dead — dead  !  " 

Audley  staggered  back,  clapping  his  hand  to  his  heart, 
and  then  dropping  on  his  knee  as  if  bowed  down  by  the 
stroke  of  Heaven. 

"  My  bride,  my  wife  !  "  he  muttered.  "  Dead — it  cannot 
be!" 

Lady  Lansmere  was  so  startled  at  this  exclamation,  so 
stunned  by  a  confession  wholly  unexpected,  that  she  re- 
mained unable  to  soothe — to  explain,  and  utterly  unpre- 
pared for  the  fierce  agony  that  burst  from  the  man  she  had 
ever  seen  so  dignified  and  cold — when  he  sprang  to  his 
feet,  and  all  the  sense  of  his  eternal  loss  rushed  upon  his 
heart. 

At  length  he  crushed  back  his  emotions,  and  listened  in 
apparent  calm,  and  in  a  silence  broken  but  by  quick  gasps 
for  breath,  to  Lady  Lansmere's  account. 

One  of  the  guests  in  the  house,  a  female  relation  of 
Lady  Lansmere's,  had  been  taken  suddenly  ill  about  an 
hour  or  two  before! — the  house  had  been  disturbed,  the 
Countess  herself  aroused,  and  Mr.  Morgan  summoned  as 
the  family  medical  practitioner.  From  him  she  had  learned 
that  Nora  Avenel  had  returned  to  her  father's  house  late 
on  the  previous  evening ;  had  been  seized  with  brain  fever, 
and  died  in  a  few  hours. 
37* 


874  MY  HOVEL;    OR, 

Audley  listened,  and  turned  to  the  door,  still  in  silence. 

Lady  Lansmere  caught  him  by  the  arm — "Where  are 
you  going  ?  Ah,  can  I  now  ask  you  to  save  my  son  from 
the  awful  news,  you  yourself  the  sufferer  ?  And  yet — yet — 
you  know  his  haste,  his  vehemence,  if  he  learnt  that  you 
were  his  rival — her  husband  ;  you  whom  he  so  trusted  ! 
What,  what  would  be  the  result  ? — I  tremble  !  " 

"  Tremble  not — I  do  not  tremble  !  Let  me  go — I  will 
be  back  soon  and  then  (his  lips  writhed) — then  we  will  talk 
of  Harley." 

Egerton  went  forth,  stunned  and  dizzy.  Mechanically  he 
took  his  way  across  the  park  to  John  Avenel's  house.  He 
had  been  forced  to  enter  that  house,  formally,  a  day  or  two 
before,  in  the  course  of  his  canvass  ;  and  his  wordly  pride 
had  received  a  shock  when  the  home,  the  birth,  and  the 
manners,  of  his  bride's  parents  had  been  brought  before 
him.  He  had  even  said  to  himself,  "  And  is  it  the  child  of 
these  persons  that  I,  Audley  Egerton,  must  announce  to 
the  world  as  wife  !  "  Now,  if  she  had  been  the  child  of  a 
beggar — nay,  of  a  felon — now,  if  he  could  but  recall  her  to 
life,  how  small  and  mean  would  all  that  dreaded  world  ap- 
pear to  him  !  Too  late — too  late  !  The  dews  were  glisten- 
ing in  the  sun — the  birds  were  singing  over-head — life 
waking  all  around  him — and  his  own  heart  felt  like  a  char- 
nel-house. Nothing  but  death  and  the  dead  there — noth- 
ing !  He  arrived  at  the  door;  it  was  open;  he  called,  no 
one  answered  ;  he  walked  up  the  narrow  stairs,  undisturbed, 
unseen  ;  he  came  into  the  chamber  of  death.  At  the  oppo- 
site side  of  the  bed  was  seated  John  Avenel  ;  but  he  seemed 
in  a  heavy  sleep.  In  fact,  paralysis  had  smitten  him  ;  but 
he  knew  it  not ;  neither  did  any  one.  Who  could  heed  the 
strong  hearty  man  in  such  a  moment  ?  Not  even  the  poor 
anxious  wife  !  He  had  been  left  there  to  guard  the  house, 
and  watch  the  dead — an  unconscious  man  ;  numbed,  him- 
self, by  the  invisible  icy  hand  !  Audley  stole  to  the  bed- 
side ;  he  lifted  the  coverlid  thrown  over  the  pale  still  face. 
What  passed  within  him,  during  the  minute  he  stayed  there, 
who  shall  say  ?  But  when  he  left  the  room,  and  slowly  des- 
cended the  stairs,  he  left  behind  him  love  and  youth,  all  the 
sweet  hopes  and  joys  of  the  household  human  life — for 
ever  and  ever  ! 

He  returned  to  Lady  Lansmere,  who  awaited  his  coming 
with  the  most  nervous  anxiety. 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  875 

"  Now,"  said  he,  dryly,  "  I  will  go  to  Harley,  and  I  will 
prevent  his  returning  hither." 

"  You  have  seen  the  parents.  Good  heavens  !  do  they 
know  of  your  marriage  ? " 

"  No ;  to  Harley  I  must  own  it  first.  Meanwhile, 
silence  !" 

"  Silence  !  "  echoed  Lady  Lansmere  ;  and  her  burning 
hand  rested  in  Audley's,  and  Audley's  was  as  ice. 

In  another  hour  Egerton  had  left  the  house,  and  before 
noon  he  was  with  Harley. 

It  is  necessary  now  to  explain  the  absence  of  all  the 
Avenel  family  except  the  poor  stricken  father. 

Nora  had  died  in  giving  birth  to  a  child — died  delirious. 
In  her  delirium  she  had  spoken  of  shame — of  disgrace  ; 
there  was  no  holy  nuptial  ring  on  her  finger  !  Through  all 
her  grief,  the  first  thought  of  Mrs.  Avenel  was  to  save  the 
good  name  of  her  lost  daughter — the  unblemished  honor  of 
all  the  living  Avenels.  No  matron,  long  descended  from 
knights  or  kings,  had  keener  pride  in  name  and  character, 
than  the  poor  punctilious  Calvinistic  trader's  wife.  "  Sor- 
row later,  honor  now  !  "  With  hard  dry  eyes  she  mused 
and  mused,  and  made  out  her  plan.  Jane  Fairfield  should 
take  away  the  infant  at  once,  before  the  day  dawned,  and 
nurse  it  with  her  own.  Mark  should  go  with  her,  for  Mrs. 
Avenel  dreaded  the  indiscretion  of  his  wild  grief.  She 
would  go  with  them  herself  part  of  the  way,  in  order  to 
command  or  reason  them  into  guarded  silence.  But  they 
could  not  go  back  to  Hazeldean  with  another  infant  ;  Jane 
must  go  where  none  knew  her  ;  the  two  infants  might  pass 
as  twins.  And  Mrs.  Avenel,  though  naturally  a  humane, 
kindly  woman,  and  with  a  mother's  heart  to  infants,  looked 
with  almost  a  glad  sternness  at  Jane's  puny  babe,  and 
thought  to  herself,  "All  difficulty  would  be  over  should 
there  be  only  one!  Nora's  child  could  thus  pass  through- 
out life  for  Jane's  !  " 

Fortunately  for  the  preservation  of  the  secret,  the  Ave- 
nels kept  no  servant — only  an  occasional  drudge,  who  came 
a  few  hours  in  the  day,  and  went  home  to  sleep.  Mrs.  Ave- 
nel could  count  on  Mr.  Morgan's  silence  as  to  the  true 
cause  of  Nora's  death.  And  Mr.  Dale,  why  should  he  re- 
veal the  dishonor  of  a  family  ?  That  very  day,  or  the  next 
at  farthest,  she  could  induce  her  husband  to  absent  himself, 
lest  he  should  blab  out  the  tale  while  his  sorrow  was  greater 
than  his  pride.  She  alone  would  then  stay  in  the  house  of 


876  MY  NOVEL;   OR, 

death  until  she  could  feel  assured  that  all  else  were  hushed 
into  prudence.  Ay,  she  felt,  that  with  due  precautions,  the 
name  was  still  safe.  And  so  she  awed  and  hurried  Mark 
and  his  wife  away,  and  went  with  them  in  the  covered  cart 
— that  hid  the  faces  of  all  three — leaving  for  an  hour  or  two 
the  house  and  the  dead  to  her  husband's  charge,  with  many 
an  admonition,  to  which  he  nodded  his  head,  and  which  he 
did  not  hear  !  Do  you  think  this  woman  was  unfeeling  and 
inhuman  ?  Had  Nora  looked  from  heaven  into  her  moth- 
er's heart,  Nora  would  not  have  thought  so.  A  good  name 
when  the  burial-stone  closes  over  dust,  is  still  a  possession 
upon  the  earth  ;  on  earth  it  is  indeed  our  only  one  !  Better 
for  our  friends  to  guard  for  us  that  treasure,  than  to  sit 
down  and  weep  over  perishable  clay.  And  weep  ! — Oh ! 
stern  mother,  long  years  were  left  to  thee  for  weeping  !  No 
tears  shed  for  Nora  made  such  deep  furrows  on  the  cheeks 
as  thine  did  !  Yet  who  ever  saw  them  flow  ? 

Harley  was  in  great  surprise  to  see  Egerton  ;  more  sur- 
prised when  Egerton  told  him  that  he  found  he  was  to  be 
opposed — that  he  had  no  chance  of  success  at  Lansmere, 
and  had,  therefore,  resolved  to  retire  from  the  contest.  He 
wrote  to  the  Earl  to  that  effect  ;  but  the  Countess  knew  the 
true  cause,  and  hinted  it  to  the  Earl ;  so  that,  as  we  saw  at 
the  commencement  of  this  history,  Egerton's  cause  did  not 
suffer  when  Captain  Dashmore  appeared  in  the  borough  ; 
and  thanks  to  Mr.  Hazeldean's  exertions  and  oratory,  Aud- 
ley  came  in  by  two  votes — the  votes  of  John  Avenel  and 
Mark  Fairfield.  For  though  the  former  had  been  removed 
a  little  way  from  the  town,  and  by  medical  advice — and 
though,  on  other  matters,  the  disease  that  had  smitten  him 
left  him  docile  as  a  child  (and  he  had  but  vague  indistinct 
ideas  of  all  the  circumstances  connected  with  Nora's  return, 
save  the  sense  of  her  loss) — yet  he  still  would  hear  how  the 
Blues  went  on,  and  would  get  out  of  bed  to  keep  his  word  ; 
and  even  his  wife  said,  "  He  is  right  ;  better  die  of  it,  than 
break  his  promise  !  "  The  crowd  gave  way  as  the  broken 
man  they  had  seen  a  few  days  before  so  jovial  and  healthful 
was  brought  up  in  a  chair  to  the  poll,  and  said,  with  his 
tremulous,  quavering  voice,  "  I'm  a  true  Blue — Blue  for 
ever  !  " 

Elections  are  wondrous  things  !  No  man  who  has  not 
seen  can  guess  how  the  zeal  in  them  triumphs  over  sickness, 
sorrow,  the  ordinary  private  life  of  us ! 

There  was  forwarded  to  Audley  from  Lansmere  Park, 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  877 

Nora's  last  letter.  The  postman  had  left  it  there  an  hour  or 
two  after  he  himself  had  gone.  The  wedding-ring  fell  on 
the  ground,  and  rolled  under  his  feet.  And  those  burning 
passionate  reproaches — all  that  anger  of  the  wounded  dove 
— explained  to  him  the  mystery  of  her  return — her  unjust 
suspicions — the  cause  of  her  sudden  death,  which  he  still 
ascribed  to  brain  fever,  brought  on  by  excitement  and 
fatigue.  For  Nora  did  not  speak  of  the  child  about  to  be 
born  ;  she  had  not  remembered  it  when  she  wrote,  or  she 
would  not  have  written.  On  the  receipt  of  this  letter,  Eger- 
ton  could  not  remain  in  the  dull  village  district — alone,  too, 
with  Harley.  He  said,  abruptly,  that  he  must  go  to  London 
— prevailed  on  L'Estrange  to  accompany  him  ;  and  there, 
when  he  heard  from  Lady  Lansmere  that  the  funeral  was 
over,  he  broke  to  Harley,  with  lips  as  white  as  the  dead,  and 
his  hand  pressed  to  his  heart,  on  which  his  hereditary  dis- 
ease was  fastening  quick  and  fierce,  the  dread  truth  that 
Nora  was  no  more.  The  effect  upon  the  boy's  health  and 
spirits  was  even  more  crushing  than  Audley  could  antici- 
pate. He  only  woke  from  grief  to  feel  remorse.  "  For," 
said  the  noble  Harley,  "had  it  not  been  for  my  passion — 
my  rash  pursuit — would  she  ever  have  left  her  safe  asylum 
— ever  even  have  left  her  native  town-?  And  then — and 
then — the  struggle  between  her  sense  of  duty  and  her  love 
to  me  !  I  see  it  all — all !  But  for  me  she  were  living  still ! " 

"Oh,  no  !"  cried  Egerton — his  confession  now  rushing 
to  his  lips.  "  Believe  me,  she  never  loved  you  as  you  think. 
Nay — nay — hear  me !  Rather  suppose  that  she  loved 
another — fled  with  him — was  perhaps  married  to  him, 
and " 

"  Hold ! "  exclaimed  Harley,  with  a  terrible  burst  of 
passion — "you  kill  her  twice  to  me  if  you  say  that !  I  can 
still  feel  that  she  lives — lives  here,  in  my  heart — while  I 
dream  that  she  loved  me — or,  at  least,  that  no  other  lip  ever 
knew  the  kiss  that  was  denied  to  mine !  But  if  you  tell  me 
to  doubt  that; — you — you!"  The  boy's  anguish  was  too 
great  for  his  frame  ;  he  fell  suddenly  back  into  Audley's 
arms  ;  he  had  broken  a  blood-vessel.  For  several  days  he 
was  in  great  danger ;  but  his  eyes  were  constantly  fixed  on 
Audley's  with  wistful  intense  gaze.  "  Tell  me,"  he  muttered, 
at  the  risk  of  re-opening  the  ruptured  veins,  and  of  the  in- 
stant loss  of  life — "tell  me — you  did  not  mean  that!  Tell 
me  you  have  no  cause  to  think  she  loved  another — was 
another's  ! " 


878  MY  NOVEL;    OR, 

"  Hush,  hush — no  cause — none — none.  I  meant  but  to 
comfort  you,  as  I  thought — fool  that  I  was — that  is  all ! " 
cried  the  miserable  friend.  And  from  that  hour  Atidley 
gave  up  the  idea  of  righting  himself  in  his  own  eyes,  and  sub- 
mitted still  to  be  the  living  lie — he,  the  haughty  gentle  man ! 

Now,  while  Harley  was  still  very  weak  and  suffering, 
Mr.  Dale  came  to  London  and  called  on  Egerton.  The 
curate,  in  promising  secrecy  to  Mrs.  Avenel,  had  made  one 
condition,  that  it  should  not  be  to  the  positive  injury  of 
Nora's  living  son.  What  if  Nora  were  married,  after  all  ? 
And  would  it  not  be  right,  at  least,  to  learn  the  name  of  the 
child's  father  ?  Some  day  he  might  need  a  father.  Mrs. 
Avenel  was  obliged  to  content  herself  with  these  reserva- 
tions. However,  she  implored  Mr.  Dale  not  to  make  in- 
quiries. What  could  they  do  ?  If  Nora  were  married,  her 
husband  Avould  naturally,  of  his  own  accord,  declare  him- 
self ;  if  seduced  and  forsaken,  it  would  but  disgrace  her 
memory  (now  saved  from  stain)  to  discover  the  father  to  a 
child  of  whose  very  existence  the  world  as  yet  knew  no- 
thing. These  arguments  perplexed  the  good  curate.  But 
Jane  Fairfield  had  a  sanguine  belief  in  lier  sister's  innocence  ; 
and  all  her  suspicions  naturally  pointed  to  Lord  L'Estrange. 
So,  indeed,  perhaps,  did  Mrs.  Avenel's,  though  she  never 
owned  them.  Of  the  correctness  of  these  suspicions  Mr. 
Dale  was  fully  convinced  ; — the  young  lord's  admiration, 
Lady  Lansmere's  fears,  had  been  too  evident  to  one  who 
had  often  visited  at  the  Park — Harley's  abrupt  departure 
just  before  Nora's  return  home — Egerton's  sudden  resigna- 
tion of  the  borough  before  even  opposition  was  declared, 
in  order  to  rejoin  his  friend,  the  very  day  of  Nora's  death — 
all  confirmed  his  ideas  that  Harley  was  the  betrayer  or  the 
husband.  Perhaps  there  might  have  been  a  secret  marriage 
— possibly  abroad — since  Harley  wanted  some  years  of  his 
majority.  He  would,  at  least,  try  to  see  and  to  sound  Lord 
L'Estrange.  Prevented  this  interview  by  Harley's  illness, 
the  curate  resolved  to  ascertain  how  far  he  could  penetrate 
into  the  mystery  by  a  conversation  with  Egerton.  There 
was  much  in  the  grave  repute  which  the  latter  had  ac- 
quired, and  the  singular  and  pre-eminent  character  for  truth 
and  honor  with  which  it  was  accompanied,  that  made  the 
curate  resolve  upon  this  step.  Accordingly,  he  saw  Eger- 
ton, meaning  only  diplomatically  to  extract  from  the  new 
member  for  Lansmere  what  might  benefit  the  family  of 
the  voters  who  had  given  him  his  majority  of  two. 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  879 

He  began  by  mentioning,  as  a  touching  fact,  how  poor 
John  Avenel,  bowed  down  by  the  loss  of  his  child,  and  the 
malady  which  had  crippled  his  limbs  and  enfeebled  his 
mind,  had  still  risen  from  his  bed  to  keep  his  word.  And 
Audley's  emotions  seemed  to  him  so  earnest  and  genuine, 
to  show  so  good  a  heart,  that  out  by  little  and  little  came 
more  ;  first,  his  suspicions  that  poor  Nora  had  been  be- 
trayed ;  then  his  hopes  that  there  might  have  been  a  private 
marriage ;  and  as  Audley,  with  his  iron  self-command, 
showed  just  the  proper  degree  of  interest,  and  no  more,  he 
went  on,  till  Audley  knew  that  he  had  a  child. 

"  Inquire  no  further  !  "  said  the  man  of  the  world.  "  Re- 
spect Mrs.  Avenel's  feelings  and  wishes,  I  entreat  you  ;  they 
are  the  right  ones.  Leave  the  rest  to  me.  In  my  position 
— I  mean  as  a  resident  of  London — I  can  quietly  and  easily 
ascertain  more  than  you  could,  and  provoke  no  scandal ! 
If  I  can  right  this — this — poor  [his  voice  trembled] — right 
the  lost  mother,  or  the  living  child — sooner  or  later  you 
will  hear  from  me  ;  if  not,  bury  this  secret  where  it  now 
rests-,  in  a  grave  which  slander  has  not  reached.  But  the 
child — give  me  the  address  where  it  is  to  be  found — in  case 
I  succeed  in  finding  the  father,  and  touching  his  heart." 

"  Oh,  Mr.  Egerton,  may  I  not  say  where  you  may  find 
that  father — who  he  is  ? " 

"Sir!" 

"  Do  not  be  angry  ;  and  after  all,  I  cannot  ask  you  to  be- 
tray any  confidence  which  a  friend  may  have  placed  in  you. 
I  know  what  you  men  of  high  honor  are  to  each  other — 
even  in  sin.  No,  no — I  beg  pardon  ;  I  leave  all  in  your 
hands.  I  shall  hear  from  you  then  ? " 

"  Or  if  not — why,  then,  believe  that  all  search  is  hope- 
less. My  friend  !  if  you  mean  Lord  L'Estrange,  he  is  in- 
nocent. I — I — I  [the  voice  faltered] — am  convinced  of  it." 

The  curate  sighed,  but  made  no  answer.  "  Oh,  ye  men 
of  the  world  !  "  thought  he.  He  gave  the  address  which 
the  member  of  Lansmere  had  asked  for,  and  went  his  \vay, 
and  never  heard  again  from  Audley  Egerton.  He  was  con- 
vinced that  the  man  who  had  shown  such  deep  feeling  had 
failed  in  his  appeal  to  Harley's  conscience,  or  had  judged 
it  best  to  leave  Nora's  name  in  peace,  and  her  child  to  her 
own  relations  and  the  care  of  Heaven. 

Harley  L'Estrange,  scarcely  yet  recovered,  hastened  to 
join  our  armies  on  the  continent,  and  seek  the  Death  which, 
like  its  half-brother,  rarely  comes  when  we  call  it. 


88o  MY  NOVEL;    OR, 

As  soon  as  Harley  was  gone,  Egerton  went  to  the  vil- 
lage to  which  Mr.  Dale  had  directed  him,  to  seek  for  Nora's 
child.  But  here  he  was  led  into  a  mistake  which  materi- 
ally affected  the  tenor  of  his  own  life,  and  Leonard's  future 
destinies.  Mrs.  Fairfield  had  been  naturally  ordered  by 
her  mother  to  take  another  name  in  the  village  to  which 
she  had  gone  with  the  two  infants,  so  that  her  connection 
with  the  Avenel  family  might  not  be  traced,  to  the  provo- 
cation of  inquiry  and  gossip.  The  grief  and  excitement 
through  which  she  had  gone,  dried  the  source  of  nutriment 
in  her  breast.  She  put  Nora's  child  out  to  nurse  at  the 
house  of  a  small  farmer,  at  a  little  distance  from  the  village, 
and  moved  from  her  first  lodging  to  be  nearer  to  the  infant. 
Her  own  child  was  so  sickly  and  ailing,  that  she  could  not 
bear  to  entrust  it  to  the  care  of  another.  She  tried  to 
bring  it  up  by  hand  ;  and  the  poor  child  soon  pined  away 
and  died.  She  and  Mark  could  not  endure  the  sight  of 
their  baby's  grave  ;  they  hastened  to  return  to  Hazeldean, 
and  took  Leonard  with  them.  From  that  time  Leonard 
passed  for  the  son  they  had  lost. 

When  Egerton  arrived  at  the  village,  and  inquired  for 
the  person  whose  address  had  been  given  to  him,  he  was  re- 
ferred to  the  cottage  in  which  she  had  last  lodged,  and  was 
told  that  she  had  been  gone  some  days — the  day  after  her 
child  was  buried.  Her  child  buried  !  Egerton  stayed  to  in- 
quire no  more  ;  thus  he  heard  nothing  of  the  infant  that  had 
been  put  out  to  nurse.  He  walked  slowly  into  the  church- 
yard, and  stood  for  some  minutes  gazing  on  the  small  new 
mound  ;  then,  pressing  his  hand  on  the  heart  to  which  all 
emotion  had  been  forbidden,  he  re-entered  his  chaise  and  re- 
turned to  London.  The  sole  reason  for  acknowledging  his 
marriage  seemed  to  him  now  removed.  Nora's  name  had 
escaped  reproach.  Even  had  his  painful  position  with  re- 
gard to  Harley  not  constrained  him  to  preserve  his  secret, 
there  was  every  motive  to  the  World's  wise  and  haughty  son 
not  to  acknowledge  a  derogatory  and  foolish  marriage,  now 
that  none  lived  whom  concealment  could  wrong. 

Audley  mechanically  resumed  his  former  life, — sought  to 
resettle  his  thoughts  on  the  grand  objects  of  ambitious  men. 
His  poverty  still  pressed  on  him  ;  his  pecuniary  debt  to 
Harley  stung  and  galled  his  peculiar  sense  of  honor.  He 
saw  no  way  to  clear  his  estates,  to  repay  his  friend,  but  by 
some  rich  alliance.  Dead  to  love,  he  faced  this  prospect 
first  with  repugnance,  then  with  apathetic  indifference. 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  881 

Levy,  of  whose  treachery  toward  himself  and  Nora  he  was 
unaware,  still  held  over  him  the  power  that  the  money- 
lender never  loses  over  the  man  that  has  owed,  owes,  or  may 
owe  again.  Levy  was  ever  urging  him  to  propose  to  the 
rich  Miss  Leslie  ; — Lady  Lansmere,  willing  to  atone,  as  she 
thought,  for  his  domestic  loss,  urged  the  same  ; — Harley, 
influenced  by  his  mother,  wrote  from  the  Continent  to  the 
same  effect. 

"  Manage  it  as  you  will,"  at  last  said  Egerton  to  Levy, 
"so  that  I  am  not  a  wife's  pensioner." 

"  Propose  forme,  if  you  will,"  he  said  to  Lady  Lansmere 
— "  I  cannot  woo — I  cannot  talk  of  love." 

Somehow  or  other  the  marriage,  with  all  its  rich  advan- 
tages to  the  ruined  gentleman,  was  thus  made  up.  And 
Egerton,  as  we  have  seen,  was  the  polite  and  dignified  hus- 
band before  the  world — married  to  a  woman  who  adored 
him.  It  is  the  common  fate  of  men  like  him  to  be  loved 
too  well ! 

On  her  death-bed  his  heart  was  touched  by  his  wife's 
melancholy  reproach — "  Nothing  I  could  do  has  ever  made 
you  love  me  !  "  "  It  is  true,"  answered  Audley,  with  tears 
in  his  voice  and  eyes — "  Nature  gave  me  but  a  small  fund  of 
what  women  like  you  call  '  love,'  and  I  lavished  it  all  away." 
And  he  then  told  her,  though  with  reserve,  some  portion  of 
his  former  history  ;  and  that  soothed  her  ;  for  when  she  saw 
that  he  had  loved,  and  could  grieve,  she  caught  a  glimpse  of 
the  human  heart  she  had  not  seen  before.  She  died,  for- 
giving him,  and  blessing. 

Audley's  spirits  were  much  affected  by  this  new  loss. 
He  inly  resolved  never  to  marry  again.  He  had  a  vague 
thought  at  first  of  retrenching  his  expenditures,  and  making 
young  Randal  Leslie  his  heir.  But  when  he  first  saw  the 
clever  Eton  boy,  his  feelings  did  not  warm  to  him,  though 
his  intellect  appreciated  Randal's  quick,  keen  talents.  He 
contented  himself  with  resolving  to  push  the  boy ; — to  do 
what  was  merely  just  to  the  distant  kinsman  of  his  late  wife. 
Always  careless  and  lavish  in  money  matters,  generous  and 
princely,  not  from  the  delight  of  serving  others,  but  from  a 
grand  seigneur's  sentiment  of  what  was  due  to  himself  and  his 
station,  Audley  had  a  mournful  excuse  for  the  lordly  waste 
of  the  large  fortune  at  his  control.  The  morbid  functions 
of  the  heart  had  become  organic  disease.  True,  he  might 
live  many  years,  and  die  at  last  of  some  other  complaint  in 
the  course  of  nature  ;  but  the  progress  of  the  disease  would 


88a  MY  NOVEL;    OR, 

quicken  with  all  emotional  excitement ; — he  might  die  sud- 
denly— any  day — in  the  very  prime,  and,  seemingly,  in  the 
full  vigor  of  his  life.  And  the  only  physician  in  whom  he 
confided  what  he  wished  to  keep  concealed  from  the  world 
(for  ambitious  men  would  fain  be  thought  immortal),  told 
him  frankly  that  it  was  improbable  that,  with  the  wear  and 
tear  of  political  strife  and  action,  he  could  advance  far  into 
middle  age.  Therefore,  no  son  of  his  succeeding — his 
nearest  relations  all  wealthy — Egerton  resigned  himself  to 
his  constitutional  disdain  of  money  ;  he  could  look  into  no 
affairs,  provided  the  balance  in  his  banker's  hands  were 
such  as  became  the  munificent  commoner.  All  else  he  left 
to  his  steward  and  to  Levy.  Levy  grew  rapidly  rich — very, 
very  rich — and  the  steward  thrived. 

The  usurer  continued  to  possess  a  determined  hold  over 
the  imperious  great  man.  He  knew  Audley's  secret  ;  he 
could  reveal  that  secret  to  Harley.  And  the  one  soft  and 
tender  side  of  the  statesman's  nature — the  sole  part  of 
him  not  dipped  in  the  ninefold  Styx  of  practical  prosaic 
life,  which  renders  man  so  invulnerable  to  affection — was 
his  remorseful  love  for  the  school-friend  whom  he  still 
deceived. 

Here,  then,  you  have  the  key  to  the  locked  chambers  of 
Audley  Egerton's  character,  the  fortified  castle  of  his  mind. 
The  envied  minister — the  joyless  man -.; — the  oracle  on  the 
economies  of  an  empire — the  prodigal  in  a  usurer's  hands  ; 
the  august,  high-crested  gentleman,  to  whom  princes  would 
refer  for  the  casuistry  of  honor— the  culprit,  trembling  lest 
the  friend  he  best  loved  on  earth  should  detect  his  lie  ! 
Wrap  thyself  in  the  decent  veil  that  the  Arts  or  the  Graces 
weave  for  thee,  O  Human  nature  !  It  is  only  the  statue  of 
marble  whose  nakedness  the  eye  can  behold  without  shame 
and  offence. 


CHAPTER  XIX. 

OF  the  narrative  just  placed  before  the  reader,  it  is  clear 
that  Leonard  could  gather  only  desultory  fragments.  He 
could  but  see  that  his  ill-fated  mother  had  been  united  to  a 
man  she  had  loved  with  surpassing  tenderness  ;  had  been 
led  to  suspect  that  the  marriage  was  fraudulent ;  and  gone 
abroad  in  despair,  returned  repentant  and  hopeful  ;  had 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  883 

gleamed  some  intelligence  that  her  lover  was  about  to  be 
married  to  another,  and  there  the  manuscript  closed  with 
the  blisters  left  on  the  page  by  agonizing  tears.  The  mourn- 
ful end  of  Nora — her  lonely  return  to  die  under  the  roof  of 
her  parents — this  he  had  learned  before  from  the  narrative 
of  Dr.  Morgan. 

But  even  the  name  of  her  supposed  husband  was  not  re- 
vealed. Of  him  Leonard  could  form  no  conjectures,  except 
that  he  was  evidently  of  higher  rank  than  Nora.  Harley 
I/Estrange  seemed  clearly  indicated  in  the  early  boy-lover. 
If  so,  Harley  must  know  all  that  was  left  dark  to  Leonard, 
and  to  him  Leonard  resolved  to  confide  the  manuscript. 
With  this  resolution  he  left  the  cottage,  resolving  to  return 
and  attend  the  funeral  obsequies  of  his  departed  friend. 
Mrs.  Goodyer  willingly  permitted  him  to  take  away  the 
papers  she  had  lent  him,  and  added  to  them  the  packet 
which  had  been  addressed  to  Mrs.  Bertram  from  the  Con- 
tinent. 

Musing  in  anxious  gloom  over  the  record  he  had  read 
Leonard  entered  London  on  foot,  and  bent  his  way  -toward 
Harley's  hotel ;  when,  just  as  he  had  crossed  into  Bond 
Street,  a  gentleman  in  company  with  Baron  Levy,  and  who 
seemed,  by  the  flush  om  his  brow  and  the  sullen  tone  of  his 
voice,  to  have  had  rather  an  irritating  colloquy  with  the 
fashionable  usurer,  suddenly  caught  sight  of  Leonard,  and, 
abruptly  quitting  Levy,  seized  the  young  man  by  the 
arm. 

"  Excuse  me,  sir,"  said  the  gentleman,  looking  hard  into 
Leonard's  face  ;  "but  unless  these  sharp  eyes  of  mine  are 
mistaken,  which  they  seldom  are,  I  see  a  nephew  whom, 
perhaps,  I  behaved  to  rather  too  harshly,  but  who  still  has 
no  right  to  forget  Richard  Avenel." 

"My  dear  uncle,"  exclaimed  Leonard,  "this  is  indeed  a 
joyful  surprise  ;  at  a  time,  too,  when  I  needed  joy.  No  ;  I 
have  never  forgotten  your  kindness,  and  always  regretted 
our  estrangement." 

"  That  is  well  said  ;  give  us  your  fist  again.  Let  me 
look  at  you — quite  the  gentleman,  I  declare  ! — still  so  good- 
looking  too.  We  Avenels  always  were  a  handsome  family. 
Good-bye,  Baron  Levy.  Need  not  wait  for  me  ;  I  am  not 
going  to  run  away.  I  shall  see  you  again." 

"  But,"  whispered  Levy,  who  had  followed  Avenel  across 
the  street,  and  eyed  Leonard  with  a  quick,  curious,  search- 
ing glance— '•  but  it  must  be  as  I  say  with  regard  to  the 


884  MY  NOVEL;    OR, 

borough  ;  or  (to  be  plain)  you  must  cash  the  bills  on   the 
day  they  are  due." 

"Very  well,  sir — very  well.  So  you  think  to  put  the 
screw  upon  me,  as  if  I  were  a  poor  little  householder.  I 
understand — my  money  or  my  borough  ? " 

"  Exactly  so,"  said  the  Baron,  with  a  soft  smile. 

"  You  shall  hear  from  me.  [Aside,  as  Levy  strolled  away.] 
— D d  tarnation  rascal !  " 

Dick  Avenel  then  linked  his  arm  in  his  nephew's,  and 
strove  for  some  minutes  to  forget  his  own  troubles,  in  the 
indulgence  of  that  curiosity  in  the  affairs  of  another  which 
was  natural  to  him,  and  in  this  instance,  increased  by  the 
real  affection  which  he  had  felt  for  Leonard.  But  still  his 
curiosity  remained  unsatisfied  ;  for  long  before  Leonard 
could  overcome  his  habitual  reluctance  to  speak  of  his 
success  in  literature,  Dick's  mind  wandered  back  to  his 
rival  at  Screwstown  and  the  curse  of  "over-competition," 
— to  the  bills  which  Levy  had  discounted,  in  order  to  en- 
able Dick  to  meet  the  crushing  force  of  a  capitalist  larger 
than  himself — and  the  "  tarnation  rascal  "  who  now  wished 
to  obtain  two  seats  at  Lansmere,  one  for  Randal  Leslie, 
one  for  a  rich  Nabob  whom  Levy  had  just  caught  as  a 
client ;  and  Dick,  though  willing  to  aid  Leslie,  had  a  mind 
to  the  other  seat  for  himself.  Therefore  Dick  soon  broke 
in  upon  the  hesitating  confessions  of  Leonard,  with  excla- 
mations far  from  pertinent  to  the  subject,  and  rather  for 
the  sake  of  venting  his  own  griefs  and  resentment,  than 
with  any  idea  that  the  sympathy  or  advice  of  his  nephew 
could  serve  him. 

"  Well,  well,"  said  Dick,  "  another  time  for  your  history. 
I  see  you  have  thrived,  and  that  is  enough  for  the  present. 
Very  odd  ;  but  just  now  I  can  only  think  of  myself.  I'm 
in  a  regular  fix,  sir.  Screwstown  is  not  the  respectable 
Screwstown  that  you  remember  it — all  demoralized  and 
turned  topsy-turvy  by  a  demoniacal  monster  capitalist,  with 
steam-engines  that  might  bring  the  falls  of  Niagara  into 
your  back  parlor,  sir !  And  as  if  that  was  not  enough  to 
destroy  and  drive  into  almighty  shivers  a  decent  fair-play 
Britisher  like  myself,  I  hear  he  is  just  in  treaty  for  some 
patent  infernal  invention  that  will  make  his  engines  do 
twice  as  much  work  with  half  as  many  hands  !  That's  the 
way  those  unfeeling  ruffians  increase  our  poor-rates  !  But 
I'll  get  up  a  riot  against  him — I  will !  Don't  talk  to  me  of 
the  law  !  What  the  devil  is  the  good  of  the  law,  if  it  don't 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  885 

protect  a  man's  industry — a  liberal  man,  too,  like  me  ! " 
Here  Dick  burst  into  a  storm  of  vituperation  against  the 
rotten  old  country  in  general,  and  Mr.  Dyce,  the  monster 
capitalist  of  Screwstown,  in  particular. 

Leonard  started  ;  for  Dick  now  named,  in  that  monster 
capitalist,  the  very  person  who  was  in  treaty  for  Leonard's 
own  mechanical  improvement  on  the  steam-engine. 

"  Stop,  uncle — stop  !  Why,  then,  if  this  man  were  to 
buy  the  contrivance  you  speak  of,  it  would  injure  you  ? " 

"  Injure  me,  sir !  I  should  be  a  bankrupt — that  is,  if  it 
succeeded  ;  but  I  dare  say  it  is  all  a  humbug." 

"  No,  it  will  succeed — I'll  answer  for  that !  " 

"  You  !     You  have  seen  it  ? " 

"Why,  I  invented  it." 

Dick  hastily  withdrew  his  arm  from  Leonard's. 

"  Serpent's  tooth  ! "  he  said,  falteringly ;  "  so  it  is  you, 
whom  I  warmed  at  my  hearth,  who  are  to  ruin  Richard 
Avenel  ? " 

"  No — but  to  save  him  !  Come  into  the  city  and  look  at 
my  model.  If  you  like  it,  the  patent  shall  be  yours  ! " 

"Cab — cab — cab,"  cried  Dick  Avenel,  stopping  a  "Han- 
som ;"  -"jump  in,  Leonard — jump  in.  I'll  buy  your  patent 
— that  is,  if  it  be  worth  a  straw  ;  and  as  for  payment " 

"  Payment !     Don't  talk  of  that !  " 

"Well,  I  won't,"  said  Dick,  mildly;  "for  'tis  not  the 
topic  of  conversation  I  should  choose  myself,  just  at  pre- 
sent. And  as  for  that  black-whiskered  alligator,  the  Baron, 
let  me  first  get  out  of  those  rambustious,  unchristian,  filbert- 
shaped  claws  of  his,  and  then — But  jump  in — jump  in — and 
tell  the  man  where  to  drive  ! " 

A  very  brief  inspection  of  Leonard's  invention  sufficed 
to  show  Richard  Avenel  how  invaluable  it  would  be  to  him. 
Armed  with  a  patent,  of  which  the  certain  effects  in  the 
increase  of  power  and  diminution  of  labor  were  obvious  to 
any  practical  man,  Avenel  felt  that  he  should  have  no  diffi- 
culty in  obtaining  such  advances  of  money  as  he  required, 
whether  to  alter  his  engines,  meet  the  bills  discounted  by 
Levy,  or  carry  on  the  war  with  the  monster  capitalist.  It 
might  be  necessary  to  admit  into  partnership  some  other 
monster  capitalist — What  then  ?  Any  partner  better  than 
Levy.  A  bright  idea  struck  him. 

"  If  I  can  just  terrify  and  whop  that  infernal  intruder  on 
my  own  ground,  for  a  few  months,  he  may  offer,  himself,  to 


S86  MY  NOVEL;    OR, 

enter  into  partnership — make  the  two  concerns  a  joint-stock 
friendly  combination,  and  then  we  shall  flog  the  world." 

His  gratitude  to  Leonard  became  so  lively,  that  Dick 
offered  to  bring  his  nephew  in  for  Lansmere  instead  of  him- 
self ;  and  when  Leonard  declined  the  offer,  exclaimed, 
"  Well,  then,  any  friend  of  yours  ;  I'm  all  for  reform  against 
those  high  and  mighty  right  honorable  borough-mongers ; 
and  what  with  loans  and  mortgages  on  the  small  house- 
holders, and  a  long  course  of  '  Free  and  Easies '  with  the 
independent  freemen,  I  carry  one  seat  certain,  perhaps  both 
seats  of  the  town  of  Lansmere,  in  my  breeches-pocket." 
Dick,  then,  appointing  an  interview  with  Leonard  at  his 
lawyer's,  to  settle  the  transfer  of  the  invention,  upon  terms 
which  he  declared  "  should  be  honorable  to  both  parties," 
hurried  off,  to  search  amongst  his  friends  in  the  city  for 
some  monster  capitalist,  who  might  be  induced  to  extricate 
him  from  the  jaws  of  Levy,  and  the  engines  of  his  rival  at 
Screwstown.  "  Mullins  is  the  man,  if  I  can  but  catch  him," 
said  Dick.  "You  have  heard  of  Mullins? — A  wonderful 
great  man  ;  you  should  see  his  nails  ;  he  never  cuts  them ! 
Three  millions,  at  least,  he  has  scraped  together  with  those 
nails  of  his,  sir.  And  in  this  rotten  old  country,  a  man  must 
have  nails  a  yard  long  to  fight  with  a  devil  like  Levy  ! — 
Good-bye — good-^, — GOOD-bye,  my  DEAR  nephew !  " 


CHAPTER  XX. 

HARLEY  L'ESTRANGE  was  seated  alone  in  his  apartments. 
He  had  just  put  down  a  volume  of  some  favorite  classic  au- 
thor, and  he  was  resting  his  hand  firmly  clenched  upon  the 
book.  Ever  since  Harley's  return  to  England,  there  had 
been  a  perceptible  change  in  the  expression  of  his  counten- 
ance, even  in  the  very  bearing  and  attitudes  of  his  elastic 
youthful  figure.  But  this  change  had  been  more  marked 
since  that  last  interview  with  Helen  which  has  been  re- 
corded. There  was  a  compressed,  resolute  firmness  in  the 
lips — a  decided  character  in  the  brow.  To  the  indolent, 
careless  grace  of  his  movements  had  succeeded  a  certain 
indescribable  energy,  as  quiet  and  self-collected  as  that 
which  distinguished  the  determined  air  of  Audley  Egerton 
himself.  In  fact,  if  you  could  have  looked  into  his  heart, 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  887 

you  would  have  seen  that  Harley  was,  for  the  first  time, 
making  a  strong  effort  over  his  passions  and  his  humors  ; 
that  the  whole  man  was  nerving  himself  to  a  sense  of  duty. 
"  No,"  he  muttered — "no — I  will  think  only  of  Helen;  I 
will  think  only  of  real  life  !  And  what  (were  I  not  engaged 
to  another)  would  that  dark-eyed  Italian  girl  be  to  me  ? — 
What  a  mere  fool's  fancy  is  this !  I  love  again  ! — I,  who 
through  all  the  fair  spring  of  my  life,  have  clung  with  such 
faith  to  a  memory  and  a  grave  !  Come,  come,  come,  Har- 
ley L'Estrange,  act  thy  part  as  man  amongst  men  at  last ! 
Accept  regard  ;  dream  no  more  of  passion.  Abandon  false 
ideals.  Thou  art  no  poet — why  deem  that  life  itself  can  be 
a  poem  ?" 

The  door  opened,  and  the  Austrian  Prince,  whom  Harley 
had  interested  in  the  cause  of  Violante's  father,  entered  with 
the  familiar  step  of  a  friend. 

"  Have  you  discovered  those  documents  yet  ? "  said 
the  Prince.  "  I  must  now  return  to  Vienna  within  a  few 
days.  And  unless  you  can  arm  me  with  some  tangible 
proof  of  Peschiera's  ancient  treachery,  or  some  more  unan- 
swerable excuse  for  his  noble  kinsman,  I  fear  that  there  is 
no  other  hope  for  the  exile's  recall  to  this  country  than 
what  lies  in  the  hateful  option  of  giving  his  daughter  to  his 
perfidious  foe." 

"  Alas  !  "  said  Harley,  "  as  yet  all  researches  have  been 
in  vain  ;  and  I  know  not  what  other  steps  to  take,  without 
arousing  Peschiera's  vigilance,  and  setting  his  crafty  brains 
at  work  to  counteract  us.  My  poor  friend,  then,  must  rest 
contented  with  exile.  To  give  Violante  to  the  Count  were 
dishonor.  But  I  shall  soon  be  married  ;  soon  have  a  home, 
not  quite  unworthy  of  their  due  rank,  to  offer  both  to  father 
and  to  child." 

"Would  the  future  Lady  L'Estrange  feel  no  jealousy  of 
a  guest  so  fair  as  you  tell  me  this  young  signorina  is  ?  And 
would  you  be  in  no  danger  yourself,  my  poor  friend  ?  " 

"Pooh  !"  said  Harley,  coloring.  "My  fair  guest  would 
have  two  fathers  ;  that  is  all.  Pray  do  not  jest  on  a  thing  so 
grave  as  honor." 

Again  the  door  opened,  and  Leonard  appeared. 

"  Welcome,"  cried  Harley,  pleased  to  be  no  longer  alone 
under  the  Prince's  penetrating  eye — "welcome.  This  is 
the  noble  friend  who  shares  our  interest  for  Riccabocca, 
and  who  could  serve  him  so  well,  if  we  could  but  discover 
the  document  of  which  I  have  spoken  to  you." 


888  MY  NOVEL;    OR, 

"  It  is  here,"  said  Leonard,  simply  ;  "  may  it  be  all  that 
you  require  ! " 

Harley  eagerly  grasped  at  the  packet,  which  had  been 
sent  from  Italy  to  the  supposed  Mrs.  Bertram,  and,  leaning 
his  face  on  his  hand,  rapidly  hurried  through  the  contents. 

"  Hurrah  !  "  he  cried  at  last,  with  his  face  lighted  up, 
and  a  boyish  toss  of  his  right  hand.  "  Look,  look,  Prince, 
here  are  Peschiera's  own  letters  to  his  kinsman's  wife  ;  his 
avowal  of  what  he  calls  his  '  patriotic  designs  ; '  his  entreat- 
ies to  her  to  induce  her  husband  to  share  them.  Look, 
look,  how  he  wields  his  influence  over  the  woman  he  had 
once  wooed  ;  look  how  artfully  he  combats  her  objections  ; 
see  how  reluctant  our  friend  was  to  stir,  till  wife  and  kins- 
man both  united  to  urge  him." 

"  It  is  enough — quite  enough,"  exclaimed  the  Prince, 
looking  at  the  passages  in  Peschiera's  letters  which  Harley 
pointed  out  to  him. 

"  No,  it  is  not  enough,"  shouted  Harley,  as  he  continued 
to  read  the  letters  with  his  rapid  sparkling  eyes.  "  More 
still !  O  villain,  doubly  damned  !  Here,  after  our  friend's 
flight,  here  is  Peschiera's  avowal  of  guilty  passion  ;  here 
he  swears  that  he  had  intrigued  to  ruin  his  benefactor,  in 
order  to  pollute  the  home  that  had  sheltered  him.  Ah ! 
see  how  she  answers  ;  thank  Heaven,  her  own  eyes  were 
opened  at  last,  and  she  scorned  him  before  she  died.  She 
was  innocent !  I  said  so  !  Violante's  mother  was  pure. 
Poor  lady  !  this  moves  me.  Has  your  Emperor  the  heart 
of  a  man  ?  " 

•  "  I  know  enough  of  our  Emperor,"  answered  the  Prince, 
warmly,  "  to  know  that  the  moment  these  papers  reach  him, 
Peschiera  is  ruined,  and  your  friend  is  restored  to  his  hon- 
ors. You  will  live  to  see  the  daughter,  to  whom  you  would 
have  given  a  child's  place  at  your  hearth,  the  wealthiest 
heiress  of  Italy — the  bride  of  some  noble  lover,  with  rank 
only  below  the  supremacy  of  kings  !  " 

"  Ah  !  "  said  Harley,  in  a  sharp  accent,  and  turning  very 
pale — "  ah,  I  shall  not  see  her  that !  I  shall  never  visit 
Italy  again  !  never  see  her  more — never,  after  she  has  once 
quitted  this  climate  of  cold  iron  cares  and  formal  duties — 
never,  never  ! "  He  turned  his  head  for  a  moment,  and 
then  came  with  quick  step  to  Leonard.  "  But  you,  O 
happy  poet !  No  Ideal  can  ever  be  lost  to  you.  You  are 
independent  of  real  life.  Would  that  I  were  a  poet ! "  He 
smiled  sadly. 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  889 

"  You  would  not  say  so,  perhaps,  my  dear  lord,"  an- 
swered Leonard,  with  equal  sadness,  "  if  you  knew  how 
little  what  you  call  'the  Ideal,'  replaces  to  a  poet  the  loss 
of  one  affection  in  the  genial  human  world.  Independent 
of  real  life  !  Alas  !  no.  And  I  have  here  the  confessions 
of  a  true  poet-soul,  which  I  will  entreat  you  to  read'  at 
leisure  ;  and  when  you  have  read,  say  if  you  would  still  be 
a  poet ! " 

He  took  forth  Nora's  manuscripts  as  he  spoke. 

"  Place  them  yonder,  in  my  escritoire,  Leonard ;  I  will 
read  them  later." 

"  Do  so,  and  with  heed  ;  for  to  me  there  is  much  here 
that  involves  my  own  life — much  that  is  still  a  mystery, 
and  which  I  think  you  can  unravel ! " 

"  I  ! "  exclaimed  Harley  ;  and  he  was  moving  toward 
the  escritoire,  in  a  drawer  of  which  Leonard  had  carefully 
deposited  the  papers,  when,  once  more,  but  this  time  vio- 
lently, the  door  was  thrown  open,  and  Giacomo  rushed  into 
the  room,  accompanied  by  Lady  Lansmere. 

"  Oh,  my  lord,  my  lord  !  "  cried  Giacomo,  in  Italian, 
"the  signorina  !  the  signorina  ! — Violante  !  " 

"What  of  her?  Mother,  mother!  what  of  her?  Speak, 
speak  ! " 

"  She  has  gone — left  our  house  ! " 

"  Left !  No,  no  !  "  cried  Giacomo.  "  She  must  have 
been  deceived  or  forced  away.  The  Count!  the  Count!  Oh, 
my  good  lord,  save  her,  as  you  once  saved  her  father  !" 

"  Hold  !  "  cried  Harley.  "  Give  me  your  arm,  mother. 
A  second  such  blow  in  life  is  beyond  the  strength  of  man — 
at  least  it  is  beyond  mine.  So,  so  ! — I  am  better  now ! 
Thank  you,  mother.  Stand  back,  all  of  you — give  me  air. 
So  the  Count  has  triumphed,  and  Violante  has  fled  with 
him  !  Explain  all,  I  can  bear  it ! " 

38 


890  MY  NOVEL;    UR, 


BOOK  TWELFTH. 


INITIAL  CHAPTER. 

WHEREIN  THE  CAXTON  FAMILY  REAPPEAR. 

"AGAIN,"  quoth  my  father — "again  behold  us!  We  who 
greeted  the  commencement  of  your  narrative,  who  absented 
ourselves  in  the  mid-course  when  we  could  but  obstruct  the 
current  of  events,  and  jostle  personages  more  important — 
we  now  gather  round  the  close.  Still,  as  the  chorus  to  the 
drama,  we  circle  round  the  altar  with  the  solemn  but  dubi- 
ous chant  which  prepares  the  audience  for  the  completion 
of  the  appointed  destinies  ;  though  still,  ourselves,  unaware 
how  the  skein  is  to  be  unravelled,  and  where  the  shears  are 
to  descend." 

So  there  they  stood,  the  Family  of  Caxton — all  group- 
ing round  me — all  eager  officiously  to  question — some  over- 
anxious prematurely  to  criticise. 

"Violante  can't  have  voluntarily  gone  off  with  that 
horrid  Count,"  said  rny  mother;  "but  perhaps  she  was 
deceived,  like  Eugenia  by  Mr.  Bellamy,  in  the  novel  of 
'  CAMILLA.'  " 

"  Ha  !  "  said  my  father,  "  and  in  that  case  it  is  time  yet 
to  steal  a  hint  from  Clarissa  Harlowe,  and  make  Violante 
die  less  of  a  broken  heart  than  a  sullied  honor.  She  is  one 
of  those  girls  who  ought  to  be  killed  !  All  things  about  her 
forebode  an  early  tomb  !  " 

"  Dear,  dear  !  "  cried  Mrs.  Caxton,  "  I  hope  not !  " 

"  Pooh,  brother,"  said  the  Captain,  "  we  have  had  enough 
of  the  tomb  in  the  history  of  poor  Nora.  The  whole  story 
grows  out  of  a  grave,  and  if  to  a  grave  it  must  return — if, 
Pisistratus,  you  must  kill  somebody,  kill  Levy." 

"  Or  the  Count,"  said  my  mother,  with  unusual  trucu- 
lence. 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  891 

"Or  Randal  Leslie,"  said  Squills.  "I  should  like  to 
have  a  post-mortem  cast  of  his  head — it  would  be  an  instruct- 
ive study." 

Here  there  was  a  general  confusion  of  tongues,  all  pres- 
ent conspiring  to  bewilder  the  unfortunate  author  with  their 
various  and  discordant  counsels  how  to  wind  up  his  story 
and  dispose  of  his  characters. 

"  Silence  ! "  cried  Pisistratus,  clapping  his  hands  to  both 
cars.  "  I  can  no  more  alter  the  fate  allotted  to  each  of  the 
personages  whom  you  honor  with  your  interest  than  I  can 
change  your  own  ;  like  you,  they  must  go  where  events 
lead  them,  urged  on  by  their  own  characters  and  the  agen- 
cies of  others.  Providence  so  pervadingly  governs  the  uni- 
verse, that  you  cannot  strike  it  even  out  of  a  book.  The 
author  may  beget  a  character,  but  the  moment  the  charac- 
ter comes  into  action,  it  escapes  from  his  hands — plays  its 
own  part,  and  fulfils  its  own  inevitable  doom." 

"  Besides,"  said  Mr.  Squills,  "it  is  easy  to  see,  from  the 
phrenological  development  of  the  organs  in  those  several 
heads  which  Pisistratus  has  allowed  us  to  examine,  that  we 
have  seen  no  creations  of  mere  fiction,  but  living  persons, 
whose  true  history  has  set  in  movement  their  various  bumps 
of-Amativeness,  Constructiveness,  Acquisitiveness,  Ideality, 
Wonder,  Comparison,  etc.  They  must  act,  and  they  must 
end,  according  to  the  influences  of  their  crania.  Thus  we 
find  in  Randal  Leslie  the  predominant  organ  of  Construct- 
iveness, Secretiveness,  Comparison,  and  Eventuality — while 
Benevolence,  Conscientiousness,  Adhesiveness,  are  utterly 
nil.  Now,  to  divine  how  such  a  man  must  end,  we  must 
first  see  what  is  the  general  composition  of  the  society  in 
which  he  moves, — in  short,  what  other  gases  are  brought 
into  contact  with  his  phlogiston.  As  to  Leonard,  and  Har- 
ley,  and  Audley  Egerton,  surveying  them  phrenologically, 
I  should  say  that " 

"Hush!"  said  my  father,  "Pisistratus  has  dipped  his 
pen  in  the  ink,  and  it  seems  to  me  easier  for  the  wisest  man 
that  ever  lived  to  account  for  what  others  have  done,  than 
to  predict  what  they  should  do.  Phrenologists  discovered 
that  Mr.  Thurtell  had  a  very  fine  organ  of  Conscientious- 
ness, yet,  somehow  or  other,  that  erring  personage  con- 
trived to  knock  the  brains  out  of  his  friend's  organ  of  In- 
dividuality. Therefore  I  rise  to  propose  a  Resolution — that 
this  meeting  be  adjourned  till  Pisistratus  has  completed  his 
narrative,  and  we  shall  then  have  the  satisfaction  of  know- 


892  MY  NOVEL;    OR, 

ing  that  it  ought,  according  to  every  principle  of  nature, 
science,  and  art,  to  have  been  completed  differently.  Why 
should  we  deprive  ourselves  of  that  pleasure  ?" 

"  I  second  the  motion,"  said  the  Captain  ;  "  but  if  Levy 
be  not  hanged,  I  shall  say  that  there  is  an  end  of  all  poeti- 
cal justice." 

"  Take  care  of  poor  Helen,"  said  Blanche,  tenderly  ; 
"  not  that  I  would  have  you  forget  Violante." 

"  Pish  !  and  sit  down,  or  they  shall  both  die  old  maids." 

Frightened  at  that  threat,  Blanche,  with  a  deprecating 
look,  drew  her  stool  quietly  near  me,  as  if  to  place  her  two 
protegees  in  an  atmosphere  mesmerized  to  matrimonial  at- 
tractions ;  and  my  mother  set  hard  to  work — at  a  new  frock 
for  the  baby.  Unsoftened  by  these  undue  female  influ- 
ences, Pisistratus  wrote  on  at  the  dictation  of  the  relentless 
Fates.  His  pen  was  of  iron,  and  his  heart  was  of  granite. 
He  was  as  insensible  to  the  existence  of  wife  and  baby,  as 
if  he  had  never  paid  a  house-bill,  nor  rushed  from  a  nur- 
sery at  the  sound  of  an  infant  squall.  O  blessed  privilege 
of  Authorship  ! 

"  O  testudinis  aurese 

Dulcem  quoe  strepitum,  Fieri,  temperas  ! 
O  mutis  quoque  piscibus 

Donatura  cycni,  si  libeat,  sonum  !  "  * 


CHAPTER  II. 

IT  is  necessary  to  go  somewhat  back  in  the  course  of 
this  narrative,  and  account  to  the  reader  for  the  disappear 
ance  of  Violante. 

It  may  be  remembered  that  Peschiera,  scared  by  the  sud- 
den approach  of  Lord  L'Estrange,  had  little  time  for  far- 
ther words  to  the  young  Italian  than  those  which  expressed 
his  intention  to  renew  the  conference,  and  press  for  her  de- 
cision. But  the  next  day,  when  he  re-entered  the  garden 
secretly  and  stealthily,  as  before,  Violante  did  not  appear. 
And  after  watching  round  the  precincts  till  dusk,  the  Count 
retreated,  with  an  indignant  conviction  that  his  arts  had 
failed  to  enlist  on  his  side  either  the  heart  or  the  imagina- 

*  O  Muse,  who  dost  temper  the  sweet  sound  of  the  golden  shell  of  the  tortoise,  and 
iMiildst  give,  were  it  needed,  to  silent  fishes  the  song  of  the  swan  ! 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  893 

tion  of  his  intended  victim.  He  began  now  to  revolve,  and 
to  discuss  with  Levy,  the  possibility  of  one  of  those  bold 
and  violent  measures,  which  were  favored  by  his  reckless 
daring  and  desperate  condition.  But  Levy  treated  with 
such  just  ridicule  any  suggestion  to  abstract  Violante  by 
force  from  Lord  Lansmere's  house — so  scouted  the  notions 
of  nocturnal  assault,  with  the  devices  of  scaling  windows 
and  rope  ladders,  that  the  Count  reluctantly  abandoned 
that  romance  of  villany  so  unsuited  to  our  sober  capital, 
and  which  would  no  doubt  have  terminated  in  his  capture 
by  the  police,  with  the  prospect  of  committal  to  the  House 
of  Correction. 

Levy  himself  found  his  invention  at  fault,  and  Randal 
Leslie  was  called  into  consultation.  The  usurer  had  con- 
trived that  Randal's  schemes  of  fortune  and  advancement 
were  so  based  upon  Levy's  aid  and  connivance,  that  the 
young  man,  with  all  his  desire  rather  to  make  instruments 
of  other  men,  than  to  be  himself  their  instrument,  found  his 
superior  intellect  as  completely  a  slave  to  Levy's  more  ex- 
perienced craft,  as  ever  subtle  Genius  of  air  was  subject  to 
the  vulgar  Sorcerer  of  earth. 

His  acquisition  of  the  ancestral  acres, — his  anticipated 
seat  in  parliament,- — his  chance  of  ousting  Frank  from  the 
heritage  of  Hazeldean,  were  all  as  strings  that  pulled  him 
to  and  fro,  like  the  puppet  in  the  sleek  filbert-nailed  fingers 
of  the  smiling  showman,  who  could  exhibit  him  to  the  ad- 
miration of  a  crowd,  or  cast  him  away  into  dust  and  lumber. 

Randal  gnawed  his  lip  in  the  sullen  wrath  of  a  man  who 
bides  his  hour  of  future  emancipation,  and  lent  his  brain  to 
the  hire  of  the  present  servitude,  in  mechanical  acquies- 
cence. The  inherent  superiority  of  the  profound  young 
schemer  became  instantly  apparent  over  the  courage  of 
Peschiera,  and  the  practised  wit  of  the  Baron. 

"Your  sister,"  said  Randal  to  the  former,  "must  be  the 
active  agent  in  the  first  and  most  difficult  part  of  your  enter- 
prise. Violante  cannot  be  taken  by  force  from  Lord  Lans- 
mere's— she  must  be  induced  to  leave  it  with  her  own  con- 
sent. A  female  is  needed  here.  Woman  c*an  best  decoy 
woman." 

"Admirably  said,"  quoth  the  Count  ;  "but  Beatrice  has 
grown  restive,  and  though  her  dowry,  and  therefore  her 
very  marriage  with  that  excellent  young  Hazeldean,  depend 
on  my  own  alliance  with  my  fair  kinswoman,  she  has  grown 
so  indifferent  to  my  success,  that  I  dare  not  reckon  on  her 


894  MY  NOVEL;    OR, 

aid.  Between  you  and  me,  though  she  was  once  very  eager 
to  be  married,  she  now  seems  to  shrink  from  the  notion  ; 
and  I  have  no  other  hold  over  her." 

"  Has  she  not  seen  some  one,  and  lately,  whom  she  pre- 
fers to  poor  Frank  ? " 

"  I  suspect  that  she  has  ;  but  I  know  not  whom,  unless  it 
be  that  detested  L'Estrange." 

"  Ah — well,  well.  Interfere  with  her  no  farther  yourself, 
but  have  all  in  readiness  to  quit  England,  as  you  had  before 
proposed,  as  soon  as  Violante  be  in  your  power." 

"  All  is  in  readiness,"  said  the  Count.  "  Levy  has  agreed 
to  purchase  a  famous  sailing-vessel  of  one  of  his  clients.  I 
have  engaged  a  score  or  so  of  determined  outcasts,  accus- 
tomed to  the  sea — Genoese,  Corsicans,  Sardinians — ex-Car- 
bonari of  the  best  sort, — no  silly  patriots,  but  liberal  cosmo- 
politans, who  have  iron  at  the  disposal  of  any  man's  gold. 
I  have  a  priest  to  perform  the  nuptial  service,  and  deaf  to 
any  fair  lady's 'No.'  Once  at  sea,  and  wherever  I  land, 
Violante  will  lean  on  my  arm  as  Countess  di  Peschiera." 

"  But  Violante,"  said  Randal,  doggedly,  determined  not  to 
yield  to  the  disgust  with  which  the  Count's  audacious  cyni- 
cism filled  even  him — "  but  Violante  cannot  be  removed  in 
broad  daylight  at  once  to  such  a  vessel,  nor  from  a  quarter 
so  populous  as  that  in  which  your  sister  resides." 

"  I  have  thought  of  that  too,"  said  the  Count ;  "  my 
emissaries  have  found  me  a  house  close  by  the  river,  and 
safe  for  our  purpose  as  the  dungeons  of  Venice." 

»  "  I  wish  not  to  know  all  this,"  answered  Randal,  quickly  ; 
"you  will  instruct  Madame  di  Negra  where  to  take  Violante 
— my  task  limits  itself  to  the  fair  inventions  that  belong  to 
intellect ;  what  belongs  to  force  is  not  in  my  province.  I 
will  go  at  once  to  your  sister,  whom  I  think  I  can  influence 
more  effectually  than  you  can  ;  though  later  I  may  give 
you  a  hint  to  guard  against  the  chance  of  her  remorse. 
Meanwhile  as,  the  moment  Violante  disappears,  suspicion 
would  fall  upon  you,  show  yourself  constantly  in  public 
surrounded  by  your  friends.  Be  able  to  account  for  every 
hour  of  your  time " 

"  An  alibi?  "  interrupted  the  ci-devant  solicitor. 

"Exactly  so,  Baron.  Complete  the  purchase  of  the 
vessel,  and  let  the  Count  man  it  as  he  proposes.  I  will 
communicate  with  you  both  as  soon  as  I  can  put  you  into 
action.  To-day  I  shall  have  much  to  do  ;  it  will  be  done." 

As  Randal  left  the  room,  Levy  followed  him. 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  895 

"What  you  propose  to  do  will  be  well  done,  no  doubt,' 
quoth  the  usurer,  linking  his  arm  in  Randal's  ;  "  but  take 
care  that  you  don't  get  yourself  into  a  scrape,  so  as  to 
damage  your  character.  I  have  great  hopes  of  you  in  public 
life  ;  and  in  public-  life  character  is  necessary — that  is,  so 
far  as  honor  is  concerned." 

"  I  damage  my  character  ! — and  for  a  Count  Peschiera  !  " 
said  Randal,  opening  his  eyes.  "  I  !  What  do  you  take  me 
for  ? " 

The  Baron  let  go  his  hold. 

"  This  boy  ought  to  rise  very  high,"  said  he  to  himself, 
as  he  turned  back  to  the  Count. 


CHAPTER  III. 

RANDAL'S  acute  faculty  of  comprehension  had  long  since 
surmised  the  truth  that  Beatrice's  views  and  temper  of  mind 
had  been  strangely  and  suddenly  altered  by  some  such 
revolution  as  passion  only  can  effect ;  that  pique  or  disap- 
pointment had  mingled  with  the  motive  which  had  induced 
her  to  accept  the  hand  of  his  rash  young  kinsman  ;  and 
that,  instead  of  the  resigned  indifference  with  which  she 
might  at  one  time  have  contemplated  any  marriage  that 
could  free  her  from  a  position  that  perpetually  galled  her 
pride,  it  was  now  with  a  repugnance,  visible  to  Randal's 
keen  eye,  that  the  shrank  from  the  performance  of  that 
pledge  which  Frank  had  so  dearly  bought.  The  temptations 
which  the  Count  could  hold  out  to  her  to  become  his 
accomplice  in  designs  of  which  the  fraud  and  perfidy  would 
revolt  her  better  nature,  had  ceased  to  be  of  avail.  A  dowry 
had  grown  valueless  since  it  would  but  hasten  the  nuptials 
from  which  she  recoiled.  Randal  felt  that  he  could  not 
secure  her  aid,  except  by  working  on  a  passion  so  turbulent 
as  to  confound  her  judgment.  Such  a  passion  he  recognized 
in  jealousy.  He  had  once  doubted  if  Harley  were  the  object 
of  her  love  ;  yet,  after  all,  was  it  not  probable  ?  He  knew, 
at  least,  of  no  one  else  to  suspect.  If  so,  he  had  but  to 
whisper,  "Violante  is  your  rival.  Violante  removed,  your 
beauty  may  find  its  natural  effect  ;  if  not,  you  are  an  Italian, 
and  you  will  be  at  least  avenged."  He  saw  still  more  reason 
to  suppose  that  Lord  L'Estrange  was  indeed  the  one  by 


896  MY  NOVEL;    OR, 

whom  he  could  rule  Beatrice,  since,  the  last  time  he  had 
seen  her,  she  had  questioned  him  with  much  earnestness  as 
to  the  family  of  Lord  Lansmere,  especially  as  to  the  female 
part  of  it.  Randal  had  then  judged  it  prudent  to  avoid 
speaking  of  Violante,  and  feigned  ignorance  ;  but  promised 
to  ascertain  all  particulars  by  the  time  he  next  saw  the 
Marchesa.  It  was  the  warmth  with  which  she  had  thanked 
him,  that  had  set  his  busy  mind  at  work  to  conjecture  the 
cause  of  her  curiosity  so  earnestly  aroused,  and  to  ascribe 
that  cause  to  jealousy.  If  Harley  loved  Violante  (as  Randal 
himself  had  before  supposed),  the  little  of  passion  that  the 
young  man  admitted  to  himself  was  enlisted  in  aid  of 
Peschiera's  schemes.  For  though  Randal  did  not  love 
Violante,  he  cordially  disliked  L'Estrange,  and  would  have 
gone  as  far  to  render  that  dislike  vindictive  as  a  cold  reasoner, 
intent  upon  worldly  fortunes,  will  ever  suffer  mere  hate  to 
influence  him. 

"At  the  worst,"  thought  Randal,  "if  it  be  not  Harley, 
touch  the  chord  of  jealousy,  and  its  vibration  will  direct  me 
right." 

Thus  soliloquizing,  he  arrived  at  Madame  di  Negra's. 

Now,  in  reality,  the  Marchesa's  inquiries  as  to  Lord 
Lansmere's  family  had  their  source  in  the  misguided,  rest- 
less, despairing  interest  with  which  she  still  clung  to  the 
image  of  the  young  poet,  whom  Randal  had  no  reason  to 
suspect.  That  interest  had  become  yet  more  keen  from  the 
impatient  misery  she  had  felt  ever  since  she  had  plighted 
herself  to  another.  A  wild  hope  that  she  might  yet  escape 
— a  vague  regretful  thought  that  she  had  been  too  hasty  in 
dismissing  Leonard  from  her  presence — that  she  ought 
rather  to  have  courted  his  friendship,  and  contended  against 
her  unknown  rival,  at  times  drew  her  wayward  mind  wholly 
from  the  future  to  which  she  had  consigned  herself.  And, 
to  do  her  justice,  though  her  sense  of  duty  was  so  defective, 
and  the  principles  which  should  have  guided  her  conduct 
were  so  lost  to  her  sight,  still  her  feelings  toward  the  gen- 
erous Hazeldean  were  not  so  hard  and  blunted  but  what 
her  own  ingratitude  added  to  her  torment ;  and  it  seemed 
as  if  the  sole  atonement  she  could  make  to  him  was  to  find 
an  excuse  to  withdraw  her  promise,  and  save  him  from 
herself.  She  had  caused  Leonard's  steps  to  be  watched  ; 
she  had  found  that  he  visited  at  Lord  Lansmere's  ;  that  he 
had  gone  there  often,  and  stayed  there  long.  She  had 
learned  in  the  neighborhood  that  Lady  Lansmere  had  one 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  897 

or  two  young  female  guests  staying  with  her.  Surely  this 
was  the  attraction — here  was  the  rival ! 

Randal  found  Beatrice  in  a  state  of  mind  that  favored 
his  purpose.  And  first  turning  his  conversation  on  Harley, 
and  noting  that  her  countenance  did  not  change,  by  little 
and  little  he  drew  forth  her  secret. 

Then  said  Randal,  gravely,  "  If  one  whom  you  honor 
with  a  tender  thought  visits  at  Lord  Lansmere's  house,  you 
have,  indeed,  cause  to  fear  for  yourself,  to  hope  for  your 
brother's  success  in  the  object  which  has  brought  him  to 
England — for  a  girl  of  surpassing  beauty  is  a  guest  in  Lord 
Lansmere's  house  ;  and  I  will  now  tell  you  that  that  girl  is 
she  whom  Count  Peschiera  would  make  his  bride." 

As  Randal  thus  spoke,  and  saw  how  his  listener's  brow 
darkened  and  her  eye  flashed,  he  felt  that  his  accomplice 
was  secured.  Violante !  Had  not  Leonard  spoken  of 
Violante,  and  with  such  praise  ?  Had  not  his  boyhood 
been  passed  under  her  eyes  ?  Who  but  Violante  could  be 
the  rival  ?  Beatrice's  abrupt  exclamations,  after  a  mo- 
ment's pause,  revealed  to  Randal  the  advantage  he  had 
gained.  And  partly  by  rousing  her  jealousy  into  revenge 
— partly  by  flattering  her  love  with  assurances  that,  if 
Violante  were  fairly  removed  from  England,  were  the 
wife  of  Count  Peschiera — it  would  be'  impossible  that 
Leonard  could  remain  insensible  to  her  own  attractions — 
that  he,  Randal,  would  undertake  to  free  her  honourably 
from  her  engagement  to  Frank  Hazeldean,  and  obtain  from 
her  brother  the  acquittal  of  the  debt  which  had  first  fet- 
tered her  hand  to  that  confiding  suitor — he  did  not  quit 
the  Marchesa,  until  she  had  not  only  promised  to  do  all 
that  Randal  might  suggest,  but  impetuously  urged  him  to 
mature  his  plans,  and  hasten  the  hour  to  accomplish  them. 
Randal  then  walked  some  minutes  musing  and  slow  along 
the  streets,  revolving  the  next  meshes  in  his  elaborate  and 
most  subtle  web.  And  here  his  craft  luminously  devised 
its  masterpiece. 

It  was  necessary,  during  any  interval  that  might  elapse 
between  Violante's  disappearance  and  her  departure  from 
England,  in  order  to  divert  suspicion  from  Peschiera  (who 
might  otherwise  be  detained),  that  some  cause  for  her  vol- 
untary absence  from  Lord  Lansmere's  should  be  at  least 
assignable  ;  it  was  still  more  necessary  that  Randal  himself 
should  stand  wholly  clear  from  any  surmise  that  he  could 
have  connived  at  the  Count's  designs,  even  should  their  act- 


898  MY  NOVEL;    OR, 

ual  perpetrator  be  discovered  or  conjectured.  To  effect 
these  objects,  Randal  hastened  to  Norwood,  and  obtained  an 
interview  with  Riccabocca.  In  seeming  agitation  and  alarm, 
he  informed  the  exile  that  he  had  reason  to  know  that  Pes- 
chiera  had  succeeded  in  obtaining  a  secret  interview  with 
Violante,  and  he  feared  had  made  a  certain  favorable  im- 
pression on  her  mind  ;  and  speaking  as  if  with  the  jealousy 
of  a  lover,  he  entreated  Riccabocca  to  authorize  Randal's 
direct  proposals  to  Violante,  and  to  require  her  consent  to 
their  immediate  nuptials. 

The  poor  Italian  was  confounded  with  the  intelligence 
conveyed  to  him  ;  and  his  almost  superstitious  fears  of  his 
brilliant  enemy,  conjoined  with  his  opinion  of  the  suscept- 
ibility to  outward  attractions  common  to  all  the  female  sex, 
made  him  not  only  implicitly  credit,  but  even  exaggerate, 
the  dangers  that  Randal  intimated.  The  idea  of  his  daugh- 
ter's marriage  with  Randal,  toward  which  he  had  lately 
cooled,  he  now  gratefully  welcomed. 

But  his  first  natural  suggestion  was  to  go,  or  send,  for 
Violante,  and  bring  her  to  his  own  house.  This,  however, 
Randal  artfully  opposed. 

"Alas!  I  know,"  said  he,  "that  Peschiera  has  dis- 
covered your  retreat ;  and  surely  she  would  be  far  less  safe 
here  than  where  she  is  now  !  " 

"  But,  diavolo  !  you  say  the  man  has  seen  her  where  she 
is  now,  in  spite  of  all  Lady  Lansmere's  promises  and  Har- 
ley's  precautions." 

"  True.  Of  this,  Peschiera  boasted  to  me.  He  effected 
it  not,  of  course,  openly,  but  in  some  disguise.  I  am  suffi- 
ciently, however,  in  his  confidence — (any  man  may  be  that 
with  so  audacious  a  braggart) — to  deter  him  from  renewing 
his  attempt  for  some  days.  Meanwhile,  I  or  yourself  will 
have  discovered  some  surer  home  than  this,  to  which  you 
can  remove,  and  then  will  be  the  proper  time  to  take  back 
your  daughter.  And  for  the  present,  if  you  will  send  by 
me  a  letter  to  enjoin  her  to  receive  me  as  her  future  bride- 
groom, it  will  necessarily  divert  all  thought  at  once  from 
the  Count ;  I  shall  be  able  to  detect,  by  the  manner  in 
which  she  receives  me,  how  far  the  Count  has  over-stated 
the  effect  he  pretends  to  have  produced.  You  can  give  me 
also. a  letter  to  Lady  Lansmere,  to  prevent  your  daughter 
coming  hither.  O,  sir,  do  not  reason  with  me.  Have  in- 
dulgence for  my  lover's  fears.  Believe  that  I  advise  for 
the  best.  Have  I  not  the  keenest  interest  to  do  so  ?" 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  899 

Like  many  a  man  who  is  wise  enough  with  pen  and 
paper  before  him,  and  plenty  of  time  wherewith  to  get  up 
his  wisdom;  Riccabocca  was  flurried,  nervous,  and  confused, 
when  that  wisdom  was  called  upon  for  any  ready  exertion. 
From  the  tree  of  knowledge  he  had  taken  grafts  enough  to 
serve  for  a  forest  ;  but  the  whole  forest  could  not  spare  him 
a  handy  walking-stick.  The  great  folio  of  the  dead  Machia- 
velli  lay  useless  before  him — the  living  Machiavelli  of 
daily  life  stood  all  puissant  by  his  side.  The  Sage  was  as 
supple  to  the  Schemer  as  the  Clairvoyant  is  to  the  Mesmer- 
ist. And  the  lean,  slight  fingers  of  Randal  actually  dic- 
tated almost  the  very  words  that  Riccabocca  wrote  to  his 
child  and  her  hostess. 

The  philosopher  would  have  liked  to  consult  his  wife  ; 
but  he  was  ashamed  to  confess  that  weakness.  Suddenly 
he  remembered  Harley,  and  said,  as  Randal  took  up  the 
letters  which  Riccabocca  had  indited — 

"  There — that  will  give  us  time  ;  and  I  will  send  to  Lord 
L'Estrange  and  talk  to  him." 

"  My  noble  friend,"  replied  Randal,  mournfully,  "  may  I 
entreat  you  not  to  see  Lord  L'Estrange  until  at  least  I  have 
pleaded  my  cause  to  your  daughter — until,  indeed,  she  is 
no  longer  under  his  father's  roof  ?  " 

"And  why  ?" 

"  Because  I  presume  that  you  are  sincere  when  you 
deign  to  receive  me  as  a  son-in-law,  and  because  I  am  sure 
that  Lord  L'Estrange  would  hear  with  distaste  of  your  dis- 
position in  my  favor.  Am  I  not  right  ?  " 

Riccabocca  was  silent. 

"  And  though  his  arguments  would  fail  with  a  man  of 
your  honor  and  discernment,  they  might  have  more  effect 
on  the  young  mind  of  your  child.  Think,  I  beseech  you, 
the  more  she  is  set  against  me,  the  more  accessible  she  may 
be  to  the  arts  of  Peschiera.  Speak  not,  therefore,  I  im- 
plore you,  to  Lord  L'Estrange  till  Violante  has  accepted  my 
hand,  or  at  least  until  she  is  again  under  your  charge  ; 
otherwise  take  back  your  letter — it  would  be  of  no  avail." 

"  Perhaps  you  are  right.  Certainly  Lord  L'Estrange  is 
prejudiced  against  you  ;  or  rather,  he  thinks  too  much  of 
what  I  have  been — too  little  of  what  I  am." 

"Who  can  see  you,  and  not  do  so  ?  I  pardon  him." 
After  kissing  the  hand  which  the  exile  modestly  sought  to 
withdraw  from  that  act  of  homage,  Randal  pocketed  the 


900  MY  NOVEL;    OR, 

letters  ;  and,  as  if  struggling  with  emotion,  rushed  from  the 
house. 

Now,  O  curious  reader,  if  thou  wilt  needfully  observe  to 
what  uses  Randal  Leslie  put  those  letters — what  speedy  and 
direct  results  he  drew  forth  from  devices  which  would  seem 
to  an  honest,  simple  understanding  the  most  roundabout 
wire-drawn  wastes  of  invention — I  almost  fear  that  in  thine 
admiration  for  his  cleverness,  thou  mayest  half  forget  thy 
contempt  for  his  knavery. 

But  when  the  head  is  very  full,  it  does  not  do  to  have 
the  heart  very  empty  ;  there  is  such  a  thing  as  being  top- 
heavy  ! 


CHAPTER  IV. 

HELEN  and  Violante  had  been  conversing  together,  and 
Helen  had  obeyed  her  guardian's  injunction,  and  spoken, 
though  briefly,  of  her  positive  engagement  to  Harley. 
However  much  Violante  had  been  prepared  for  the  confi- 
dence, however  clearly  she  had  divined  that  engagement, 
however  before  persuaded  that  the  dream  of  her  childhood 
was  fled  for  ever,  still  the  positive  truth,  coming  from 
Helen's  own  lips,  was  attended  with  that  anguish  which 
proves  how  impossible  it  is  to  prepare  the  human  heart  for 
the  final  verdict  which  slays  its  future.  She  did  not,  how- 
ever, betray  her  emotion  to  Helen's  artless  eyes  ;  sorrow, 
deep-seated,  is  seldom  self-betrayed.  But,  after  a  little  while, 
she  crept  away  ;  and,  forgetful  of  Peschiera,  of  all  things 
that  could  threaten  danger  (what  danger  could  harm  her 
more  !),  she  glided  from  the  house,  and  went  her  desolate 
way  under  the  leafless  wintry  trees.  Ever  and  anon  she 
paused — ever  and  anon  she  murmured  the  same  words  :  "  If 
she  loved  him,  I  could  be  consoled;  but  she  does  not !  or 
how  could  she  have  spoken  to  me  so  calmly  !  how  could  her 
very  looks  have  been  so  sad  !  Heartless  ! — heartless  ! " 

Then  there  came  on  her  a  vehement  resentment  against 
poor  Helen,  that  almost  took  the  character  of  scorn  or  hate 
— its  excess  startled  herself.  "Am  I  grown  so  mean  ?"  she 
said  ;  and  tears  that  humbled  her,  rushed  to  her  eyes. 
"  Can  so  short  a  time  alter  one  thus  ?  Impossible  !  " 

Randal  Leslie  rang  at  the  front  gate,  inquired  for  Vio- 
lante, and,  catching  sight  of  her  form  as  he  walked  toward 


VARIETIES   IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  901 

the  house,  advanced  bodly  and  openly.  His  voice  startled 
her  as  she  leant  against  one  of  the  dreary  trees,  still  mutter- 
ing to  herself — forlorn.  "  I  have  a  letter  to  you  from  your 
father,  signorina,"  said  Randal.  "But,  before  I  give  it  to 
your  hands,  some  explanation  is  necessary  Condescend, 
then,  to  hear  me."  Violante  shook  her  head  impatiently,  and 
stretched  forth  her  hand  for  the  letter.  Randal  observed 
her  countenance  with  his  keen,  cold,  searching  eye ;  but 
he  still  withheld  the  letter,  and  continued,  after  a  pause — 

"  I  know  that  you  were  born  to  princely  fortunes  ;  and  the 
excuse  for  my  addressing  you  now  is,  that  your  birth-right 
is  lost  to  you,  at  least  unless  you  can  consent  to  a  union 
with  the  man  who  has  despoiled  you  of  your  heritage — a 
union  which  your  father  would  deem  dishonor  to  yourself 
and  him.  Signorina,  I  might  have  presumed  to  love  you  ; 
but  I  should  not  have  named  that  love,  had  your  father  not 
encouraged  me  by  his  assent  to  my  suit." 

Violante  turned  to  the  speaker,  her  face  eloquent  with 
haughty  surprise.  Randal  met  the  gaze  unmoved.  He 
continued,  without  warmth,  and  in  the  tone  of  one  who 
reasons  calmly,  rather  than  of  one  who  feels  acutely — 

"  The  man  of  whom  I  spoke  is  in  pursuit  of  you.  I 
have  cause  to  believe  that  this  person  has  already  intruded 
himself  upon  you.  Ah  !  your  countenance  owns  it  ;  you 
have  seen  Peschiera?  This  house  is,  then,  less  safe  than 
your  father  deemed  it.  No  house  is  safe  for  you  but  a  hus- 
band's. I  offer  to  you  my  name — it  is  a  gentleman's  ;  my 
fortune,  which  is  small  ;  the  participation  in  my  hopes  of 
the  future,  which  are  large.  I  place  now  your  father's  let- 
ter in  your  hand,  and  await  your  answer."  Randal  bowed 
slightly,  gave  the  letter  to  Violante,  and  retired  a  few  paces. 

It  was  not  his  object  to  conciliate  Violante's  affection, 
but  rather  to  excite  her  repugnance,  or  at  least  her  terror — 
we  must  wait  to  discover  why  ;  so  he  stood  apart,  seemingly 
in  a  kind  of  self-confident  indifference,  while  the  girl  read 
the  following  letter  :— 

"  My  child,  receive  with  favor  Mr.  Leslie.  He  has  my 
consent  to  adress  you  as  a  suitor.  Circumstances,  of  which 
it  is  needless  now  to  inform  you,  render  it  essential  to  my 
very  peace  and  happiness  that  your  marriage  should  be  im- 
mediate. In  a  word,  I  have  given  my  promise  to  Mr.  Les- 
lie, and  I  confidently  leave  it  to  the  daughter  of  my  house 
to  redeem  the  pledge  of  her  anxious  and  tender  father." 


902  MY  NOVEL;    OR, 

The  letter  dropped  from  Violante's  hand.  Randal  ap- 
proached and  restored  it  to  her.  Their  eyes  met.  Violante 
recoiled. 

"  I  cannot  marry  you,"  said  she,  passionately. 

"  Indeed  !  "  answered  Randal,  dryly.  "  Is  it  because  you 
cannot  love  me  ? " 

"  Yes." 

"  I  did  not  expect  that  you  would  as  yet,  and  I  still  per- 
sist in  my  suit.  I  have  promised  to  your  father  that  I 
would  not  recede  before  your  first  unconsidered  refusal." 

"  I  will  go  to  my  father  at  once." 

"  Does  he  request  you  to  do  so  in  his  letter  ?  Look 
again.  Pardon  me,  but  he  foresaw  your  impetuosity  ;  and 
I  have  another  note  for  Lady  Lansmere,  in  which  he  begs 
her  ladyship  not  to  sanction  your  return  to  him  (should  you 
so  wish)  until  he  come  or  send  for  you  himself.  He  will  do 
so  whenever  your  word  has  redeemed  his  own." 

"And  do  you  dare  to  talk  to  me  thus,  and  yet  pretend 
to  love  me  ? " 

Randal  smiled  ironically. 

"  I  pretend  but  to  wed  you.  Love  is  a  subject  on  which 
I  might  have  spoken  formerly,  or  may  speak  hereafter.  I 
give  you  some  little  time  to  consider.  When  I  next  call, 
let  me  hope  that  we  may  fix  the  day  for  our  wedding." 

"  Never ! " 

"  You  will  be,  then,  the  first  daughter  of  your  house 
who  disobeyed  a  father ;  and  you  will  have  this  additional 
crime,  that  you  disobeyed  him  in  his  sorrow,  his  exile,  and 
his  fall." 

Violante  wrung  her  hands. 

"  Is  there  no  choice — no  escape  ? " 

"  I  see  none  for  either.  Listen  to  me.  I  love  you,  it  is 
true  ;  but  it  is  not  for  my  happiness  to  marry  one  who  dis- 
likes me,  nor  for  my  ambition  to  connect  myself  with  one 
whose  property  is  greater  than  my  own.  I  marry  but  to 
keep  my  plighted  faith  with  your  father,  and  to  save  you 
from  a  villain  you  would  hate  more  than  myself,  and  from 
whom  no  walls  are  a  barrier,  no  laws  a  defence.  One  per- 
son, indeed,  might  perhaps  have  preserved  you  from  the 
misery  you  seem  to  anticipate  with  me  ;  that  person  might 
defeat  the  plans  of  your  father's  foe — effect,  it  might  be, 
terms  which  could  revoke  his  banishment,  and  restore  his 
honors  ;  that  person  is " 

"  Lord  L'Estrange  ? " 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  903 

"  Lord  L'Estrange ! "  repeated  Randal,  sharply,  and 
watching  her  pale  parted  lips  and  her  changing  color ; 
"  Lord  L'Estrange  !  What  could  he  do  ?  Why  did  you 
name  him  ?" 

Violante  turned  aside.  "  He  saved  my  father  once," 
said  she,  feelingly. 

"  And  has  interfered,  and  trifled,  and  promised,  Heaven 
knows  what,  ever  since — yet  to  what  end  ?  Pooh !  The 
person  I  speak  of  your  father  would  not  consent  to  see — 
would  not  believe  if  he  saw  her  ;  yet  she  is  generous,  noble 
— could  sympathize  with  you  both.  She  is  the  sister  of 
your  father's  enemy — the  Marchesa  di  Negra.  I  am  con- 
vinced that  she  has  great  influence  with  her  brother — that 
she  has  known  enough  of  his  secrets  to  awe  him  into  re- 
nouncing all  designs  on  yourself ;  but  it  is  idle  now  to 
speak  of  her." 

"  No,  no,"  exclaimed  Violante.  "  Tell  me  where  she 
lives — I  will  see  her." 

"  Pardon  me,  I  cannot  obey  you ;  and,  indeed,  her  own 
pride  is  now  aroused  by  your  father's  unfortunate  preju- 
dices against  her.  It  is  too  late  to  count  upon  her  aid. 
You  turn  from  me — my  presence  is  unwelcome.  I  rid  you 
of  it  now.  But  welcome  or  unwelcome,  later,  you  must  en- 
dure it — and  for  life." 

Randal  again  bowed  with  formal  ceremony,  walked 
toward  the  house,  and  asked  for  Lady  Lansmere.  The 
countess  was  at  home.  Randal  delivered  Riccabocca's  note, 
which  was  very  short,  implying  that  he  feared  Peschiera 
had  discovered  his  retreat — and  requesting  Lady  Lansme're 
to  retain  Violante,  whatever  her  own  desire,  till  her  lady- 
ship heard  from  him  again. 

The  Countess  read,  and  her  lip  curled  in  disdain. 
"  Strange  !  "  said  she,  half  to  herself. 

"  Strange !  "  said  Randal,  "  that  a  man  like  your  corre- 
spondent should  fear  one  like  the  Count  di  Peschiera.  Is 
that  it  ?  " 

"Sir,"  said  the  Countess,  a  little  surprised — "strange 
that  any  man  should  fear  another  in  a  country  like  ours  ! " 

"  I  don't  know,"  said  Randal,  with  his  low  soft  laugh  ; 
"  I  fear  many  men,  and  I  know  many  who  ought  to  fear 
me  ;  yet  at  every  turn  of  the  street  one  meets  a  police- 
man ! " 

"Yes,"  said  Lady  Lansmere.  "  But  to  suppose  that  this 
profligate  foreigner  could  carry  away  a  girl  like  Violante 


904  MY  NOVEL;    OR, 

against  her  will — a  man  she  has  never  seen,  and  whom  she 
must  have  been  taught  to  hate  !  " 

"  Be  on  your  guard,  nevertheless,  I  pray  you,  madam  ; 
'  where  there's  a  will  there's  a  way.'  " 

Randal  took  his  leave,  and  returned  to  Madame  di  Ne- 
gra's.  He  stayed  with  her  an  hour,  revisited  the  Count, 
and  then  strolled  to  Limner's. 

"  Randal,"  said  the  Squire,  who  looked  pale  and  worn, 
but  who  scorned  to  confess  the  weakness  with  which  he 
still  grieved  and  yearned  for  his  rebellious  son —  "Randal, 
you  have  nothing  now  to  do  in  London  ;  can  you  come  and 
stay  with  me,  and  take  to  farming  ?  I  remember  that  you 
showed  a  great  deal  of  sound  knowledge  about  thin  sowing." 

"  My  dear  sir,  I  will  come  to  you  as  soon  as  the  general 
election  is  over." 

"What  the  deuce  have  you  got  to  do  with  the  general 
election  ? " 

"  Mr.  Egerton  has  some  wish  that  I  should  enter  Par- 
liament ;  indeed,  negotiations  for  that  purpose  are  now  on 
foot." 

The  Squire  shook  his  head.  "  I  don't  like  my  half- 
brother's  politics." 

"  I  shall  be  quite  independent  of  them,"  cried  Randal, 
loftily  ;  "  that  independence  is  the  condition  for  which  I 
stipulate." 

"  Glad  to  hear  it  ;  and  if  you  do  come  into  Parliament, 
I  hope  you'll  not  turn  your  back  on  the  land  ? " 

"  Turn  my  back  on  the  land  !  "  cried  Randal,  with  de- 
vout horror.  "  Oh,  sir  !  I  am  not  so  unnatural !  " 

"  That's  the  right  way  to  put  it,"  quoth  the  credulous 
Squire  ;  "  it  is  unnatural  !  It  is  turning  one's  back  on  one's 
own  mother.  The  land  is  a  mother " 

"To  those  who  live  by  her,  certainly — a  mother,"  said 
Randal,  gravely.  "And  though,  indeed,  my  father  starves 
by  her  rather  than  lives,  and  Rood  Hall  is  not  like  Hazel- 
dean,  still — I — 

"  Hold  your  tongue,"  interrupted  the  Squire  ;  "  I  want 
to  talk  to  you.  Your  grandmother  was  a  Hazeldean." 

"  Her  picture  is  in  the  drawing-room  at  Rood.     People 
think  me  very  like  her." 

"  Indeed  !"  said  the  Squire.  "  The  Hazeldeans  are  gen- 
erally inclined  to  be  stout  and  rosy,  which  you  are  certainly 
not.  But  no  fault  of  yours.  We  are  all  as  Heaven  made 
us  !  However,  to  the  point.  I  am  going  to  alter  my  will-— 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  905 

[said  with  a  choking  gulp].     This  is   the  rough  draft  for 
the  lawyers  to  work  upon." 

"  Pray — pray,  sir,  do  not  speak  to  me  on  such  a  subject. 
I  cannot  bear  to  contemplate  even  the  possibility  of — 
of " 

"My  death  ?  Ha  !  ha  !  Nonsense.  My  own  son  calcu- 
lated on  the  date  of  it  by  the  insurance  tables.  Ha,  ha,  ha ! 
A  very  fashionable  son — eh !  Ha,  ha  ! " 

"  Poor  Frank  !  do  not  let  him  suffer  for  a  momentary 
forgetfulness  of  right  feeling.  When  he  comes  to  be  mar- 
ried to  that  foreign  lady,  and  be  a  father  himself,  he—- — " 

"  Father  himself  !  "  burst  forth  the  Squire.  "  Father  to 
a  swarm  of  sallow-faced  Popish  tadpoles  !  No  foreign  frogs 
shall  hop  about  my  grave  in  Hazeldean  churchyard.  No, 
no.  But  you  need  not  look  so  reproachful — I'm  not  going 
to  disinherit  Frank." 

"Of  course  not,"  said  Randal,  with  a  bitter  curve  in  the 
lip  that  rebelled  against  the  joyous  smile  which  he  sought 
to  impose  on  it. 

"  No — I  shall  leave  him  the  life-interest  in  the  greater 
part  of  the  property ;  but  if  he  marry  a  foreigner,  her 
children  will  not  succeed — you  will  stand  after  him  in  that 
case.  But — (now  don't  interrupt  me) — but  Frank  looks  as 
if  he  would  live  longer  than  you^so  small  thanks  to  me  for 
my  good  intentions,  you  may  say.  I  mean  to  do  more  for 
you  than  a  mere  barren  place  in  the  entail.  What  do  you 
say  to  marrying  ?  " 

"Just  as  you  please,"  said  Randal,  meekly. 

"  Good.  There's  Miss  Sticktorights  disengaged — great 
heiress.  Her  lands  run  on  to  Rood.  At  one  time  I  thought 
of  her  for  that  graceless  puppy  of  mine.  But  I  can  manage 
more  easily  to  make  up  the  match  for  you.  There's  a  mort- 
gage on  the  property  ;  old  Sticktorights  would  be  very  glad 
to  pay  it  off.  I'll  pay  it  out  of  the  Hazeldean  estate,  and 
give  up  the  right  of  way  into  the  bargain.  You  understand  ? 
So  come  down  as  soon  as  you  can,  and  court  the  young 
lady  yourself." 

Randal  expressed  his  thanks  with  much  grateful  elo- 
quence ;  and  he  then  delicately  insinuated,  that  if  the  Squire 
ever  did  mean  to  bestow  upon  him  any  pecuniary  favors 
(always  without  injury  to  Frank),  it  would  gratify  him  more 
to  win  back  some  portions  of  the  old  estate  of  Rood,  than 
to  have  all  the  acres  of  the  Sticktorights,  however  free  from 
any  other  incumbrance  than  the  amiable  heiress. 


906  My  NOVEL;    OR, 

The  Squire  listened  to  Randal  with  benignant  attention. 
This  wish  the  country  gentleman  could  well  understand  and 
sympathize  with.  He  promised  to  inquire  into  the  matter, 
and  to  see  what  could  be  done  with  old  Thornhill. 

Randal  here  let  out  that  Mr.  Thornhill  was  about  to 
dispose  of  a  large  slice  of  the  ancient  Leslie  estate  through 
Levy,  and  that  he,  Randal,  could  thus  get  it  at  a  more 
moderate  price  than  would  be  natural  if  Mr.  Thornhill 
knew  that  his  neighbor  the  Squire  would  bid  for  the  pur- 
chase. 

"  Better  sav  nothing  about  it  either  to  Levy  or  Thorn- 
hill." 

"  Right,"  said  the  Squire.  "  No  proprietor  likes  to  sell 
to  another  proprietor,  in  the  same  shire,  as  largely  acred  as 
himself  ;  it  spoils  the  balance  of  power.  See  to  the  busi- 
ness yourself  ;  and  if  I  can  help  you  with  the  purchase  (af- 
ter that  boy  is  married — I  can  attend  to  nothing  before),  why, 
I  will." 

Randal  now  went  to  Egerton's.  The  statesman  was  in 
his  library,  settling  the  accounts  of  his  house-steward,  and 
giving  brief  orders  for  the  reduction  of  his  establishment  to 
that  of  an  ordinary  private  gentleman. 

"  I  may  go  abroad  if  I  lose  my  election,"  said  Egerton, 
condescending  to  assign  to  his  servant  a  reason  for  his  eco- 
nomy ;  and  if  I  do  not  lose  it,  still,  now  I  am  out  of  office,  I 
shall  live  much  in  private." 

"Do  I  disturb  you,  sir  ?"  said  Randal,  entering. 

"  No — I  have  just  done." 

The  house-steward  withdrew,  much  surprised  and  dis- 
gusted, and  meditating  the  resignation  of  his  own  office — 
in  order,  not  like  Egerton,  to  save,  but  to  spend.  The 
house-steward  had  private  dealings  with  Baron  Levy,  and 
was  in  fact  the  veritable  X.  Y.  of  the  Times,  for  whom  Dick 
Avenel  had  been  mistaken.  He  invested  his  wages  and 
perquisites  in  the  discount  of  bills  ;  and  it  was  part  of  his 
own  money  that  had  (though  unknown  to  himself)  swelled 
the  last  five  thousand  pounds  which  Egerton  had  borrowed 
from  Levy. 

"  I  have  settled  with  our  committee  ;  and,  with  Lord 
Lansmere's  consent,"  said  Egerton,  briefly,  "  you  will  stand 
for  the  borough,  as  we  proposed,  in  conjunction  with  my- 
self. And  should  any  accident  happen  to  me — that  is, 
should  I  vacate  this  seat  from  any  cause,  you  may  succeed 
to  it — very  shortly,  perhaps.  Ingratiate  yourself  with  the 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  907 

electors,  and  speak  at  the  public-houses  for  both  of  us.  I 
shall  stand  on  my  dignity,  and  leave  the  work  of  the  election 
to  you.  No  thanks — you  know  how  I  hate  thanks.  Good 
night." 

"I  never  stood  so  near  to  fortune  and  to  power,"  said 
Randal,  as  he  slowly  undressed.  "  And  I  owe  it  but  to  know- 
ledge— knowledge  of  men — life — of  all  that  books  can  teach 
us." 

So  his  slight  thin  fingers  dropped  the  extinguisher  on 
the  candle,  and  the  prosperous  schemer  laid  himself  down 
to  rest  in  the  dark.  Shutters  closed,  curtains  down — never 
was  rest  more  quiet,  never  was  room  more  dark  ! 

That  evening,  Harley  had  dined  at  his  father's.  He  spoke 
much  to  Helen — scarcely  at  all  to  Violante.  But  it  so  hap- 
pened that  when  later,  and  a  little  while  before  he  took  his 
leave,  Helen,  at  his  request,  was  playing  a  favorite  air  of 
his  ;  Lady  Lansmere,  who  had  been  seated  between  him 
and  Violante,  left  the  room,  and  Violante  turned  quickly 
toward  Harley. 

"  Do  you  know  the  Marchesa  di  Negra  ?  "  she  asked,  in 
a  hurried  voice. 

"  A  little.     Why  do  you  ask  ?  " 

"  That  is  my  secret,"  answered  Violante,  trying  to  smile 
with  her  old  frank,  child-like  archness.  "  But,  tell  me,  do 
you  think  better  of  her  than  of  her  brother  ?  " 

"  Certainly.  I  believe  her  heart  to  be  good,  and  that 
she  is  not  without  generous  qualities." 

"  Can  you  not  induce  my  father  to  see  her  ?  Would  you 
not  counsel  him  to  do  so  ?" 

"Any  wish  of  yours  is  a  law  to  me,"  answered  Harley, 
gallantly.  "  You  wish  your  father  to  see  her  ?  I  will  try 
and  persuade  him  to  do  so.  'Now,  in  return,  confide  to  me 
your  secret.  What  is  your  object  ?  " 

';  Leave  to  return  to  my  Italy.  I  care  not  for  honors — • 
for  rank  ;  and  even  my  father  has  ceased  to  regret  their 
loss.  But  the  land,  the  native  land — Oh,  to  see  it  once 
more  !  Oh,  to  die  there  !  " 

"  Die  !  You  children  have  so  lately  left  heaven,  that  yc 
talk  as  if  ye  could  return  there,  without  passing  through 
the  gates  of  sorrow,  infirmity,  and  age  !  But  I  thought 
you  were  content  with  England.  Why  so  eager  to  leave  it  ? 
Violante,  you  are  unkind  to  us — to  Helen,  who  already 
loves  you  so  well." 

As  Harley  spoke,  Helen  rose   from  the   piano,  and  ap- 


908  MY  NOVEL;    OR, 

preaching  Violante,  placed  her  hand  caressingly  on  the 
Italian's  shoulder.  Violante  shivered,  and  shrunk  away. 
The  eyes  both  of  Harley  and  Helen  followed  her.  Harley's 
eyes  were  very  grave  and  thoughtful. 

"  Is  she  not  changed — your  friend  ?  "  said  he,  looking 
down. 

"Yes,  lately — much  changed.  I  fear  there  is  something 
on  her  mind — I  know  not  what." 

"  Ah  !  "  muttered  Harley,  "  it  may  be  so  ;  but  at  your 
age  and  hers,  nothing  rests  on  the  mind  long.  Observe,  I 
say  the  mind — the  heart  is  more  tenacious." 

Helen  sighed  softly,  but  deeply. 

"And  therefore,"  continued  Harley,  half  to  himself, 
"we  can  detect  when  something  is  on  the  mind — some  care, 
some  fear,  some  trouble.  But  when  the  heart  closes  over 
its  own  more  passionate  sorrow,  who  can  discover  ?  who 
conjecture  ?  Yet  you  at  least,  my  pure,  candid  Helen — you 
might  subject  mind  and  heart  alike  to  the  fabled  window  of 
glass." 

"  Oh,  no  !  "  cried  Helen,  involuntarily. 

"  Oh,  yes  !  Do  not  let  me  think  that  you  have  one 
secret  I  may  not  know,  or  one  sorrow  I  may  not  share. 
For,  in  our  relationship,  that  would  be  deceit." 

He  pressed  her  hand  with  more  than  usual  tenderness  as 
he  spoke,  and  shortly  afterward  left  the  house. 

And  all  that  night  Helen  felt  like  a  guilty  thing — more 
wretched  even  than  Violante. 


CHAPTER  V. 

EARLY  the  next  morning,  while  Violante  was  still  in  her 
room,  a  letter  addressed  to  her  came  by  the  post.  The 
direction  was  in  a  strange  hand.  She  opened  it,  and  read, 
in  Italian,  what  is  thus  translated  : — 

"I  would  gladly  see  you,  but  I  cannot  call  openly  at  the 
house  in  which  you  live.  Perhaps  I  may  have  it  in  my 
power  to  arrange  family  dissensions — to  repair  any  wrongs 
your  father  may  have  sustained.  Perhaps  I  may  be  enabled 
to  render  yourself  an  essential  service.  But  for  all  this,  it 
is  necessary  that  we  should  meet  and  confer  frankly. 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  909 

Meanwhile  time  presses — delay  is  forbidden.  Will  you 
meet  me,  an  hour  after  noon,  in  the  lane,  just  outside  the 
private  gate  of  your  gardens  ?  I  shall  be  alone,  and  you 
cannot  fear  to  meet  one  of  your  own  sex  and  a  kinswoman. 
Ah,  I  so  desire  to  see  you  !  Come,  I  beseech  you. 

"  BEATRICE." 

Violante  read,  and  her  decision  was  taken.  She  was 
naturally  fearless,  and  there  was  little  that  she  would  not 
have  braved  for  the  chance  of  serving  her  father.  And 
now  all  peril  seemed  slight  in  comparison  with  that  which 
awaited  her  in  Randal's  suit,  backed  by  her  father's  ap- 
proval. Randal  had  said  that  Madame  di  Negra  alone 
could  aid  her  in  escape  from  himself.  Harley  had  said 
that  Madame  di  Negra  had  generous  qualities ;  and  who 
but  Madame  di  Negra  would  write  herself  a  kinswoman, 
and  sign  herself  Beatrice  ? 

A  little  before  the  appointed  hour,  she  stole  unobserved 
through  the  trees,  opened  the  little  gate,  and  found  herself 
in  the  quiet  solitary  lane.  In  a  few  minutes,  a  female  figure 
came  up,  with  a  quick,  light  step  ;  and  throwing  aside  her 
veil,  said,  with  a  sort  of  wild,  suppressed  energy,  "  It  is 
you  !  I  was  truly  told.  Beautiful ! — beautiful !  And,  oh  ! 
what  youth  and  what  bloom  !  " 

The  voice  dropped  mournfully  ;  and  Violante,  surprised 
by  the  tone,  and  blushing  under  the  praise,  remained  a 
moment  silent  ;  then  she  said,  with  some  hesitation — 

"You  are,  I  presume,  the  Marchesa  di  Negra?  And  I 
have  heard  of  you  enough  to  induce  me  to  trust  you." 

'  Of  me  !  From  whom  ? "  asked  Beatrice,  almost  fiercely. 
'  From  Mr.  Leslie,  and — and " 

'  Go  on — why  falter  ? " 
'  From  Lord  L'Estrange." 
'  From  no  one  else  ? " 

'  Not  that  I  remember." 

Beatrice  sighed  heavily,  and  let  fall  her  veil.  Some 
foot-passengers  now  came  up  the  lane  ;  and  seeing  two 
ladies  of  mien  so  remarkable,  turned  round,  and  gazed 
curiously. 

"We  cannot  talk  here,"  said  Beatrice,  impatiently; 
"and  I  have  so  much  to  say — so  much  to  know.  Trust  me 
yet  more  ;  it  is  for  yourself  I  speak.  My  carriage  waits 
yonder.  Come  home  with  me — I  will  not  detain  you  an 
hour  ;  and  I  will  bring  you  back." 


9io  MY  NOVEL;    OK, 

This  proposition  startled  Violantc.  She  retreated  to- 
ward the  gate  with  a  gesture  of  dissent.  Beatrice  laid 
her  hand  on  the  girl's  arm,  and  again  lifting  her  veil,  gazed 
at  her  with  a  look,  half  of  scorn,  half  of  admiration. 

"I,  too,  would  once  have  recoiled  from  one  step  beyond 
the  formal  line  by  which  the  world  divides  liberty  from 
woman.  Now  see  how  bold  I  am.  Child,  child,  do  not  trifle 
with  your  destiny.  You  may  never  again  have  the  same 
occasion  offered  to  you.  It  is  not  only  to  meet  you  that  I 
am  here  ;  I  must  know  something  of  you — something  of 
your  heart.  Why  shrink  ? — is  not  the  heart  pure  ?  " 

Violante  made  no  answer  ;  but  her  smile,  so  sweet  and 
so  lofty,  humbled  the  questioner  it  rebuked. 

"  I  may  restore  to  Italy  your  father,"  said  Beatrice, 
with  an  altered  voice.  "  Come  ! " 

Violante  approached,  but  still  hesitatingly. 

"  Not  by  union  with  your  brother  ?" 

"  You  dread  that  so  much  then  ?  " 

"  Dread  it  ?  No  !  Why  should  I  dread  what  is  in  my 
power  to  reject.  But  if  you  can  really  restore  my  father, 
and  by  nobler  means,  you  may  save  me  for " 

Violante  stopped  abruptly  ;  the  Marchesa's  eyes  spark- 
led. 

"  Save  you  for — ah  !  I  can  guess  what  you  leave  un- 
said. But  come,  come — more  strangers — see  ;  you  shall 
tell  me  all  at  my  own  house.  And  if  you  can  make  one 
sacrifice,  why,  I  will  save  you  all  else.  Come,  or  farewell 
for  ever ! " 

Violante  placed  her  hand  in  Beatrice's,  with  a  frank 
confidence  that  brought  the  accusing  blood  into  the  Mar- 
chesa's cheek. 

"  We  are  women  both,"  said  Violante,  "  we  descend  from 
the  same  noble  house  ;  we  have  knelt  alike  to  the  same 
Virgin  Mother  ;  why  should  I  not  believe  and  trust  you  ?  " 

"Why  not?"  muttered  Beatrice,  feebly  ;  and  she  moved 
on,  with  her  head  bowed  on  her  breast,  and  all  the  pride  of 
her  step  was  gone. 

They  reached  a  carriage  that  stood  by  the  angle  of  the 
road.  Beatrice  spoke  a  word  apart  to  the  driver,  who  was 
an  Italian,  in  the  pay  of  the  Count ;  the  man  nodded,  and 
opened  the  carriage  door.  The  ladies  entered.  Beatrice 
pulled  down  the  blinds  ;  the  man  remounted  his  box,  and 
drove  on  rapidly. 

Beatrice,  leaning  back,  groaned  aloud.     Violante  drew 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  9u 

nearer  to  her  side.  "  Are  you  in  pain  ?"  said  she,  with  her 
tender,  melodious  voice  ;  "  or  can  I  serve  you  as  you  would 
serve  me  ?  " 

"Child,  give  me  your  hand  and  be  silent  while  I  look 
at  you.  Was  I  ever  so  fair  as  this  ?  Never  !  And  what 
deeps— what  deeps  roll  between  her  and  me  !  " 

She  said  this  as  of  some  one  absent,  and  again  sank  into 
silence  ;  but  continued  still  to  gaze  on  Violante,  whose  eyes, 
veiled  by  their  long  fringes,  drooped  beneath  the  gaze. 

Suddenly  Beatrice  started,  exclaiming,  "  No,  it  shall  not 
be  ! "  and  placed  her  hand  on  the  check-string. 

"  What  shall  not  be  ? "  asked  Violante,  surprised  by  the 
cry  and  the  action.  Beatrice  paused — her  breast  heaved 
visibly  under  her  dress. 

"Stay, "she  said,  slowly.  "As  you  say,  we  are  both 
women  of  the  same  noble  house  ;  you  would  reject  the  suit 
of  my  brother,  yet  you  have  seen  him  ;  his  the  form  to 
please  the  eye — his  the  arts  that  allure  the  fancy.  He 
offers  to  you  rank,  wealth,  your  father's  pardon  and  recall. 
If  I  could  remove  the  objections  which  your  father  enter- 
tains— prove  that  the  Count  has  less  wronged  him  than  he 
deems,  would  you  still  reject  the  rank,  and  the  wealth,  and 
the  hand  of  Giulio  Franzini  ?  " 

"  Oil  yes,  yes,  were  his  hand  a  king's  !  " 

"  Still,  then,  as  woman  to  woman — botli  as  you  say, 
akin,  and  sprung  from  the  same  lineage — still,  then,  answer 
me — answer  me,  for  you  speak  to  one  who  has  loved — Is  it 
not  that  you  love  another? — Speak." 

"  I  do  not  know.  Nay,  not  love — it  was  a  romance  ;  it 
is  a  thing  impossible.  Do  not  question — I  cannot  answer." 
And  the  broken  words  were  choked  by  sudden  tears. 

Beatrice's  face  grew  hard  and  pitiless.  Again  she  low- 
ered her  veil,  and  withdrew  her  hand  from  the  check- 
string  ;  but  the  coachman  had  felt  the  touch,  and  halted. 
"  Drive  on,"  said  Beatrice,  "  as  you  were  directed." 

Both  were  now  long  silent — Violante  with  great  diffi- 
culty recovering  from  her  emotion,  Beatrice  breathing  hard, 
and  her  arms  folded  firmly  across  her  breast. 

Meanwhile  the  carriage  had  entered  London — it  passed 
the  quarter  in  which  Madame  di  Negra's  house  was  situ- 
ated— it  rolled  fast  over  a  bridge — it  whirled  through  a. 
broad  thoroughfare,  then  through  defiles  of  lanes,  with  tall 
blank  dreary  houses  on  either  side.  On  it  went,  and  on, 
till  Violante  suddenly  took  alarm.  "Do  you  live  so  far?" 


9i2  MY  NOVEL;    OR, 

she  said,  drawing  up  the  blind,  and  gazing  in  dismay  on  the 
strange,  ignoble  suburd.  "  I  shall  be  missed  already.  Oh, 
let  us  turn  back,  I  beseech  you  ! " 

"We  are  nearly  there  now.  The  driver  has  taken  this 
road  in  order  to  avoid  those  streets  in  which  we  might  have 
been  seen  together — perhaps  by  my  brother  himself.  Lis- 
ten to  me,  and  talk  of — of  the  lover  whom  you  rightly 
associate  with  a  vain  romance.  '  Impossible/ — yes,  it  is 
impossible !  " 

Violante  clasped  her  hands  before  her  eyes,  and  bowed 
down  her  head.  "Why  are  you  so  cruel  ?  "  said  she.  "  This 
is  not  what  you  promised.  How  are  you  to  serve  my 
father — how  restore  him  to  his  country  ?  This  is  what  you 
promised  ! " 

"  If  you  consent  to  one  sacrifice,  I  will  fulfil  that  pro- 
mise. We  are  arrived." 

The  carriage  stopped  before  a  tall  dull  house,  divided 
from  other  houses  by  a  high  wall  that  appeared  to  enclose 
a  yard,  and  standing  at  the  end  of  a  narrow  lane,  which  was 
bounded  on  the  one  side  by  the  Thames.  In  that  quarter 
the  river  was  crowded  with  gloomy,  dark-looking  vessels 
and  craft,  all  lying  lifeless  under  the  wintry  sky. 

The  driver  dismounted  and  rang  the  bell.  Two  swarthy 
Italian  faces  presented  themselves  at  the  threshold. 

Beatrice  descended  lightly,  and  gave  her  hand  to  Vio- 
lante. "  Now,  here  we  shall  be  secure,"  said  she  ;  and  here 
a  few  minutes  may  suffice  to  decide  your  fate." 

As  the  door  closed  on  Violante — who  now  waking  to 
suspicion,  to  alarm,  looked  fearfully  round  the  dark  and 
dismal  hall — Beatrice  turned  :  "  Let  the  carriage  wait." 

The  Italian  who  received  the  order  bowed  and  smiled  ; 
but  when  the  two  ladies  had  ascended  the  stairs,  he  re- 
opened the  street-door  and  said  to  the  driver,  "  Back  to  the 
Count,  and  say  'all  is  safe.' " 

The  carriage  drove  off.  The  man  who  had  given  this 
order  barred  and  locked  the  door,  and,  taking  with  him  the 
huge  key,  plunged  into  the  mystic  recesses  of  the  basement 
and  disappeared.  The  hall,  thus  left  solitary,  had  the  grim 
aspect  of  a  prison  ;  the  strong  door  sheeted  with  iron — the 
rugged  stone  stairs,  lighted  by  a  high  window  grimed  with 
the  dust  of  years,  and  jealously  barred — and  the  walls  them- 
selves abutting  out  rudely  here  and  there,  as  if  against 
violence  even  from  within. 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  913 


CHAPTER  VI. 

IT  was,  as  we  have  seen,  without  taking  counsel  of  the 
faithful  Jemima,  that  the  sage  recluse  of  Norwood  had 
yielded  to  his  own  fears,  and  Randal's  subtle  suggestions, 
in  the  concise  and  arbitrary  letter  which  he  had  written  to 
Violante  ;  but  at  night,  when  churchyards  give  up  the 
dead,  and  conjugal  hearts  the  secrets  hid  by  day  from  each 
other,  the  wise  man  informed  his  wife  of  the  step  he  had 
taken.  And  Jemima  then,  who  held  English  notions,  very 
different  from  those  which  prevail  in  Italy,  as  to  the  right 
of  fathers  to  dispose  of  their  daughters  without  reference 
to  inclination  or  repugnance — so  sensibly  yet  so  mildly 
represented  to  the  pupil  of  Machiavelli  that  he  had  not 
gone  exactly  the  right  way  to  work,  if  he  feared  that  the 
handsome  Count  had  made  some  impression  on  Violante, 
and  if  he  wished  her  to  turn  with  favor  to  the  suitor  he 
recommended — that  so  abrupt  a  command  could  only  chill 
the  heart,  revolt  the  will,  and  even  give  to  the  audacious 
Peschiera  some  romantic  attraction  which  he  had  not  before 
possessed — as  effectually  to  destroy  Riccabocca's  sleep  that 
night.  And  the  next  day  he  sent  Giacomo  to  Lady  Lans- 
mere's  with  a  very  kind  letter  to  Violante  and  a  note  to  the 
hostess,  praying  the  latter  to  bring  his  daughter  to  Nor- 
wood for  a  few  hours,  as  he  much  wished  to  converse  with 
both.  It  was  on  Giacomo's  arrival  at  Knightsbridge  that 
Violante's  absence  was  discovered.  Lady  Lansmere,  ever 
proudly  careful  of  the  world  and  its  gossip,  kept  Giacomo 
from  betraying  his  excitement  to  her  servants,  and  stated 
throughout  the  decorous  household  that  the  young  lady 
had  informed  her  she  was  going  to  visit  some  friends  that 
morning,  and  had  no  doubt  gone  through  the  garden  gate, 
since  it.was  found  open  ;  the  way  was  more  quiet  there  than 
by  the  high-road,  and  her  friends  might  have  therefore 
walked  to  meet  her  by  the  lane.  Lady  Lansmere  ob- 
served that  her  only  surprise  was  that  Violante  had  gone 
earlier  than  she  had  expected.  Having  said  this  with  a  com- 
posure that  compelled  belief,  Lady  Lansmere  ordered  the 
carriage,  and,  taking  Giacomo  with  her,  drove  at  once  to 
consult  her  son. 

39 


pi4  MY  NOVEL;    OR, 

Harley's  quick  intellect  had  scarcely  recovered  from  the 
shock  upon  his  emotions,  before  Randal  Leslie  was  an- 
nounced. 

"  Ah,"  said  Lady  Lansmere,  "  Mr.  Leslie  may  know 
something.  He  came  to  her  yesterday  with  a  note  from  her 
father.  Pray  let  him  enter." 

The  Austrian  Prince  approached  Harley.  "  I  will  wait 
in  the  next  room,"  he  whispered.  "You  may  want  me,  if 
you  have  cause  to  suspect  Peschiera  in  all  this." 

Lady  Lansmere  was  pleased  with  the  Prince's  delicacy, 
and,  glancing  at  Leonard,  said,  "  Perhaps  you  too,  sir,  may 
kindly  aid  us,  if  you  would  retire  with  the  Prince.  Mr. 
Leslie  may  be  disinclined  to  speak  of  affairs  like  these  ex- 
cept to  Harley  and  myself." 

"  True,  madam  ;  but  beware  of  Mr.  Leslie." 

As  the  door  at  one  end  of  the  room  closed  on  the  Prince 
and  Leonard,  Randal  entered  at  the  other,  seemingly  much 
agitated. 

"  I  have  just  been  to  your  house,  Lady  Lansmere.  I 
heard  you  were  here  ;  pardon  me  if  I  have  followed  you. 
I  had  called  at  Knightsbridge  to  see  Violante — learned  that 
she  had  left  you.  I  implore  you  to  tell  me  how  or  where- 
fore. I  have  the  right  to  ask  ;  her  father  has  promised  me 
her  hand." 

Harley's  falcon  eye  had  brightened  up  at  Randal's  en- 
trance. It  watched  steadily  the  young  man's  face.  It  was 
clouded  for  a  moment  by  his  knitted  brows  at  Randal's 
closing  words.  But  he  left  it  to  Lady  Lansmere  to  reply 
and  explain.  This  the  Countess  did  briefly. 

Randal  clasped  his  hands.  "  And  she  not  gone  to  her 
father's  ?  Are  you  sure  of  that  ?  " 

"  Her  father's  servant  has  just  come  from  Norwood." 

"  Oh,  I  am  to  blame  for  this  !  It  is  my  rash  suit — her 
fear  of  it — her  aversion.  I  see  it  all !  "  Randal's  voice  was 
hollow  with  remorse  and  despair.  "  To  save  her  from 
Peschiera,  her  father  insisted  on  her  immediate  marriage 
with  myself.  His  orders  were  too  abrupt,  my  own  wooing 
too  unwelcome.  I  know  her  high  spirit ;  she  has  fled  to 
escape  from  me.  But  whither,  if  not  to  Norwood  ? — oh, 
whither  ?  What  other  friends  has  she — what  relations  ? 

"You  throw  a  new  light  on  this  mystery,"  said  Lady 
Lansmere  ;  perhaps  she  may  have  gone  to  her  father's  after 
all,  and  the  servant  may  have  crossed,  but  missed  her  on 
the  way.  I  will  drive  to  Norwood  at  once." 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  91$ 

"  Do  so — do  ;  but  if  she  be  not  there,  be  careful  not  to 
alarm  Riccabocca  with  the  news  of  her  disappearance. 
Caution  Giacomo  not  to  do  so.  He  would  only  suspect 
Peschiera,  and  be  hurried  to  some  act  of  violence." 

"Do  not  you,  then,  suspect  Peschiera,  Mr.  Leslie?" 
asked  Harley,  suddenly. 

"  Ha !  is  it  possible  ?  Yet,  no.  I  called  on  him  this 
morning  with  Frank  Hazeldean,  who  is  to  marry  his  sister  ; 
I  was  with  him  till  I  went  on  to  Knightsbridge,  at  the  very 
time  of  Violante's  disappearance.  He  could  not  then  have 
been  a  party  to  it." 

"You  saw  Violante  yesterday.  Did  you  speak  to  her  of 
Madame  di  Negra?"  asked  Harley,  suddenly,  recalling  the 
questions  respecting  the  Marchesa  which  Violante  had  ad- 
dressed to  him. 

In  spite  of  himself,  Randal  felt  that  he  changed  coun- 
tenance. "  Of  Madame  di  Negra  ?  I  do  not  think  so.  Yet 
I  might.  Oh,  yes,  I  remember  now.  She  asked  me  the 
Marchesa's  address  ;  I  would  not  give  it" 

"  The  address  is  easily  found.  Can  she  have  gone  to  the 
Marchesa's  house  ?" 

"  I  will  run  there,  and  see,"  cried  Randal,  starting  up. 

"And  I  with  you.  Stay,  my  dear  mother.  Proceed,  as 
you  propose,  to  Norwood,  and  take  Mr.  Leslie's  advice. 
Spare  our  friend  the  news  of  his  daughter's  loss — if  lost  she 
be — till  she  is  restored  to  him.  He  can  be  of  no  use  mean- 
while. Let  Giacomo  rest  here  ;  I  may  want  him." 

Harley  then  passed  into  the  next  room,  and  entreated 
the  Prince  and  Leonard  to  await  his  return,  and  allow  Gia- 
como to  stay  in  the  same  room. 

He  then  went  quickly  back  to  Randal.  Whatever  might 
be  his  fears  or  emotions,  Harley  felt  that  he  had  need  of  all 
his  coolness  of  judgment  and  presence  of  mind.  The  occa- 
sion made  abrupt  demand  upon  powers  which  had  slept 
since  boyhood,  but  which  now  woke  with  a  vigor  that  would 
have  made  even  Randal  tremble,  could  he  have  detected  the 
wit,  the  courage,  the  electric  energies,  masked  under  that 
tranquil  self-possession.  Lord  L'Estrange  and  Randal  soon 
reached  the  Marchesa's  house,  and  learned  that  she  had 
been  out  since  morning  in  one  of  Count  Peschiera's  car- 
riages. Randal  stole  an  alarmed  glance  at  Harley's  face. 
Harley  did  not  seem  to  notice  it. 

"  Now,  Mr.  Leslie,  what  do  you  advise  next  ? " 

"  I   am  at  a  loss.     Ah,  perhaps,  afraid  of  her  father — 


9i6  MY  NOVEL;    OR, 

knowing  how  despotic  in  his  belief  in  paternal  rights,  and 
how  tenacious  he  is  of  his  word  once  passed,  as  it  has  been 
to  me,  she  may  have  resolved  to  take  refuge  in  the  country 
— perhaps  at  the  Casino,  or  at  Mrs.  Dale's,  or  Mrs.  Hazel- 
dean's.  I  will  hasten  to  inquire  at  the  coach-office.  Mean- 
while, you " 

"  Never  mind  me,  Mr.  Leslie.  Do  what  you  think  best. 
But,  if  your  surmises  be  just,  you  must  have  been  a  very 
rude  wooer  to  the  high-born  lady  you  aspired  to  win." 

"  Not  so  ;  but  perhaps  an  unwelcome  one.  If  she  has 
indeed  fled  from  me,  need  I  say  that  my  suit  will  be  with- 
drawn at  once  ?  I  am  not  a  selfish  lover,  Lord  L'Estrange." 

"  Nor  I  a  vindicative  man.  Yet,  could  I  discover  who 
has  conspired  against  this  lady,  a  guest  under  my  father's 
roof,  I  would  crush  him  into  the  mire  as  easily  as  I  set  my 
foot  upon  this  glove.  Good  day  to  you,  Mr.  Leslie." 

Randal  stood  still  for  a  few  moments  as  Harley  strided 
on  ;  then  his  lip  sneered  as  it  muttered — "  Insolent !  But 
does  he  love  her  ?  If  so,  I  am  avenged  already." 


CHAPTER  VII. 

HARLEY  went  straight  to  Peschiera's  hotel.  He  was  told 
that  the  Count  had  walked  out  with  Mr.  Frank  Hazeldean 
and  some  other  gentlemen  who  had  breakfasted  with  him. 
He  had  left  word,  in  case  any  one  called,  that  he  had  gone 
to  Tattersall's  to  look  at  some  horses  that  were  for  sale.  To 
Tattersall's  went  Harley.  The  Count  was  in  the  yard  lean- 
ing against  a  pillar,  and  surrounded  by  fashionable  friends. 
Lord  L'Estrange  paused,  and,  with  an  heroic  effort  at  self- 
mastery,  repressed  his  rage.  "  I  may  loose  all  if  I  show 
that  I  suspect  him  ;  and  yet  I  must  insult  and  fight  him 
rather  than  leave  his  movements  free.  Ah,  is  that  young 
Hazeldean  ?  A  thought  strikes  me  !  "  Frank  was  standing 
apart  from  the  group  round  the  Count,  and  looking  very 
absent  and  very  sad.  Harley  touched  him  on  the  shoulder, 
and  drew  him  aside  unobserved  by  the  Count 

"  Mr.  Hazeldean,  your  uncle  Eagerton  is  my  dearest 
friend.  Will  you  be  a  friend  to  me  ?  I  want  you." 

"  My  lord " 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  917 

"  Follow  me.  Do  not  let  Count  Peschiera  see  us  talk- 
ing together." 

Harley  quitted  the  yard,  and  entered  St.  James's  Park 
by  the  little  gate  close  by.  In  a  very  few  words  he  informed 
Frank  of  Violante's  disappearance,  and  of  his  reasons  for 
suspecting  the  Count.  Frank's  first  sentiment  was  that  of 
indignant  disbelief  that  the  brother  of  Beatrice  could  be  so 
vile  ;  but  as  he  gradually  called  to  mind  the  cynical  and 
corrupt  vein  of  the  Count's  familiar  conversation — the  hints 
to  Peschiera's  prejudice  that  had  been  dropped  by  Beatrice 
herself — and  the  general  character  for  brilliant  and  daring 
profligacy  which  even  the  admirers  of  the  Count  ascribed 
to  him — Frank  was  compelled  to  reluctant  acquiescence  in 
Harley's  suspicions  ;  and  he  said,  with  an  earnest  gravity 
very  rare  to  him — "  Believe  me,  Lord  L'Estrange,  if  I  can 
assist  you  in  defeating  a  base  and  mercenary  design  against 
this  poor  young  lady,  you  have  but  to  show  me  how.  One 
thing  is  clear — Peschiera  was  not  personally  engaged  in 
this  abduction,  since  I  have  been  with  him  all  day  ;  and — 
now  I  think  of  it— I  begin  to  hope  that  you  wrong  him  ;  for 
he  has  invited  a  large  party  of  us  to  make  an  excursion  with 
him  to  Boulogne  next  week,  in  order  to  try  his  yacht,  which 
he  could  scarcely  do  if — 

"  Yacht,  at  this  time  of  the  year  !  a  man  who  habitually 
resides  at  Vienna — a  yacht !  " 

"  Spendquick  sells  it  a  bargain,  on  account  of  the  time 
of  year  and  other  reasons  ;  and  the  Count  proposes  to 
spend  next  summer  in  cruising  about  the  Ionian  Isles. 
He  has  some  property  on  those  isles,  which  he  has  never 
yet  visited." 

"  How  long  is  it  since  he  bought  this  yacht  ?" 

"  Why,  I  am  not  sure  that  it  is  already  bought — that 
is,  paid  for.  Levy  was  to  meet  Spendquick  this  very  morn- 
ing to  arrange  the  matter.  Spendquick  complains  that  Levy 
screws  him." 

"  My  dear  Mr.  Hazeldean,  you  are  guiding  me  through 
the  maze.  Where  shall  I  find  Lord  Spendquick  ? " 

"At  this  hour,  probably  in  bed.     Here  is  his  card." 

"  Thanks.     And  where  lies  the  vessel  ?  " 

"  It  was  off  Blackwall  the  other  day.  I  went  to  see  it — 
'The  Flying  Dutchman  ' — a  fine  vessel,  and  carries  guns." 

"  Enough.  Now  heed  me.  There  can  be  no  immediate 
danger  to  Violante,  so  long  as  Peschiera  does  not  meet  her 
— so  long  as  we  know  his  movements.  You  are  about  to 


£iS  MY  NOVEL;    OR, 

marry  his  sister.  Avail  yourself  of  that  privilege  to  keep 
close  by  his  side.  Refuse  to  be  shaken  off.  Make  what 
excuses  for  the  present  your  invention  suggests.  I  will 
give  you  an  excuse.  Be  anxious  and  uneasy  to  know  where 
you  can  find  Madame  di  Negra." 

"  Madame  di  Negra  !  "  cried  Frank.  "What  of  her  ?  Is 
she  not  in  Curzon  Street  ? " 

"  No  ;  she  has  gone  out  in  one  of  the  Count's  carriages. 
In  all  probability  the  driver  of  that  carriage,  or  some  ser- 
vant in  attendance  on  it,  will  come  to  the  Count  in  the 
course  of  the  day  ;  and,  in  order  to  get  rid  of  you,  the 
Count  will  tell  you  to  see  this  servant,  and  ascertain  your- 
self that  his  sister  is  safe.  Pretend  to  believe  what  the  man 
says,  but  make  him  come  to  your  lodgings  on  pretence  of 
writing  there  a  letter  for  the  Marchesa.  Once  at  your 
lodgings,  and  he  will  be  safe  ;  for  I  shall  see  that  the  offi- 
cers of  justice  secure  him.  The  moment  he  is  there,  send 
an  express  for  me  to  my  hotel." 

"But,"  said  Frank,  a  little  bewildered,  "if  I  go  to  my 
lodgings,  how  can  I  watch  the  Count  ? " 

"  It  will  not  then  be  necessary.  Only  get  him  to  ac- 
company you  to  your  lodgings,  and  part  with  him  at  the  door." 

"  Stop,  stop — you  cannot  suspect  Madame  di  Negra  of 
connivance  in  a  scheme  so  infamous.  Pardon  me,  Lord 
L'Estrange  ;  I  cannot  act  in  this  matter — cannot  even  hear 
you  except  as  your  foe,  if  you  insinuate  a  word  against  the 
honor  of  the  woman  I  love." 

"  Brave  gentleman,  your  hand.  It  is  Madame  di  Negra 
I  would  save,  as  well  as  my  friend's  young  child.  Think 
but  of  her,  while  you  act  as  I  entreat,  and  all  will  go  well. 
I  confide  in  you.  Now  return  to  the  Count." 

Frank  walked  back  to  join  Peschiera,  and  his  brow  was 
thoughtful^  and  his  lips  closed  firmly.  Harley  had  that 
gift  which  belongs  to  the  genius  of  Action.  He  inspired 
others  with  the  light  of  his  own  spirit  and  the  force  of  his 
own  will.  Harley  next  hastened  to  Lord  Spendquick,  re- 
mained with  that  young  gentleman  some  minutes,  then  re- 
paired to  his  hotel,  where  Leonard,  the  Prince,  and  Giacomo 
still  awaited  him. 

"  Come  with  me,  both  of  you.  You  too,  Giacomo.  I 
must  now  seek  the  police.  We  may  then  divide  upon  sepa- 
rate missions." 

"Oh,  my  dear  lord,"  cried  Leonard,  "you  must  have  had 
good  news.  You  seem  cheerful  and  sanguine." 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  9ig 

"  Seem  !  Nay,  I  am  so  !  If  I  once  paused  to  despond — 
even  to  doubt — I  should  go  mad.  A  foe  to  baffle,  and  an 
angel  to  save  !  Whose  spirits  would  not  rise  high — whose 
wits  would  not  move  quick  to  the  warm  pulse  of  his 
heart  ? " 


CHAPTER    VIII. 

TWILIGHT  was  dark  in  the  room  to  which  Beatrice  had 
conducted  Violante.  A  great  change  had  come  over  Bea- 
trice. Humble  and  weeping,  she  knelt  beside  Violante, 
hiding  her  face,  and  imploring  pardon.  And  Violante, 
striving  to  resist  the  terror  for  which  she  now  saw  such 
cause  as  no  woman-heart  can  defy,  still  sought  to  soothe, 
and  still  sweetly  assured  forgiveness. 

Beatrice  had  learned — after  quick  and  fierce  questions 
— which  at  last  compelled  the  answers  that  cleared  away 
every  doubt — that  her  jealousy  had  been  groundless — that 
she  had  no  rival  in  Violante.  From  that  moment  the  pas- 
sions that  had  made  her  the  tool  of  guilt  abruptly  vanished, 
and  her  conscience  startled  her  with  the  magnitude  of  her 
treachery.  Perhaps  had  Violante's  heart  been  wholly  free, 
or  she  had  been  of  that  mere  commonplace,  girlish  charac- 
ter, which  women  like  Beatrice  are  apt  to  despise,  the  Mar- 
chesa's  affection  for  Peschiera,  and  her  dread  of  him,  might 
have  made  her  try  to  persuade  her  young  kinswoman  at 
least  to  receive  the  Count's  visit—  at  least  to  suffer  him  to 
make  his  own  excuses,  and  plead  his  own  cause.  -But  there 
had  been  a  loftiness  of  spirit  in  which  Violante  had  first 
defied  the  Marchesa's  questions,  followed  by  such  generous, 
exquisite  sweetness,  when  the  girl  perceived  how  that  wild 
heart  was  stung  and  maddened,  and  such  purity  of  mourn- 
ful candor  when  she  had  overcome  her  own  virgin  bashful- 
ness  sufficiently  to  undeceive  the  error  she  detected,  and 
confess  where  her  own  affections  were  placed,  that  Beatrice 
bowed  before  her  as  mariner  of  old  to  some  fair  saint  that 
had  allayed  the  storm. 

"I  have  deceived  you!"  she  cried,  through  her  sobs; 
"but  I  will'now  save  you  at  any  cost.  Had  you  been  as  I 
deemed — the  rival  who  had  despoiled  all  the  hopes  of  my 
future  life — I  could,  without  remorse,  have  been  the  accom- 
plice I  am  pledged  to  be.  But  now  you  ! — oh,  you — so  good 


920  MY  NOVEL;    OR, 

and  so  noble — you  can  never  be  the  bride  of  Peschiera. 
Nay,  start  not ;  he  shall  renounce  his  designs  for  ever,  or  I 
will  go  myself  to  our  Emperor,  and  expose  the  dark  secrets 
of  his  life.  Return  with  me  quick  to  the  home  from  which 
I  ensnared  you." 

Beatrice's  hand  was  on  the  door  while  she  spoke.  Sud- 
denly her  face  fell — her  lips  grew  white  ;  the  door  was 
locked  from  without.  She  called — no  one  answered  ;  the 
bell -pull  in  the  room  gave  no  sound  ;  the  windows  were 
high  and  barred — they  did  not  look  on  the  river,  nor  the 
street,  but  on  a  close,  gloomy,  silent  yard — high  blank  walls 
all  around  it — no  one  to  hear  the  cry  of  distress,  rang  it 
ever  so  loud  and  sharp. 

Beatrice  divined  that  she  herself  had  been  no  less  en- 
snared than  her  companion  ;  that  Peschiera,  distrustful  of 
her  firmness  in  evil,  had  precluded  her  from  the  power  of 
reparation.  She  was  in  a  house  only  tenanted  by  his  hire- 
lings. Not  a  hope  to  save  Vioiante  from  a  fate  that  now 
appalled  her,  seemed  to  remain.  Thus,  in  incoherent  self- 
reproaches  and  frenzied  tears,  Beatrice  knelt  beside  her 
victim,  communicating  more  and  more  the  terrors  that  she 
felt,  as  the  hours  rolled  on,  and  the  room  darkened,  till  it 
was  only  by  the  dull  lamp  which  gleamed  through  the 
grimy  windoms  from  the  yard  without,  that  each  saw  the 
face  of  the  other. 

Night  came  on  ;  they  heard  a  clock  from  some  distant 
church  strike  the  hours.  The  dim  fire  had  long  since  burnt 
out,  and  the  air  became  intensely  cold.  No  one  broke 
upon  their  solitude — not  a  voice  was  heard  in  the  house. 
They  felt  neither  cold  nor  hunger — they  felt  but  the  soli- 
tude, and  the  silence,  and  the  dread  of  something  that  was 
to  come. 

At  length,  about  midnight,  a  bell  rang  at  the  street 
door  ;  then  there  was  the  quick  sound  of  steps — of  sullen 
bolts  withdrawn — of  low,  murmured  voices.  Lights 
streamed  through  the  chinks  of  the  door  to  the  apartment 
— the  door  itself  opened.  Two  Italians  bearing  tapers  en- 
tered, and  the  Count  di  Peschiera  followed. 

Beatrice  sprang  up,  and  rushed  toward  her  brother. 
He  laid  his  hand  gently  on  her  lips,  and  motioned  to  the 
Italians  to  withdraw.  They  placed  the  lights  on  the  table, 
and  vanished  without  a  word. 

Peschiera  then,  putting  aside  his  sister,  approached  Vio- 
iante. 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  92 1 

"  Fair  kinswoman,"  said  he,  with  an  air  of  easy  but 
resolute  assurance,  "  there  are  things  which  no  man  can 
excuse,  and  no  woman  can  pardon,  unless  that  love,  which 
is  beyond  all  laws,  suggests  excuse  for  the  one,  and  obtains 
pardon  for  the  other.  In  a  word,  I  have  sworn  to  win  you, 
and  I  have  had  no  opportunities  to  woo.  Fear  not ;  the 
worst  that  can  befall  you  is  to  be  my  bride.  Stand  aside, 
my  sister,  stand  aside." 

"  Giulio,  no  !  Giulio  Franzini,  I  stand  between  you  and 
her  ;  you  shall  strike  me  to  the  earth  before  you  can  touch 
even  the  hem  of  her  robe." 

"  What,  my  sister  ! — you  turn  against  me  ?  " 

"And  unless  you  instantly  retire,  and  leave  her  free,  I 
will  unmask  you  to  the  Emperor." 

"Too  late!  mon  enfant!  You  will  sail  with  us.  The 
effects  you  may  need  for  the  voyage  are  already  on  board. 
You  will  be  witness  to  our  marriage,  and  by  a  holy  son 
of  the  Church.  Then  tell  the  Emperor  what  you  will." 

With  a  light  and  sudden  exertion  of  his  strength,  the 
Count  put  away  Beatrice,  and  fell  on  his  knees  before 
Violante,  who,  drawn  to  her  full  height,  death-like  pale, 
but  untrembling,  regarded  him  with  unutterable  disdain. 

"You  scorn  me  now,"  said  he,  throwing  into  his  features 
an  expression  of  humility  and  admiration  ;  "  and  I  cannot 
wonder  at  it.  But,  believe  me,  that  until  the  scorn  yield  to 
a  kinder  sentiment,  I  will  take  no  advantage  of  the  power  I 
have  gained  over  your  fate." 

"  Power  !  "  said  Violante,  haughtily.  "  You  have  en- 
snared me  into  this  house — you  have  gained  the  power  of  a 
day  ;  but  the  power  over  my  fate — no  !  " 

"  You  mean  that  your  friends  have  discovered  your  dis- 
appearance, and  are  on  your  track.  Fair  one,  I  provide 
against  your  friends,  and  I  defy  all  the  laws  and  police  of 
England.  The  vessel  that  will  bear  you  from  these  shores 
waits  in  the  river  hard  by.  Beatrice,  I  warn  you — be  still — 
unhand  me.  In  that  vessel  will  be  a  priest  who  shall  join 
our  hands,  but  not  before  you  will  recognize  the  truth,  that 
she  who  flies  with  Giulio  Peschiera  must  become  his  wife, 
or  quit  him  as  the  disgrace  of  her  house,  and  the  scorn  of 
her  sex." 

"  Oh,  villain  !  villain  !  "  cried  Beatrice. 

"  Peste,  my  sister,  gentler  words.  You,  too,  would 
marry.  I  tell  no  tales  of  you.  Signorina,  I  grieve  to 
threaten  force.  Give  me  your  hand  ;  we  must  be  gone." 

39* 


922  MY  NO  TEL;    OR, 

Violante  eluded  the  clasp  that  would  have  profaned  her, 
and  darting  across  the  room,  opened  the  door,  and  closed  it 
hastily  behind  her.  Beatrice  clung  firmly  to  the  Count  to 
detain  him  from  pursuit.  But  just  without  the  door,  close, 
as  if  listening  to  what  passed  writhin,  stood  a  man  wrapped 
from  head  to  foot  in  a  large  boat-cloak.  The  rays  of  the 
lamp  that  beamed  on  the  man  glittered  on  the  barrel  of  a 
pistol  which  he  held  in  his  right  hand. 

"  Hist !  "  whispered  the  man,  in  English,  and  passing  his 
arm  around  her — "in  this  house  you  are  in  that  ruffian's 
power  ;  out  of  it,  safe.  Ah  !  I  am  by  your  side- — I,  Violante  ! " 

The  voice  thrilled  to  Violante's  heart.  She  started — 
looked  up,  but  nothing  was  seen  of  the  man's  face,  what 
with  the  hat  and  cloak,  save  a  mass  of  raven  curls,  and  a 
beard  of  the  same  hue. 

The  Count  now  threw  open  the  door,  dragging  after  him 
his  sister,  who  still  clung  round  him. 

"  Ha — that  is  well !  "  he  cried  to  the  man,  in  Italian. 
"  Bear  the  lady  after  me,  gently  ;  but  if  she  attempt  to  cry 
cut — why,  force  enough  to  silence  her,  not  more.  As  for 
you,  Beatrice,  traitress  that  you  are,  I  could  strike  you  to 
the  earth — but — no,  this  suffices."  He  caught  his  sister  in 
his  arms  as  he  spoke,  and,  regardless  of  her  cries  and  strug- 
gles, sprang  down  the  stairs. 

The  hall  was  crowded  with  fierce  swarthy  men.  The 
Count  turned  to  one  of  them,  and  whispered  ;  in  ah  instant 
the  Marchesa  was  seized  and  gagged.  The  Count  cast  a 
look  over  his  shoulder  ;  Violante  was  close  behind,  supported 
by  the  man  to  whom  Peschiera  had  consigned  her,  and  who 
was  pointing  to  Beatrice,  and  appeared  warning  Violante 
against  resistance.  Violante  was  silent,  and  seemed  re- 
signed. Peschiera  smiled  cynically,  and,  preceded  by  some 
of  his  hirelings,  who  held  torches,  descended  a  few  steps 
that  led  to  an  abrupt  landing-place  between  the  hall  and  the 
basement  story.  There  a  small  door  stood  open,  and  the 
river  flowed  close  by.  A  boat  was  moored  on  the  bank, 
round  which  grouped  four  men,  who  had  the  air  of  foreign 
sailors.  At  the  appearance  of  Peschiera,  three  of  these  men 
sprang  into  the  boat,  and  got  ready  their  oars.  The  fourth 
carefully  readjusted  a  plank  thrown  from  the  boat  to  the 
wharf,  and  offered  his  arm  obsequiously  to  Pesehiera.  The 
Count  was  the  first  to  enter,  and,  humming  a  gay  opera  air, 
took  his  place  by  the  helm.  The  two  females  were  next 
lifted  in,  and  Violante  felt  her  hand  pressed  almost  convul- 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  923 

sively  by  the  man  who  stood  by  the  plank.  The  rest  fol- 
lowed, and  in  another  minute  the  boat  bounded  swiftly  over 
the  waves  toward  a  vessel  that  lay  several  furlongs  adovvn 
the  river,  and  apart  from  all  the  meaner  craft  that  crowded 
the  stream.  The  stars  struggled  pale  through  the  foggy 
atmosphere  ;  not  a  word  was  heard  within  the  boat — no 
sound,  save  the  regular  splash  of  the  oars.  The  Count 
paused  from  his  lively  tune,  and  gathering  round  him  the 
ample  fold  of  his  fur  pelisse,  seemed  absorbed  in  thought. 
Even  by  the  imperfect  light  of  the  stars,  Peschiera's  face 
wore  an  air  of  sovereign  triumph.  The  result  had  justified 
that  careless  and  insolent  confidence  in  himself  and  in  for- 
tune, which  was  the  most  prominent  feature  in  the  charac- 
ter of  the  man  who,  both  bravo  and  gamester,  had  played 
against  the  world,  with  his  rapier  in  one  hand,  and  cogged 
dice  in  the  other.  Violante,  once  in  a  vessel  filled  by  his 
own  men,  was  irretrievably  in  his  power.  Even  her  father, 
must  feel  grateful  to  learn  that  the  captive  of  Peschiera  had 
saved  name  and  repute  in  becoming  Peschiera's  wife.  Even 
the  pride  of  sex  in  Violante  herself  must  induce  her  to  con- 
firm what  Peschiera,  of  course,  intended  to  state,  viz.,  that 
she  was  a  willing  partner  in  a  bridegroom's  schemes  of  flight 
toward  the  altar,  rather  than  the  poor  victim  of  a  betrayer, 
and  receiving  his  hand  but  from  his  mercy.  He  saw  his  for- 
tune secured,  his  success  envied,  his  very  character  rehabili- 
tated by  his  splendid  nuptials.  Ambition  began  to  mingle 
with  his  dreams  of  pleasure  and  pomp.  What  post  in  the 
court  or  the  state  too  high  for  the  aspirations  of  one  who 
had  evinced  the  most  incontestable  talent  for  active  life — 
the  talent  to  succeed  in  all  that  the  will  had  undertaken? 
Thus  mused  the  Count,  half  forgetful  of  the  present,  and  ab- 
sorbed in  the  golden  future,  till  he  was  aroused  by  a  loud 
hail  from  the  vessel,  and  the  bustle  on  board  the  boat,  as 
the  sailors  caught  at  the  rope  flung  forth  to  them.  He  then 
rose  and  moved  toward  Violante.  But  the  man  who  wasP 
still  in  charge  of  her  passed  the  Count  lightly,  half-leading, 
half-carrying  his  passive  prisoner.  "  Pardon,  Excellency," 
said  the  man,  in  Italian,  "  but  the  boat  is  crowded,  and  rocks 
so  much,  that  your  aid  would  but  disturb  yur  footing."  Be- 
fore Peschiera  could  replv,  Violante  was  already  on  the 
steps  of  the  vessel,  and  the  Count  paused  till,  with  elated 
smile,  he  saw  her  safely  standing  on  the  deck.  Beatrice  fol- 
lowed, and  then  Peschiera  himself ;  but  when  the  Italians 
in  his  train  also  thronged  toward  the  sides  of  the  boat,  two 


924  MY  NOVEL;    ORt 

of  the  sailors  got  before  them,  and  let  go  the  rope,  while  the 
other  two  plied  their  oars  vigorously,  and  pulled  back  to- 
ward shore.  The  Italians  burst  into  an  amazed  and  indig- 
nant volley  of  execrations.  "  Silence,"  said  the  sailor  who 
,had  stood  by  the  plank,  "we  obey  orders.  If  you  are  not 
quiet,  we  shall  upset  the  boat.  We  can  swim  ;  Heaven  and 
Monsignore  San  Giacomo  pity  you  if  you  cannot !  " 

Meanwhile,  as  Peschiera  leaped  upon  deck,  a  flood  of 
light  poured  upon  him  from  lifted  torches.  That  light 
streamed  full  on  the  face  and  form  of  a  man  of  command- 
ing stature,  whose  arm  was  around  Violante,  and  whose 
dark  eyes  flashed  upon  the  Count  more  luminously  than  the 
torches.  On  one  side  this  man  stood  the  Austrian  Prince  ; 
on  the  other  side  (a  cloak,  and  a  profusion  of  false  dark 
locks,  at  his  feet)  stood  Lord  L'Estrange,  his  arms  folded, 
and  his  lips  curved  by  a  smile  in  which  the  ironical  humor 
native  to  the  man  was  tempered  with  a  calm  and  supreme 
disdain.  The  Count  strove  to  speak,  but  his  voice  faltered. 

All  around  him  looked  ominous  and  hostile.  He  saw 
many  Italian  faces,  but  they  scowled  at  him  with  vindictive 
hate  ;  in  the  rear  were  English  mariners,  peering  curiously 
over  the  shoulders  of  the  foreigners,  and  with  a  broad  grin 
on  their  open  countenances.  Suddenly,  as  the  Count  thus 
stood  perplexed,  cowering,  stupefied,  there  burst  from  all 
the  Italians  present  a  hoot  of  unutterable  scorn — "  //  tradi- 
tore  !  il  traditore  !  " — (the  traitor  !  the  traitor  !) 

The  Count  was  brave,  and  at  the  cry  he  lifted  his  head 
with  a  certain  majesty. 

At  that  moment  Harley,  raising  his  hand  as  if  to  silence 
the  hoot,  came  forth  from  the  group  by  which  he  had  been 
hitherto  standing,  and  toward  him  the  Count  advanced  with 
a  bold  stride. 

"What  trick  is  this?"  he  said,  in  French,  fiercely.  "I 
divine  that  it  is  you  whom  I  can  single  out  for  explanation 
and  atonement." 

" Pardieu,  Monsieur  le  Comte"  answered  Harley,  in  the 
same  language,  which  lends  itself  so  well  to  polished  sar- 
casm and  high-bred  enmity — "let  us  distinguish.  Expla- 
nation should  come  from  me,  I  allow ;  but  atonement  I 
have  the  honor  to -resign  to  yourself.  This  vessel — 

"Is  mine  !"  cried  the  Count.  "Those  men,  who  insult 
me,  should  be  in  my  pay." 

"The  men  in  your  pay,  Monsieur  le  Comte,  are  on  shore, 
drinking  success  to  your  voyage.  But,  anxious  still  to  pro- 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  925 

cure  you  the  gratification  of  being  amongst  your  own  coun- 
trymen, those  whom  I  have  taken  into  my  pay  are  still  bet- 
ter Italians  than  the  pirates  whose  place  they  supply ; 
perhaps  not  such  good  sailors ;  but  then  I  have  taken  the 
liberty  to  add  to  the  equipment  of  a  vessel,  which  has  cost 
me  too  much  to  risk  lightly,  some  stout  English  seamen, 
who  are  mariners  more  practised  than  even  your  pirates. 
Your  grand  mistake,  Monsieur  le  Comic,  is  in  thinking  that 
the  '  Flying  Dutchman  '  is  yours.  With  many  apologies  for 
interfering  with  your  intention  to  purchase  it,  I  beg  to  in- 
form you  that  Lord  Spendquick  has  kindly  sold  it  to  me. 
Nevertheless,  Monsieur  le  Comte,  for  the  next  few  weeks  I 
place  it — men  and  all — at  your  service." 

Peschiera  smiled  scornfully. 

."I  thank  your  lordship ;  but  since  I  presume  that  I  shall 
no  longer  have  the  travelling  companion  who  alone  could 
make  the  voyage  attractive,  I  shall  return  to  shore,  and 
will  simply  request  you  to  inform  me  at  what  hour  you 
can  receive  the  friend  whom  I  shall  depute  to  discuss  that 
part  of  the  question  yet  untouched,  and  to  arrange  that  the 
atonement,  whether  it  be  due  from  me  or  yourself,  may  be 
rendered  as  satisfactory  as  you  have  condescended  to  make 
the  explanation." 

"Let  not  that  vex  you,  Monsieur  le  Comte — the  atone- 
ment is,  in  much,  made  already  ;  so  anxious  have  I  been  to 
forestall  all  that  your  nice  sense  of  honor  would  induce  so 
complete  a  gentleman  to  desire.  You  have  ensnared  a 
young  heiress,  it  is  true  ;  but  you  see  that  it  was  only  to 
restore  her  to  the  arms  of  her  father.  You  have  juggled  an 
illustrious  kinsman  out  of  his  heritage ;  but  you  have 
voluntarily  come  on  board  this  vessel,  first,  to  enable  his 
highness  the  Prince  Von ,  of  whose  rank  at  the  Aus- 
trian court  you  are  fully  aware,  to  state  to  your  Emperor 
that  he  himself  has  been  witness  of  the  manner  in  which 
you  interpreted  his  Imperial  Majesty's  assent  to  your  nup- 
tials with  a  child  of  one  of  the  first  subjects  in  his  Italian 
realm  ;  and  next,  to  commence  by  an  excursion  to  the  seas 
of  the  Baltic,  the  sentence  of  banishment  which  I  have  no 
doubt  will  accompany  the  same  act  that  restores  to  the 
chief  of  your  house  his  lands  and  his  honors." 

The  Count  started. 

"That  restoration,"  said  the  Austrian  Prince,  who  had 
advanced  to  Hurley's  side,  "  I  already  guarantee.  Disgrace 
that  you  are,  Giulio  Franzini,  to  the  nobles  of  the  empire, 


926  MY  NOVEL;    OR, 

I  will  not  leave  my  royal  master  till  his  hand  strike  your 
name  from  the  roll.  I  have  here  your  own  letters,  to  prove 
that  your  kinsman  was  duped  by  yourself  into  the  revolt 
which  you  would  have  headed  as  a  Catiline,  if  it  had  not 
better  suited  your  nature  to  betray  it  as  a  Judas.  In  ten 
days  from  this  time,  these  letters  will  be  laid  before  the 
Emperor  and  his  Council." 

"  Are  you  satisfied,  Monsieur  le  Comte"  said  Harley,  "  with 
your  atonement  so  far  ?  if  not,  I  have  procured  you  the 
occasion  to  render  it  yet  more  complete.  Before  you 
stands  the  kinsman  you  have  wronged.  He  knows  now, 
that  though,  for  a  while,  you  ruined  his  fortunes,  you 
failed  to  sully  his  hearth.  His  heart  can  grant  you  pardon, 
and  hereafter  his  hand  may  give  you  alms.  Kneel  then, 
Giulio  Franzini — kneel  at  the  feet  of  Alphonso,  Duke  *of 
Serrano." 

The  above  dialogue  had  been  in  French,  which  only  a 
few  of  the  Italians  present  understood,  and  that  imper- 
fectly ;  but  at  the  name  with  which  Harley  concluded  his 
address  to  the  Count,  a  simultaneous  cry  from  those  Italians 
broke  forth. 

"Alphonso  the  Good! — Alphonso  the  Good!  Viva — 
— viva — the  good  Duke  of  Serrano  !  " 

And  forgetful  even  of  the  Count  they  crowded  round 
the  tall  form  of  Riccabocca,  striving  who  should  first  kiss 
his  hand — the  very  hem  of  his  garments. 

Riccabocca's  eyes  overflowed.  The  gaunt  exile  seemed 
transfigured  into  another  and  more  kingiy  man.  An  in- 
expressible dignity  invested  him.  He  stretched  forth  his 
arms,  as  if  to  bless  his  countrymen.  Even  that  rude  cry, 
from  humble  men,  exiles  like  himself,  consoled  him  for 
years  of  banishment  and  penury. 

"Thanks,  thanks,"  he  continued  ;  "thanks.  Some  day 
or  other,  vou  will  all  perhaps  return  with  me  to  the  beloved 
land!" 

The  Austrian  Prince  bowed  his  head,  as  if  in  assent  to 
the  prayer. 

"  Giulio  Franzini,"  said  the  Duke  of  Serrano — for  so  we 
may  now  call  the  threadbare  recluse  of  the  Casino — "  had 
this  last  villanous  design  of  yours  been  allowed  by  Provi- 
dence, think  you  that  there  is  one  spot  on  earth  on  which 
the  ravisher  could  have  been  saved  frbm  a  father's  arm  ? 
But  now,  Heaven  has  been  more  kind.  In  this  hour  let 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  927 

me  imitate  its  mercy  ; "  and  with  relaxing  brow  the  Duke 
mildly  drew  near  to  his  guilty  kinsman. 

From  the  moment  the  Austrian  Prince  had  addressed 
him,  the  Count  had  preserved  a  profound  silence,  showing 
neither  repentance  nor  shame.  Gathering  himself  up,  he 
had  stood  firm,  glaring  around  him  like  one  at  bay.  But  as 
the  Duke  now  approached,  he  waved  his  hand,  and  ex- 
claimed, "Back,  pedant,  back;  you  have  not  triumphed 
yet.  And  you,  prating  German,  tell  your  tales  to  our  Em- 
peror. I  shall  be  by  his  throne  to  answer — if,  indeed,  you 
escape  from  the  meeting  to  wrhich  I  will  force  you  by  the 
way."  He  spoke,  and  made  a  rush  toward  the  side  of  the 
vessel.  But  Harley's  quick  wit  had  foreseen  the  Count's  in- 
tention, and  Harley's  quick  eye  had  given  the  signal  by 
which  it  was  frustrated.  Seized  in  the  gripe  of  his  own 
watchful  and  indignant  countrymen,  just  as  he  was  about 
to  plunge  into  the  stream,  Peschiera  was  dragged  back — 
pinioned  down.  Then  the  expression  of  his  whole  coun- 
tenance changed — the  desperate  violence  of  the  inborn 
gladiator  broke  forth.  His  great  strength  enabled  him  to 
break  loose  more  than  once,  to  dash  more  than  one  man  to 
the  floor  of  the  deck  ;  but  at  length,  overpowered  by  num- 
bers, though  still  struggling — all  dignity,  all  attempt  at 
presence  of  mind  gone,  uttering  curses  the  most  plebeian, 
gnashing  his  teeth,  and  foaming  at  the  mouth,  nothing 
seemed  left  of  the  brilliant  Lothario  but  the  coarse  fury  of 
the  fierce  natural  man. 

Then  still  preserving  that  air  and  tone  of  exquisite  im- 
perturbable irony  which  the  highest  comedian  might  have 
sought  to  imitate  in  vain,  Harley  bowed  low  to  the  storm- 
ing Count. 

"Adieu,  Monsieur  le  Comte,  adieu!  The  vessel  which  you 
have  honored  me  by  entering  is  bound  to  Norway.  The 
Italians  who  accompany  you  were  sent  by  yourself  into 
exile,  and,  in  return,  they  now  kindly  promise  to  enliven 
you  with  their  society,  whenever  you  feel  somewhat  tired 
of  your  own.  Conduct  the  Count  to  his  cabin.  Gently 
there,  gently.  Adieu,  Monsieur  le  Comte,  adieu!  ct  bon 
voyage." 

Harley  turned  lightly  on  his  heel,  as  Peschiern,  in  spite 
of  his  struggles,  was  now  fairly  carried  down  to  the  cabin. 

"  A  trick  for  the  trickster,"  said  L'Estrange  to  the  Aus- 
trian Prince.  "The  revenge  of  a  farce  on  the  would-be 
tragedian." 


928  MY  NOVEL;    OR, 

"More  than  that — he  is  ruined." 

"And  ridiculous,"  quoth  Harley.  "I  should  like  to  see 
his  look  when  they  land  him  in  Norway."  Harley  then 
passed  toward  the  centre  of  the  vessel,  by  which,  hitherto 
partially  concealed  by  the  sailors,  who  were  now  busily  oc- 
cupied, stood  Beatrice  ;  Frank  Hazeldean,  who  had  first  re- 
ceived her  on  entering  the  vessel,  standing  by  her  side  ;  and 
Leonard,  a  little  apart  from  the  two,  in  quiet  observation 
of  all  that  had  passed  around  him.  Beatrice  appeared  but 
little  to  heed  Frank  ;  her  dark  eyes  were  lifted  to  the  dim 
starry  skies,  and  her  lips  were  moving  as  in  prayer ;  yet  her 
young  lover  was  speaking  to  her  in  great  emotion,  low  and 
rapidly. 

"  No,  no — do  not  think  for  a  moment  that  we  suspect 
you,  Beatrice  ;  I  will  answer  for  your  honor  with  my  life. 
Oh,  why  will  you  turn  from  me — why  will  you  not  speak  ?" 

"  A  moment  later,"  said  Beatrice,  softly.  "  Give  me  one 
moment  yet."  She  passed  slowly  and  falteringly  toward 
Leonard — placed  her  hand,  that  trembled,  on  his  arm — and 
led  him  aside  to  the  verge  of  the  vessel.  Frank,  startled  by 
her  movement,  made  a  step  as  if  to  follow,  and  then  stopped 
short,  and  looked  on,  but  with  a  clouded  and  doubtful  coun- 
tenance. Harley 's  smile  had  gone,  and  his  eye  was  also 
watchful. 

It  was  but  a  few  words  that  Beatrice  spoke — it  was  but 
a  sentence  or  so  that  Leonard  answered  ;  and  then  Beatrice 
extended  her  hand,  which  the  young  poet  bent  over,  and 
kissed  in  silence.  She  lingered  an  instant  ;  and  even  by  the 
starlight,  Harley  noted  the  blush  that  overspread  her  face. 
The  blush  faded  as  Beatrice  returned  to  Frank.  Lord 
L'Estrange  would  have  retired — she  signed  to  him  to  stay. 

"  My  lord,"  she  said,  very  firmly,  "  I  cannot  accuse  you 
of  harshness  to  my  sinful  and  unhappy  brother.  His  offence 
might  perhaps  deserve  a  heavier  punishment  than  that  which 
you  inflict  with  such  playful  scorn.  But,  whatever  his  pen- 
ance, contempt  now.  or  poverty  later,  I  feel  that  his  sister 
should  be  by  his  side  to  share  it.  I  am  riot  innocent,  if  he 
be  guilty  ;  and,  wreck  though  he  be,  nothing  else  on  this 
dark  sea  of  life  is  now  left  to  me  to  cling  to.  Hush,  my 
lord  !  I  shall  not  leave  this  vessel.  All  that  I  entreat  of  you 
is,  to  order  your  men  to  respect  my  brother,  since  a  woman 
will  be  by  his  side." 

"  But,  Marchesa,  this  cannot  be  ;  and " 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  929 

"  Beatrice,  Beatrice — and  me  ! — our  betrothal  ?  Do  you 
forget  me  ? "  cried  Frank,  in  reproachful  agony. 

"No,  young  and  too  noble  lover;  I  shall  remember  you 
ever  in  my  prayers.  But  listen.  I  have  been  deceived — 
hurried  on,  I  might  say,  by  others,  but  also,  and  far  more, 
by  my  own  mad  and  blinded  heart — deceived,  hurried  on, 
to  wrong  you  and  to  belie  myself.  My  shame  burns  into 
me  when  I  think  that  I  could  have  inflicted  on  you  the  just 
anger  of  your  family — linked  you  to  my  own  ruined  fortunes 
— my  own " 

"  Your  own  generous,  loving  heart ! — that  is  all  I  asked !" 
cried  Frank.  "  Cease,  cease — that  heart  is  mine  still !  " 

Tears  gushed  from  the  Italian's  eyes. 

"  Englishman,  I  never  loved  you  ;  this  heart  was  dead  to 
you,  and  it  will  be  dead  to  all  else  for  ever.  Farewell.  You 
will  forget  me  sooner  than  you  think  for — sooner  than  I 
shall  forget  you — as  a  friend,  as  a  brother — if  brothers  had 
natures  as  tender  and  as  kind  as  yours  !  Now,  my  lord,  will 
you  give  me  your  arm  ?  I  would  join  the  Count." 

"  Stay — one  word,  madam,"  said  Frank,  very  pale,  and 
through  his  set  teeth,  but  calmly  and  with  a  pride  on  his 
brow  which  had  never  before  dignified  its  habitual  careless 
expression — "  one  word.  I  may  not  be  worthy  of  you  in 
anything  else — but  an  honest  love,  that  never  doubted, 
never  suspected — that  would  have  clung  to  you  though  all 
the  world  were  against  ;  such  a  love  makes  the  meanest 
man  of  worth.  One  word,  frank  and  open.  By  all  that 
you  hold  most  sacred  in  your  creed,  did  you  speak  the 
truth  when  you  said  that  you  never  loved  me  ? " 

Beatrice  bent  down  her  head  ;  she  was  abashed  before 
this  manly  nature  that  she  had  so  deceived,  and  perhaps  till 
then  undervalued. 

"  Pardon,  pardon,"  she  said,  in  reluctant  accents,  half- 
choked  by  the  rising  of  a  sob. 

At  her  hesitation,  Frank's  face  lighted  as  if  with  sudden 
hope.  She  raised  her  eyes,  and  saw  the  change  in  him, 
then  glanced  where  Leonard  stood,  mournful  and  motion- 
less. She  shivered,  and  added,  firmly— 

"  Yes—  pardon  ;  for  I  spoke  the  truth;  and  I  had  no 
heart  to  give.  It  might  have  been  as  wax  to  another— it 
was  of  granite  to  you."  She  paused,  and  muttered  inly — 
"  Granite,  and — broken  !  " 

Frank  said  not  a  word  more.  He  stood  rooted  to  the 
spot,  not  even  gazing  after  Beatrice  as  she  passed  on,  lean- 


93o  MY  NOVEL;    OR, 

ing  on  the  arm  of  Lord  L'Estrange.  He  then  walked  reso- 
lutely away,  and  watched  the  boat  that  the  men  were  now 
lowering  from  the  side  of  the  vessel.  Beatrice  stopped 
when  she  came  near  the  place  where  Violante  stood,  an- 
swering in  agitated  whispers  her  father's  anxious  questions. 
As  she  stopped,  she  leaned  more  heavily  upon  Harley.  "  It 
is  your  arm  that  trembles  now,  Lord  L'Estrange,"  said  she, 
with  a  mournful  smile,  and,  quitting  him  ere  he  could  ans- 
wer, she  bowed  down  her-  head  meekly  before  Violante. 
"  You  have  pardoned  me  already,"  she  said,  in  a  tone  that 
reached  only  the  girl's  ear,  "  and  my  last  words  shall  not 
be  of  the  past.  I  see  your  future  spread  bright  before  me 
under  those  steadfast  stars.  Love  still ;  hope  and  trust. 
These  are  the  last  words  of  her  who  will  soon  die  to  the 
world.  Fair  maid,  they  are  prophetic  ! " 

Violante  shrank  back  to  her  father's  breast,  and  there 
hid  her  glowing  face,  resigning  her  hand  to  Beatrice,  who 
pressed  it  to  her  bosom.  The  Marchesa  then  came  back 
to  Harley,  and  disappeared  with  him  in  the  interior  of  the 
vessel. 

When  Harley  again  came  on  deck,  he  seemed  much 
flurried  and  disturbed.  He  kept  aloof  from  the  Duke  and 
Vioiante,  and  was  the  last  to  enter  the  boat  that  was  now 
lowered  into  the  water. 

As  he  and  his  companions  reached  the  land,  they  saw 
the  vessel  in  movement,  gliding  slowly  down  the  river. 

"  Courage,  Leonard,  courage ! "  murmured  Harley. 
"  You  grieve,  and  nobly.  But  you  have  shunned  the  worst 
and  most  vulgar  deceit  in  civilized  life  ;  you  have  not  simu- 
lated love.  Better  that  yon  poor  lady  should  be,  awhile,  the 
sufferer  from  a  harsh  truth,  than  the  eternal  martyr  of  a 
flattering  lie  !  Alas,  my  Leonard  !  with  the  love  of  the 
poet's  dream  are  linked  only  the  Graces  ;  with  the  love  of 
the  human  heart  come  the  awful  Fates  !  " 

"  My  lord,  poets  do  not  dream  when  they  love.  You 
will  learn  how  the  feelings  are  deep  in  proportion  as  the 
fancies  are  vivid,  when  you  read  that  confession  of  genius 
and  woe  which  I  have  left  in  your  hands." 

Leonard  turned  away.  Harley' s  gaze  followed  him  with 
inquiring  interest,  and  suddenly  encountered  the  soft,  dark, 
grateful  eyes  of  Violante.  "The  Fates,  the  Fates!"  mur- 
mured Harley. 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  931 


CHAPTER   IX. 

WE  are  at  Norwood,  in  the  sage's  drawing-room.  Vio- 
lante  has  long  since  retired  to  rest.  Harley,  who  had  ac- 
companied the  father  and  daughter  to  their  home,  is  still 
conversing  with  the  former. 

"  Indeed,  my  dear  duke "  said  Harley. 

"Hush,  hush  !  Diavolo,  don't  call  me  Duke  yet  ;  I  am  at 
home  here  once  more  as  Dr.  Riccabocca." 

"  My  dear  doctor,  then,  allow  me  to  assure  you  that  you 
overrate  my  claims  to  your  thanks.  Your  old  friends,  Leo- 
nard and  Frank  Hazeldean,  must  come  in  for  their  share. 
Nor  is  the  faithful  Giacomo  to  be  forgotten." 

"  Continue  your  explanation." 

"  In  the  first  place,  I  learned,  through  Frank,  that  one 
Baron  Levy,  a  certain  fashionable  money-lender,  and  gen- 
eral ministrant  to  the  affairs  of  fine  gentlemen,  was  just 
about  to  purchase  a  yacht  from  Lord  Spendquick  on  behalf 
of  the  Count.  A  short  interview  with  Spendquick  enabled 
me  to  outbid  the  usurer,  and  conclude  a  bargain  by  which 
the  yacht  became  mine  ; — a  promise  to  assist  Spendquick  in 
extricating  himself  from  the  claws  of  the  money-lender 
(which  I  trust  to  do  by  reconciling  him  with  his  father,  who 
is  a  man  of  liberality  and  sense),  made  Spendquick  readily 
connive  at  my  scheme  for  outwitting  the  enemy.  He 
allowed  Levy  to  suppose  that  the  Count  might  take  pos- 
session of  the  vessel ;  but  affecting  an  engagement,  and 
standing  out  for  terms,  postponed  the  final  settlement  of 
the  purchase-money  till  the  next  day.  I  was  thus  master  of 
the  vessel,  which  I  felt  sure  was  destined  to  serve  Pes- 
chiera's  infamous  design.  But  it  was  my  business  not  to 
alarm  the  Count's  suspicions  ;  I  therefore  permitted  the  pi- 
rate crew  he  had  got  together  to  come  on  board.  I  knew  I 
could  get  rid  of  them  when  necessary.  Meanwhile,  Frank 
undertook  to  keep  close  to  the  Count  until  he  could  see 
and  cage  within  his  lodgings  the  servant  whom  Peschiera 
had  commissioned  to  attend  his  sister.  If  I  could  but  ap- 
prehend this  servant,  I  had  a  sanguine  hope  that  I  could 
discover  and  free  your  daughter  before  Peschiera  could 
even  profane  her  with  his  presence.  But  Frank,  alas  !  was 


93*  MY  NOVEL;    OR, 

no  pupil  of  Machiavelli.  Perhaps  the  Count  detected  his 
secret  thoughts  under  his  open  countenance  ;  perhaps 
merely  wished  to  get  rid  of  a  companion  very  much  in  his 
way  ;  but,  at  all  events,  he  contrived  to  elude  our  young 
friend  as  cleverly  as  you  or  I  could  have  done — told  him 
that  Beatrice  herself  was  at  Roehampton — had  borrowed 
the  Count's  carriage  to  go  there — volunteered  to  take 
Frank  to  the  house — took  him.  Frank  found  himself  in  a 
drawing-room  ;  and  after  waiting  a  few  minutes,  while  the 
Count  went  out  on  pretence  of  seeing  his  sister — in  pirou- 
etted a  certain  distinguished  opera-dancer  !  Meanwhile  the 
Count  was  fast  ba.ck  on  the  road  to  London,  and  Frank  had 
to  return  as  he  could.  He  then  hunted  for  the  Count  every- 
where, and  saw  him  no  more.  It  was  late  in  the  day  when 
Frank  found  me  out  with  this  news.  I  became  seriously 
alarmed.  Peschiera  might  perhaps  learn  my  counter- 
scheme  with  the  yacht — or  he  might  postpone  sailing  until 
he  had  terrified  or  entangled  Violante  into  some — in  short, 
everything  was  to  be  dreaded  from  a  man  of  the  Count's 
temper.  I  had  no  clue  to  the  place  to  which  your  daughter 
was  taken — no  excuse  to  arrest  Peschiera — no  means  even 
of  learning  where  he  was.  He  had  not  returned  to  Mivart's. 
The  Police  were  at  fault,  and  useless,  except  in  one  valuable 
piece  of  information.  They  told  me  where  some  of  your 
countrymen,  whom  Peschiera's  perfidy  had  sent  into  exile, 
were  to  be  found.  I  commissioned  Giacomo  to  seek  these 
men  out,  and  induce  them  to  man  the  vessel.  It  might  be 
necessary,  should  Peschiera  or  his  confidential  servants 
come  aboard,  after  we  had  expelled  or  drawn  off  the  pirate 
crew,  that  they  should  find  Italians  whom  they  might  well 
mistake  for  their  own  hirelings.  To  these  foreigners  I 
added  some  English  sailors  who  had  before  served  in  the 
same  vessel,  and  on  whom  Spendquick  assured  me  I  could 
rely.  Still  these  precautions  only  availed  in  case  Peschiera 
should  resolve  to  sail,  and  defer  till  then  all  machinations 
against  his  captives.  While,  amidst  my  fears  and  uncer- 
tainties, I  was  struggling  still  to  preserve  presence  of  mind, 
and  rapidjy  discussing  with  the  Austrian  Prince  if  any  other 
steps  could  be  taken,  or  if  our  sole  resource  was  to  repair  to 
the  vessel  and  take  the  chance  of  what  might  ensue,  Leonard 
suddenly  and  quietly  entered  my  room.  You  know  his 
countenance,  in  which  joy  or  sadness  is  not  betrayed  so 
much  by  the  evidence  of  the  passions  as  by  variations  in 
the  intellectual  expression.  It  was  but  by  the  clearer  brow 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE. 


933 


and  the  steadier  eye  that  I  saw  he  had  good  tidings  to  im- 
part." 

"  Ah,"  said  Riccabocca — for  so,  obeying  his  own  request, 
we  will  yet  call  the  sage — "ah,  I  early  taught  that  young 
man  the  great  lesson  inculcated  by  Helvetius :  '  All  our 
errors  arise  from  our  ignorance  or  our  passions.'  Without 
ignorance,  and  without  passions,  we  should  be  serene,  all- 
penetrating  intelligences." 

"  Mopsticks,"  quoth  Harley,  "  have  neither  ignorance 
nor  passions  ;  but  as  for  their  intelligence — 

"  Pshaw  !  "  interrupted  Riccabocca — "  Proceed." 

"  Leonard  had  parted  from  us  some  hours  before.  I  had 
commissioned  him  to  call  at  Madame  di  Negra's,  and,  as  he 
was  familiarly  known  to  her  servants,  seek  to  obtain  quietly 
all  the  information  he  could  collect,  and,  at  all  events,  pro- 
cure (what  in  my  haste  I  had  failed  to  do)  the  name  and 
description  of  the  man  who  had  driven  her  out  in  the  morn- 
ing, and  make  what  use  he  judged  best  of  every  hint  he 
could  gather  or  glean  that  might  aid  our  researches. 
Leonard  only  succeeded  in  learning  the  name  and  descrip- 
tion of  the  coachman,  whom  he  recognized  as  one  Beppo,  to 
whom  she  had  often  given  orders  in  his  presence.  None 
could  say  where  she  then  could  be  found,  if  not  at  the 
Count's  hotel.  Leonard  went  next  to  that  hotel.  The  man 
had  not  been  there  all  the  day.  While  revolving  what  next 
he  should  do,  his  eye  caught  sight  of  your  intended  son-in- 
law,  gliding  across  the  opposite  side  of  the  street.  One  of 
those  luminous,  inspiring  conjectures,  which  never  occur  to 
you  philosophers,  had  from  the  first  guided  Leonard  to  be- 
lieve that  Randal  Leslie  was  mixed  up  in  this  villanous 
affair." 

"Ha!  He!"  cried  Riccabocca.  "Impossible!  For 
what  interest  ? — what  object  ? " 

"  I  cannot  tell  ;  neither  could  Leonard  ;  but  we  had  both 
formed  the  same  conjecture.  Brief  : — Leonard  resolved  to 
follow  Randal  Leslie,  and  track  all  his  movements.  He  did 
then  follow  him,  unobserved  ;  and  at  a  distance— first  to 
Audley  Egerton's  house — then  to  Eaton  Square  -thence  to 
a  house  in  Bruton  Street,  which  Leonard  ascertained  to  be 
Baron  Levy's.  Suspicious  that,  my  dear  sage  ! " 

"  Diavolo — yes  \  "  said  Riccabocca,  thoughtfully. 

"  At  Levy's,  Randal  stayed  till  dusk.  He  then  came  out, 
with  his  cat-like,  stealthy  step,  and  walked  quickly  into  the 
neighborhood  of  Leicester  Square.  Leonard  saw  him  enter 


934  MY  NOVEL;    OR, 

one  of  those  small  hotels  which  are  appropriated  to 
foreigners.  Wild  outlandish  fellows  were  loitering  about 
the  door  and  in  the  street.  Leonard  divined  that  the  Count 
or  the  Count's  confidants  were  there." 

"If  that  can  be  proved,"  cried  Riccabocca — "  if  Randal 
could  have  been  thus  in  communication  with  Peschiera — 
could  have  connived  at  such  perfidy — I  am  released  from 
i  my  promise.  Oh,  to  prove  it !  " 

"  Proof  will  come  later,  if  we  are  on  the  right  track. 
Let  me  go  on.  While  waiting  near  the  door  of  this  hotel, 
Beppo  himself,  the  very  man  Leonard  was  in  search  of,  came 
forth,  and,  after  speaking  a  few  words  to  some  of  the  loiter- 
ing foreigners,  walked  briskly  toward  Piccadilly.  Leonard 
here  resigned  all  further  heed  of  Leslie,  and  gave  chase  to 
Beppo,  whom  he  recognized  at  a  glance.  Coming  up  to 
him,  he  said,  quietly,  'I  have  a  letter  for  the  Marchesa  di 
Negra.  She  told  me  I  was  to  send  it  to  her  by  you.  I  have 
been  searching  for  you  the  .whole  day.'  The  man  fell  into 
the  trap,  and  the  more  easily,  because — as  he  since  owned 
in  excuse  for  a  simplicity,  which,  I  dare  say,  weighed 
on  his  conscience  more  than  any  of  the  thousand-and-one 
crime  she  may  have  committed  in  the  course  of  his  illustrious 
life — he  had  been  employed  by  the  Marchesa  as  a  spy  upon 
Leonard,  and,  with  an  Italian's  acumen  in  affairs  of  the 
heart,  detected  her  secret." 

"What  secret  ?  "  asked  the  innocent  sage. 

"Her  love  for  the  handsome  young  poet.  I  betray  that 
secret,  in  order  to  give  her  some  slight  excuse  for  becoming 
Peschiera's  tool.  She  believed  Leonard  to  be  in  love  with 
your  daughter,  and  jealousy  urged  her  to  treason.  Violante, 
no  doubt,  will  explain  this  to  you.  Well,  the  man  fell  into 
the  trap.  'Give  me  the  letter,  Signore,  and  quick.' 

<(<  It  is  at  an  hotel  close  by;  come  there,  and  you  will 
have  a  guinea  for  your  trouble.' 

"  So  Leonard  walked  our  gentleman  into  my  hotel ;  and 
having  taken  him  into  my  dressing-room,  turned  the  key 
and  there  left  him.  On  learning  his  capture,  the  Prince 
and  myself  hastened  to  see  our  prisoner.  He  was  at  first 
sullen  and  silent  ;  but  when  the  Prince  disclosed  his  rank 
and  name  (you  know  the  mysterious  terror  the  meaner 
Italians  feel  for  an  Austrian  magnate),  his  countenance 
changed,  and  his  courage  fell.  What  with  threats,  and 
what  with  promises,  we  soon  obtained  all  that  we  sought  to 
know  ;  and  an  offered  bribe,  which  I  calculated  at  ten 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  935 

times  the  amount  the  rogue  could  ever  expect  to  receive 
from  his  spendthrift  master,  finally  bound  him  cheerfully 
to  our  service,  soul  and  body.  Thus  we  learned  the  dis- 
mal place  to  which  your  noble  daughter  had  been  so  per- 
fidiously ensnared.  We  learned  also  that  the  Count  had 
not  yet  visited  her,  hoping  much  from  the  effect  that 
prolonged  incarceration  might  have  in  weakening  her  spirits 
and  inducing  her  submission.  Peschiera  was  to  go  to  the 
house  at  midnight,  thence  to  transport  her  to  the  vessel. 
Beppo  had  received  orders  to  bring  the  carriage  to  Leicester 
Square,  where  Peschiera  would  join  him.  The  Count  (as 
Leonard  surmised)  had  taken  skulking  refuge  at  the  hotel 
in  which  Randal  Leslie  had  disappeared.  The  Prince, 
Leonard,  Frank  (who  was  then  in  the  hotel),  and  myself, 
held  a  short  council.  Should  we  go  at  once  to  the  house, 
and,  by  the  help  of  the  police,  force  an  entrance,  and 
rescue  your  daughter  ?  This  was  a  very  hazardous  resource. 
The  abode,  which,  at  various  times,  had  served  for  the 
hiding-place  of  men  haunted  by  the  law,  abounded,  ac- 
cording to  our  informant,  in  subterranean  vaults  and  secret 
passages,  and  had  more  than  one  outlet  on  the  river.  At 
our  first  summons  at  the  door,  therefore,  the  ruffians  within 
might  not  only  escape  themselves,  but  carry  off  their  pri- 
soner. The  door  was  strong,  and  before  our  entrance  could 
be  forced,  all  trace  of  her  we  sought  might  be  lost.  Again, 
too,  the  Prince  was  desirous  of  bringing  Peschiera's  guilty 
design  home  to  him — anxious  to  be  able  to  state  to  the 
Emperor,  and  to  the  great  minister,  his  kinsman,  that  he 
himself  had  witnessed  the  Count's  vile  abuse  of  the  Em- 
peror's permission  to  wed  your  daughter.  In  short,  while 
I  only  thought  of  Violante,  the  Prince  thought  also  of  her 
father's  recall  to  his  dukedom.  Yet  still  to  leave  Violante 
in  that  terrible  house,  even  for  an  hour,  a  few  minutes, 
subjected  to  the  actual  presence  of  Peschiera,  unguarded 
save  by  the  feeble  and  false  woman  who  had  betrayed,  and 
might  still  desert  her — how  contemplate  that  fearful  risk  ? 
What  might  not  happen  in  the  interval  between  Peschiera's 
visit  to  the  house  and  his  appearance  with  his  victim  on  the 
vessel  ?  An  idea  flashed  on  me — Beppo  was  to  conduct 
the  Count  to  the  house  ;  if  I  could  accompany  Beppo  in 
disguise — enter  the  house— myself  be  present? — I  rushed 
back  to  our  informant,  now  become  our  agent ;  I  found 
the  plan  still  more  feasible  than  I  had  at  first  supposed. 
Beppo  had  asked  the  Count's  permission  to  bring  with 


936  My  NOVEL;    OR% 

him  a  brother  accustomed  to  the  sea,  and  who  wished  to 
quit  England.  I  might  personate  that  brother.  You  know 
that  the  Italian  language,  in  most  of  its  dialects  and  va- 
rieties of  patois — Genoese,  Piedmontese,  Venetian — is  as 
familiar  to  me  as  Addison's  English  !  Alas !  rather  more 
so.  Presto  !  the  thing  was  settled.  I  felt  my  heart,  from 
that  moment,  as  light  as  a  feather,  and  my  sense  as  keen  as 
the  dart  which  a  feather  wings.  My  plans  now  were 
formed  in  a  breath,  and  explained  in  a  sentence.  It  was 
right  that  you  should  be  present  on  board  the  vessel,  not 
only  to  witness  your  foe's  downfall,  but  to  receive  your 
child  in  a  father's  arms.  Leonard  set  out  to  Norwood  for 
you,  cautioned  not  to  define  too  precisely  for  what  object 
you  were  wanted,  till  on  board. 

"  Frank,  accompanied  by  Beppo  (for  there  was  yet  time 
for  these  preparations  before  midnight),  repaired  to  the 
yacht,  taking  Giacomo  by  the  way.  There  our  new  ally, 
familiar  to  most  of  that  piratical  crew,  and  sanctioned  by 
the  presence  of  Frank,  as  the  Count's  friend  and  prospec- 
tive brother-in-law,  told  Peschiera's  hirelings  that  they  were 
to  quit  the  vessel,  and  wait  on  shore  under  Giacomo's 
auspices  till  further  orders  ;  and  as  soon  as  the  decks  were 
cleared  of  these  ruffians  (save  a  few  left  to  avoid  suspicion, 
and  who  were  afterward  safely  stowed  down  in  the  hold), 
and  as  soon  as  Giacomo  had  lodged  his  convoy  in  a  public 
house,  where  he  quitted  them,  drinking  his  health  over  un- 
limited rations  of  grog,  your  inestimable  servant  quietly 
shipped  on  board  the  Italians  pressed  into  the  service,  and 
Frank  took  charge  of  the  English  sailors. 

"  The  Prince,  promising  to  be  aboard  in  due  time,  then 
left  me  to  make  arrangements  for  his  journey  to  Vienna 
with  the  dawn.  I  hastened  to  a  masquerade  warehouse, 
where,  with  the  help  of  an  ingenious  stagewright  artificer, 
I  disguised  myself  into  a  most  thorough-paced-looking  cut- 
throat, and  then  waited  the  return  of  my  friend  Beppo  with 
the  most  perfect  confidence." 

"  Yet,  if  that  rascal  had  played  false,  all  these  precau- 
tions were  lost.  Cospetto  !  you  were  not  wise,"  said  the  pru- 
dent philosopher. 

"  Very  likely  not.  You  would  have  been  so  wise,  that 
by  this  time  your  daughter  would  have  been  lost  to  you 
for  ever." 

"  But  why  not  employ  the  police  ?" 

"  First — because  I  had  already  employed  them  to  little 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  937 

purpose.  Secondly — Because  I  no  longer  wanted  them. 
Thirdly — Because  to  use  them  for  my  final  catastrophe, 
would  be  to  drag  your  name,  and  your  (laughter's,  perhaps, 
before  a  police  court ;  at  all  events  before  the  tribunal  of 
public  gossip.  And  lastly — because  having  decided  upon 
the  proper  punishment,  it  had  too  much  of  equity  to  be 
quite  consistent  with  law  ;  and  in  forcibly  seizing  a  man's 
person,  and  shipping  him  off  to  Norway,  my  police  would 
have  been  sadly  in  the  way.  Certainly  my  plan  rather  savors 
of  Lope  de  Vega  than  of  Blackstone.  However,  you  see  suc- 
cess atones  for  all  irregularities.  I  resume  : — Beppo  came 
back  in  time  to  narrate  all  the  arrangements  that  had  been 
made,  and  to  inform  me  that  a  servant  from  the  Count  had 
come  on  board  just  as  our  new  crew  were  assembled  there, 
to  order  the  boat  to  be  at  the  place  where  we  found  it.  The 
servant  it  was  deemed  prudent  to  detain  and  secure.  Gia- 
como  undertook  to  manage  the  boat.  I  am  nearly  at  the 
close  of  my  story.  Sure  of  my  disguise,  I  got  on  the  coach- 
box with  Beppo.  The  Count  arrived  at  the  spot  appointed, 
and  did  not  even  honor  myself  with  a  question  or  glance. 
'  Your  brother  ?'  he  said  to  Beppo  ;  '  one  might  guess  that ; 
he  has  the  family  likeness.  Not  a  handsome  race  yours ! 
Drive  on.' 

"  We  arrived  at  the  house.  I  dismounted  to  open  the 
carriage-door.  The  Count  gave  me  one  look. 

"  '  Beppo  says  you  have  known  the  sea.'  " 

"  '  Excellency,  yes.     I  am  a  Genoese.'  " 

"'Ha!  how  is  that?  Beppo  is  a  Lombard.' — Admire 
the  readiness  with  which  I  redeemed  my  blunder  :  " 

"  '  Excellency,  it  pleased  Heaven  that  Beppo  should  be 
born  in  Lombardy,  and  then  to  remove  my  respected  parents 
to  Genoa,  at  which  city  they  were  so  kindly  treated,  that 
my  mother,  in  common  gratitude,  was  bound  to  increase  its 
population.  It  was  all  she  could  do,  poor  woman.  You  see 
she  did  her  best.'  " 

"  The  Count  smiled,  and  said  no  more.  The  door 
opened — I  followed  him  ;  your  daughter  can  tell  you  the 
rest." 

"  And  you  risked  your  life  in  that  den  of  miscreants ! 
Noble  friend  ! " 

"  Risked  my  life — no  ;  but  I  risked  the  Count's.     There 

was  one  moment  when  my  hand  was  on  my  trigger,  and 

my  soul  very  near  the  sin  of  justifiable  homicide.     But 

my  tale  is  done.     The  Count  is  now  on  the  river,  and  will 

40 


938  MY  NOVEL;    OR, 

soon  be  on  the  salt  seas, — though  not  bound  to  Norway  as 
I  had  first  intended.  I  could  not  inflict  that  frigid  voyage 
on  his  sister.  So  the  men  have  orders  to  cruise  about  for 
sixty  days,  keeping  aloof  from  shore,  and  they  will  then 
land  the  Count  and  the  Marchesa,  by  boat,  on  the  French 
coast.  That  delay  will  give  time  for  the  Prince  to  arrive  at 
Vienna  .before  the  Count  could  follow  him." 

"  Would  he  have  that  audacity  ?" 

"  Do  him  more  justice  !  Audacity,  faith  !  he  does  not 
want  for  that.  But  I  dreaded  not  his  appearance  at  Vienna 
with  such  evidence  against  him.  I  dreaded  his  encounter- 
ing the  Prince  on  the  road,  and  forcing  a  duel,  before  his 
character  was  so  blasted  that  the  Prince  could  refuse  it  ; 
— and  the  Count  is  a  dead  shot  of  course  ; — all  such  men 
are  !  " 

"  He  will  return,  and  you " 

"  I  ! — Oh,  never  fear  ;  he  has  had  enough  of  me.  And 
now,  my  dear  friend — now  that  Violante  is  safe  once  more 
under  your  own  roof — now  that  my  honored  mother  must 
long  ere  this  have  been  satisfied  by  Leonard,  who  left  us 
to  go  to  her,  that  our  success  has  been  achieved  without 
danger,  and,  what  she  will  value  almost  as  much,  without 
scandal — now  that  your  foe  is  powerless  as  a  reed  floating 

on  the  water  toward  its  own  rot,  and  the  Prince  Von is 

perhaps  about  to  enter  his  carriage  on  the  road  to  Dover, 
charged  with  the  mission  of  restoring  to  Italy  her  worthiest 
son— let  me  dismiss  you  to  your  own  happy  slumbers,  and 
allow  me  to  wrap  myself  in  my  cloak,  and  snatch  a  short 
sleep  on  the  sofa,  till  yonder  gray  dawn  has  mellowed  into 
riper  day.  My  eyes  are  heavy,  and  if  you  stay  here  three 
minutes  longer,  I  shall  be  out  of  reach  of  hearing — in  the 
land  of  dreams.  Buona  notte  !  " 

"  But  there  is  a  bed  prepared  for  you." 

Harley  shook  his  head  in  dissent,  and  composed  himself 
at  length  on  the  sofa. 

Riccabocca  bending,  wrapped  the  cloak  round  his  guest, 
kissed  him  on  the  forehead,  and  crept  out  of  the  room  to 
rejoin  Jemima,  who  still  sat  up  for  him,  nervously  anxious 
to  learn  from  him  those  explanations  which  her  considerate 
affection  would  not  allow  her  to  ask  from  the  agitated  and 
exhausted  Violante.  "  Not  in  bed  ! "  cried  the  sage,  on 
seeing  her.  "  Have  you  no  feelings  of  compassion  for  my 
son  that  is  to  be  ?  Just,  too,  when  there  is  a  reasonable 
probability  that  we  can  afford  a  son  ?" 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  939 

Riccabocca  here  laughed  merrily,  and  his  wife  threw 
herself  on  his  shoulder,  and  cried  for  joy. 

But  no  sleep  fell  on  the  lids  of  Harley  L'Estrange.  He 
started  up  when  his  host  had  left  him,  and  paced  the  apart- 
ment, with  noiseless  but  rapid  strides.  All  whim  and  levity 
had  vanished  from  his  face,  which,  by  the  light  of  the  dawn, 
seemed  death-like  pale.  On  that  pale  face  there  was  all 
the  struggle,  and  all  the  anguish  of  passion.  "  These  arms 
have  clasped  her,"  he  murmured  ;  "these  lips  have  inhaled 
her  breath.  I  am  under  the  same  roof,  and  she  is  saved — 
saved  ever  more  from  danger  and  from  penury,  and  for  ever 
divided  from  me.  Courage,  courage!  Oh,  honor,  duty; 
and  thou,  dark  memory  of  the  past — thou  that  didst  pledge 
love  at  least  to  a  grave — support — defend  me  !  Can  I  be-  so 
weak  ! " 

The  sun  was  in  the  wintry  skies,  when  Harley  stole 
from  the  house.  No  one  was  stirring  except  Giacomo,  who 
stood  by  the  threshold  of  the  door,  which  he  had  just  un- 
barred, feeding  the  house-dog.  "Good  day,"  said  the  ser- 
vant, smiling.  "  The  dog  has  not  been  of  much  use,  but  I 
don't  think  the  Padrone  will  henceforth  grudge  him  a 
breakfast.  I  shall  take  him  to  Italy,  and  marry  him  there, 
in  the  hope  of  improving  the  breed  of  our  native  Lombard 
dogs." 

"  Ah  ! "  said  Harley,  "  you  will  soon  leave  our  cold 
shores.  May  sunshine  settle  on  you  all."  He  paused,  and 
looked  up  at  the  closed  windows  wistfully. 

"  The  Signorina  sleeps  there,"  said  Giacomo,  in  a  husky 
voice,  "  just  over  the  room  in  which  you  slept." 

"  I  knew  it,"  muttered  Harley.  "An  instinct  told  me  of 
it.  Open  the  gate  ;  I  must  go  home.  My  excuses  to  your 
lord,  and  to  all." 

He  turned  a  deaf  ear  to  Giacomo's  entreaties  to  stay  till 
at  least  the  Signorina  was  up — the  Signorina  whom  he 
had  saved.  Without  trusting  himself  to  speak  further,  he 
quitted  the  demesne,  and  walked  with  swift  strides  toward 
London. 


940  MY  NOVEL;    OR, 


CHAPTER  X. 

HARLEY  had  not  long  reached  his  hotel,  and  was  still 
seated  before  his  untasted  breakfast,  when  Mr.  Randal  Les- 
lie was  announced.  Randal,  who  was  in  the  firm  belief  that 
Violante  was  now  on  the  wide  seas  with  Peschiera,  entered, 
looking  the  very  personation  of  anxiety  and  fatigue.  For, 
like  the  great  Cardinal  Richelieu,  Randal  had  learned  the 
art  how  to  make  good  use  of  his  own  delicate  and  some- 
what sickly  aspect.  The  Cardinal,  when  intent  on  some 
sanguinary  scheme  requiring  unusual  vitality  and  vigor, 
contrived  to  make  himself  look  a  harmless  sufferer  at  death's 
door.  And  Randal,  whose  nervous  energies  could  at  that 
moment  have  whirled  him  from  one  end  of  this  huge  me- 
tropolis to  the  other,  with  a  speed  that  would  have  out- 
stripped a  prize  pedestrian,  now  sank  into  a  chair  with  a 
jaded  weariness  that  no  mother  could  have  seen  without 
compassion.  He  seemed  since  the  last  night  to  have  gal- 
loped toward  the  last  stage  of  consumption. 

"  Have  you  discovered  no  trace,  my  lord  ?  Speak, 
speak !  " 

"  Speak — certainly.  I  am  too  happy  to  relieve  your 
mind,  Mr.  Leslie.  What  fools  we  were  !  Ha  !  ha  !  " 

"  Fools — how  ? "  faltered  Randal. 

"  Of  course  ;  the  young  lady  was  at  her  father's  house 
all  the  time." 

"  Eh  ?  what  ?  " 

"And  is  there  now." 

"  It  is  not  possible  ! "  said  Randal,  in  the  hollow  dreamy 
tone  of  a  somnambulist.  "At  her  father's  house — at  Nor- 
wood !  Are  you  sure  ?" 

"  Sure." 

Randal  made  a  desperate  and  successful  effort  at  self- 
control.  "  Heaven  be  praised  !  "  he  cried.  "And  just  as  I 
had  begun  to  suspect  the  Count — the  Marchesa  ;  for  I  find 
that  neither  of  them  slept  at  home  last  night  ;  and  Levy 
told  me  that  the  Count  had  written  to  him,  requesting  the 
Baron  to  discharge  his  bills,  as  he  should  be  for  some  time 
absent  from  England." 

"  Indeed  !     Well,  that  is  nothing  to  us — very  much  to 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  941 

Baron  Levy,  if  he  executes  his  commission,  and  discharges 
the  bills.  What !  are  you  going  already  ? " 

"  Do  you  ask  such  a  question  ?  How  can  I  stay  ?  I 
must  go  to  Norwood — must  see  Violante  with  my  own 
eyes  !  Forgive  my  emotion — I — I " 

Randal  snatched  at  his  hat,  and  hurried  away.  The  low 
scornful  laugh  of  Harley  followed  him  as  he  went. 

"  I  have  no  more  doubt  of  his  guilt  than  Leonard  has. 
Violante  at  least  shall  not  be  the  prize  of  that  thin-lipped 
knave.  What  strange  fascination  can  he  possess,  that  he 
should  thus  bind  to  him  the  two  men  I  value  most — Aud- 
ley  Egerton  and  Alphonso  di  Serrano  ?  Both  so  wise  too  ! 
— one  in  books,  one  in  action.  And  both  suspicious  men  ! 
While  I,  so  imprudently  trustful  and  frank — Ah  !  that  is  the 
reason  ;  our  natures  are  antipathetic  ;  cunning,  simulation, 
falsehood,  I  have  no  mercy,  no  pardon  for  these.  Woe  to 
all  hypocrites  if  I  were  a  Grand  Inquisitor  !  " 

"  Mr.  Richard  Avenel,"  said  the  waiter,  throwing  open 
the  door. 

Harley  caught  at  the  arm  of  the  chair  on  which  he  sate, 
and  grasped  it  nervously  ;  while  his  eyes  became  fixed  in- 
tently on  the  form  of  the  gentleman  who  now  advanced  into 
the  room.  He  rose  with  an  effort. 

"  Mr.  Avenel !  "  he  said,  falteringly.  "  Did  I  hear  your 
name  aright  ?  Avenel  ?  " 

"  Richard  Avenel,  at  your  service,  my  lord,"  answered 
Dick.  "  My  family  is  not  unknown  to  you  ;  and  I  am  not 
ashamed  of  my  family,  though  my  parents  were  small  Lans- 
mere  tradesfolks.  And  I  am — a-hem  ! — a  citizen  of  the 
world,  and  well-to-do ! "  added  Dick,  dropping  his  kid 
gloves  into  his  hat,  and  then  placing  the  hat  on  the  table, 
with  the  air  of  an  old  acquaintance  who  wishes  to  make 
himself  at  home. 

Lord  L'Estrange  bowed,  and  said,  as  he  reseated  him- 
self (Dick  being  firmly  seated  already) — "You  are  most 
welcome,  sir  ;  and  if  there  be  anything  I  can  do  for  one  of 
your  name " 

"  Thank  you,  my  lord,"  interrupted  Dick.  "  I  want 
nothing  of  any  man.  A  bold  word  to  say;  but  I  say  it. 
Nevertheless,  I  should  not  have  presumed  to  call  on  your 
lordship,  unless,  indeed,  you  had  done  me  the  honor  to 
call  first  at  my  house,  Eaton  Square,  No.  *  *  *. — I  should 
not  have  presumed  to  call,  if  it  had  not  been  on  business,  I 
may  say — NATIONAL  business." 


942  MY  NOVEL;    OR, 

Harley  bowed  again.  A  faint  smile  flitted  for  a  moment 
to  his  lip,  but,  vanishing,  gave  way  to  a  mournful,  absent 
expression  of  countenance,  as  he  scanned  the  handsome 
features  before  him,  and,  perhaps,  masculine  and  bold 
though  they  were,  still  discovered  something  of  a  family 
likeness  to  one  whose  beauty  had  once  been  his  ideal  of 
female  loveliness  ;  for  suddenly  he  stretched  forth  his  hand, 
and  said,  with  more  than  his  usual  cordial  sweetness,  "  Busi- 
ness, or  not  business,  let  us  speak  to  each  other  as  friends 
— for  the  sake  of  a  name  that  takes  me  back  to  Lansmere — 
to  my  youth.  I  listen  to  you  with  interest." 

Richard  Avenel,  much  surprised  by  this  unexpected 
kindliness,  and  touched  he  knew  not  why,  by  the  soft  and 
melancholy  tone  of  Harley's  voice,  warmly  pressed  the  hand 
held  out  to  him ;  and,  seized  with  a  rare  fit  of  shyness,  col- 
ored, and  coughed,  and  hemmed,  and  looked  first  down, 
then  aside,  before  he  could  find  the  words  which  were  gen- 
erally ready  enough  at  his  command. 

"  You  are  very  good,  Lord  L'Estrange  ;  nothing  can  be 
handsomer.  I  feel  it  here,  my  lord,"  striking  his  buff  waist- 
coat—  "I  do,  'pon  my  honor.  But  not  to  waste  your  time 
(time's  money),  I  come  to  the  point.  It  is  about  the  bor- 
ough of  Lansmere.  Your  family  interest  is  very  strong  in 
that  borough.  But  excuse  me  if  I  say  that  I  don't  think 
you  are  aware  that  I  too  have  cooked  up  a  pretty  consider- 
able interest  on  the  other  side.  No  offence — opinions  are 
free.  And  the  popular  tide  runs  strong  with  us — I  mean 
with  me,  at  the  impending  crisis — that  is,  at  the  next  elec- 
tion. Now,  I  have  a  great  respect  for  the  Earl,  your  father  ; 
and  so  have  those  that  brought  me  into  the  world  ; — my 
father,  John,  was  always  a  regular  good  Blue  ; — and  my  re- 
spect for  yourself  since  I  came  into  this  room  has  gone  up 
in  the  market — a  very  great  rise  indeed — considerable. 
So  I  should  just  like  to  see  if  we  could  set  our  heads  to- 
gether, and  settle  the  borough  between  us  two,  in  a  snug 
private  way,  as  public  men  ought  to  do  when  they  get  to- 
gether— nobody  else  by,  and  no  necessity  for  that  sort  of 
humbug — which  is  so  common  in  this  rotten  old  country. 
Eh,  my  lord  ?" 

"  Mr.  Avenel,"  said  Harley,  slowly,  recovering  himself 
from  the  abstraction  with  which  he  had  listened  to  Dick's 
earlier  sentences,  "  I  fear  I  do  not  quite  understand  you  ; 
but  I  have  no  other  interest  in  the  next  election  for  the 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  943 

borough  of  Lansmere,  than  as  may  serve  one  whom,  what- 
ever be  your  politics,  you  must  acknowledge  to  be " 

"  A  humbug  !  " 

"  Mr.  Avenel,  you  cannot  mean  the  person  I  mean.  I 
speak  of  one  of  the  first  statesmen  of  our  time — of  Mr. 
Audley  Egerton — of- 


"  A  stiff-necked,  pompous- 


"  My  earliest  and  dearest  friend." 

The  rebuke,  though  gently  said,  sufficed  to  silence  Dick 
for  a  moment  ;  and  when  he  spoke  again,  it  was  in  an  al- 
tered tone. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,  my  lord,  I  am  sure.  Of  course,  I 
can  say  nothing  disrespectful  of  your  friend  ; — very  sorry 
that  he  is  your  friend.  In  that  case,  I  am  almost  afraid 
that  nothing  is  to  be  done.  But  Mr.  Audley  Egerton  has 
not  a  chance.  Let  me  convince  you  of  this.''  And  Dick 
pulled  out  a  little  book,  bound  neatly  in  red. 

"  Canvass-book,  my  lord.  I  am  no  aristocrat.  I  don't 
pretend  to  carry  a  free  and  independent  constituency  in 
my  breeches-pocket.  Heaven  forbid  !  But,  as  a  practical 
man  of  business — what  I  do  is  done  properly.  Just  look  at 
this  book.  Well  kept,  eh  ?  Names,  promises,  inclinations, 
public  opinions,  and  private  interests  of  every  individual 
Lansmere  elector  !  Now,  as  one  man  of  honor  to  another, 
I  show  you  this  book,  and  I  think  you  will  see  that  we 
have  a  clear  majority  of  at  least  eighty  votes  as  against  Mr. 
Egerton." 

"That  is  your  view  of  the  question,"  said  Harley,  taking 
the  book  and  glancing  over  the  names  catalogued  and 
ticketed  therein.  But  his  countenance  became  serious  as 
he  recognized  many  names  familiar  to  his  boyhood  as  those 
of  important  electors  on  the  Lansmere  side,  and  which  he 
now  found  transferred  to  the  hostile.  "  But  surely  there 
are  persons  here  in  whom  you  deceive  yourself — old  friends 
of  my  family — staunch  supporters  of  our  party." 

"  Exactly  so.  But  this  new  question  has  turned  all  old 
things  topsy-turvy.  No  relying  on  any  friend  of  yours. 
No  reliance  except  in  this  book  !  "  said  Dick,  slapping  the 
red  cover  with  calm  but  ominous  emphasis. 

"  Now,  what  I  want  to  propose  is  this  :  Don't  let  the 
Lansmere  interest  be  beaten  ;  it  would  vex  the  old  Earl — 
go  to  his  heart,  I  am  sure." 

Harley  nodded. 

"  And  the  Lansmere  interest  need  not  be  beaten,  if  you'll 


944  MY  NOVEL;    UK, 

put  up  another  man  instead  of  this  red-tapist.  (Beg  par- 
don.) You  see  I  only  want  to  get  in  one  man — you  want 
to  get  in  another.  Why  not  ?  Now  there's  a  smart  youth 
— connection  of  Mr.  Egerton's — Randal  Leslie.  I  have  no 
objection  to  him,  though  he  is  of  your  colors.  Withdraw 
Mr.  Egerton,  and  I'll  withdraw  my  second  man  before  it 
comes  to  the  poll  ;  and  so  we  shall  halve  the  borough  slick 
betxveen  us.  That's  the  way  to  do  business,  eh,  my  lord  ?  " 

"  Randal  Leslie  !  Oh,  you  wish  to  bring  in  Mr.  Leslie  ? 
But  he  stands  with  Egerton,  not  against  him." 

"Ah  !  "  said  Dick,  smiling,  as  if  to  himself,  "so  I  hear; 
and  we  could  bring  him  in  over  Egerton  without  saying  a 
word  to  you.  But  all  our  family  respects  yours,  and  so  I 
have  wished  to  do  the  thing  handsome  and  open.  Let  the 
Earl  and  your  party  be  content  with  young  Leslie." 

"  Young  Leslie  has  spoken  to  you  ? " 

"  Not  as  to  my  coming  here.  Oh,  no — that's  a  secret-  — 
private  and  confidential,  my  lord.  And  now,  to  make  mat- 
ters still  more  smooth,  I  propose  that  my  man  shall  be  one 
to  your  lordship's  own  heart.  I  find  you  have  been  very 
kind  to  my  nephew  ;  does  you  credit,  my  lord  ;  a  wonderful 
young  man,  though  I  say  it.  I  never  guessed  there  was  so 
much  in  him.  Yet  all  the  time  he  was  in  my  house,  he  had 
in  his  desk  the  very  sketch  of  an  invention  that  is  now  saving 
me  from  ruin — from  positive  ruin — Baron  Levy — the  King's 
Bench — and  almighty  smash  !  Now,  such  a  young  man 
ought  to  be  in  Parliament.  I  like  to  bring  forward  a  rela- 
tion ;  that  is,  when  he  does  one  credit ;  'tis  human  nature 
and  sacred  ties — one's  own  flesh  and  blood  ;  and  besides, 
one  hand  rubs  the  other,  and  one  leg  helps  on  the  other,  and 
relations  get  on  best  in  the  world  when  they  pull  together  ; 
that  is,  supposing  that  they  are  the  proper  sort  of  rela- 
tions, and  pull  one  on,  not  down.  I  had  once  thought  of 
standing  for  Lansmere  myself— thought  of  it  very  lately. 
The  country  wants  men  like  me — I  know  that ;  but  I  have 
an  idea  that  I  had  better  see  to  my  own  business.  The 
country  may,  or  may  not,  do  without  me,  stupid  old  thing 
that  she  is  !  But  my  mill  and  my  new  engines,  there  is  no 
doubt  that  they  cannot  do  without  me.  In  short,  as  we  are 
quite  alone,  and,  as  I  said  before,  there's  no  kind  of  neces- 
sity for  that  sort  of  humbug  which  exists  when  other  people 
are  present,  provide  elsewhere  for  Mr.  Egerton,  whom  I 
hate  like  poison — I  have  a  right  to  do  that,  I  suppose,  with- 
out offence  to  your  lordship — and  the  two  younkers,  Leon- 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  945 

ard  Fairfield  and  Randal  Leslie,  shall  be  members  for  the 
free  and  independent  borough  of  Lansmere  ! " 

"  But  does  Leonard  wish  to  come  into  Parliament  ? " 

"  No,  he  says  not  ;  but  that's  nonsense.  If  your  lord- 
ship will  just  signify  your  wish  that  he  should  not  lose  this 
noble  opportunity  to  raise  himself  in  life,  and  get  something 
handsome  out  of  the  nation,  I'm  sure  he  owes  you  too  much 
to  hesitate — 'specially  when  'tis  to  his  own  advantage.  And, 
besides,  one  of  us  Avenels  ought  to  be  in  Parliament.  And 
if  I  have  not  the  time  and  learning,  and  so  forth,  and  he 
has,  why,  it  stands  to  reason  that  he  should  be  the  man. 
And  if  he  can  do  something  for  me  one  day — not  that  I 
want  anything — but  still  a  baronetcy  or  so  would  be  a  com- 
pliment to  British  industry,  and  be  appreciated  as  such  by 
myself  and  the  public  at  large — I  say,  if  he  could  do  some- 
thing of  that  sort,  it  would  keep  up  the  whole  family  ;  and 
if  he  can't,  why,  I'll  forgive  him." 

"  Avenel,"  said  Harley,  with  that  familiar  and  gracious 
charm  of  manner  which  few  ever  could  resist — "Avenel,  if,  as 
a  great  personal  favor  to  myself — to  me,  your  fellow-towns- 
man (I  was  born  at  Lansmere) — if  I  asked  you  to  forego 
your  grudge  against  Audley  Egerton,  whatever  that  grudge 
be,  and  not  oppose  his  election,  while  our  party  would  not 
oppose  your  nephew's — could  you  not  oblige  me  ?  Come, 
for  the  sake  of  dear  Lansmere,  and  all  the  old  kindly  feel- 
ings between  your  family  and  mine,  say  '  Yes — so  shall  it 
be.'" 

Richard  Avenel  was  almost  melted.  He  turned  away 
his  face  ;  but  there  suddenly  rose  to  his  recollection  the 
scornful  brow  of  Audley  Egerton,  the  lofty  contempt  with 
which  he,  then  the  worshipful  Mayor  of  Screwstown,  had 
been  shown  out  of  the  minister's  office-room  ;  and,  the  blood 
rushing  over  his  cheeks,  he  stamped  his  foot  on  the  floor, 
and  exclaimed,  angrily,  "  No  ;  I  swore  that  Audley  Egerton 
should  smart  for  his  insolence  to  me,  as  sure  as  my  name 
be  Richard  Avenel  ;  and  all  the  soft  soap  in  the  world  will 
not  wash  out  that  oath.  So  there  is  nothing  for  it  but  for 
you  to  withdraw  that  man,  or  for  me  to  defeat  him.  And 
I  would  do  so,  ay — and  in  the  way  that  could  most  gall  him, 
if  it  cost  me  half  my  fortune.  But  it  will  not  cost  th.it," 
said  Dick,  cooling,  "nor  anything  like  it;  for  when  the 
popular  tide  runs  in  one's  favor,  'tis  astonishing  how  cheap 
an  election  may  be.  It  will  cost  him  enough  though,  and 
all  for  nothing — worse  than  nothing.  Think  of  it,  my  lord." 
40* 


946  MY  NOVEL;    OR, 

"I  will,  Mr.  Avenel.  And  I  say,  in  my  turn,  that  my 
friendship  is  as  strong  as  your  hate  ;  and  that  if  it  costs  me, 
not  half,  but  my  whole  fortune,  Audley  Egerton  shall  come 
in  without  a  shilling  of  expense  to  himself,  should  we  once 
decide  that  he  stand  the  contest." 

"Very  well,  my  lord — very  well,"  said  Dick,  stiffly,  and 
drawing  on  his  kid  gloves;  " we'll  see  if  the  aristocracy  is 
always  to  ride  over  the  free  choice  of  the  people  in  this  way. 
But  the  people  are  roused,  my  lord.  The  March  of  Enlight- 
enment is  commenced — the  Schoolmaster  is  abroad,  and  the 
British  Lion " 

"  Nobody  here  but  ourselves,  my  dear  Avenel.  Is  not 
this  rather  what  you  call — humbug?" 

Dick  started,  stared,  colored,  and  then  burst  out  laugh- 
ing— "Give  us  yoUr  hand  again,  my  lord.  You  are  a  good 
fellow,  that  you  are.  And  for  your  sake " 

"  You'll  not  oppose  Egerton  ? " 

"  Tooth  and  nail — tooth  and  nail  ! "  cried  Dick,  clap- 
ping his  hands  to  his  ears,  and  fairly  running  out  of  the 
room. 

There  passed  over  Harley's  countenance  that  change  so 
frequent  to  it — more  frequent,  indeed,  to  the  gay  children 
of  the  world  than  those  of  consistent  tempers  and  uniform 
habits  might  suppose.  There  is  many  a  man  whom  we  call 
friend,  and  whose  face  seems  familiar  to  us  as  our  own  ; 
yet,  could  we  but  take  a  glimpse  of  him  when  we  leave  his 
presence,  and  he  sinks  back  into  his  chair  alone,  we  should 
sigh  to  see  how  often  the  smile  on  the  frankest  lip  is  but  a 
bravery  of  the  drill,  only  worn  when  on  parade. 

What  thoughts  did  the  visit  of  Richard  Avenel  bequeath 
to  Harley  ?  It  were  hard  to  define  them. 

In  his  place,  an  Audley  Egerton  would  have  taken  some 
comfort  from  the  visit — would  have  murmured,  "  Thank 
Heaven  !  I  have  not  to  present  to  the  world  that  terrible 
man  as  my  brother-in-law."  But  probably,  Harley  had  es- 
caped, in  his  reverie,  from  Richard  Avenel  altogether. 
Even  as  the  slightest  incident  in  the  day-time  causes  our 
dreams  at  night,  but  is  itself  clean  forgotten — so  the  name, 
so  the  look  of  the  visitor,  might  have  sufficed  but  to  influ- 
ence a  vision — as  remote  from  its  casual  suggester,  as  what 
we  call  real  life  is  from  that  life  much  more  real,  that  we 
imagine,  or  remember,  in  the  haunted  chambers  ot  the 
brain.  For  what  is  real  life  ?  How  little  the  things  actu- 
ally doing  around  us  affect  the  springs  of  our  sorrow  or 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  947 

joy ;  but  the  life  which  our  dulness  calls  romance — the 
sentiment,  the  remembrance,  the  hope,  and  the  fear,  that 
are  never  seen  in  the  toil  of  our  hands — never  heard  in  the 
jargon  on  our  lips  ; — from  that  life  all  spin,  as  the  spider 
from  its  entrails,  the  web  by  which  we  hang  in  the  sun- 
beam, or  glide  out  of  sight  into  the  shelter  of  home. 

"I  must  not  think,"  said  Harley,  rousing  himself  with  a 
sigh,  "either  of  past  or  present.  Let  me  hurry  on  to  some 
fancied  future.  '  Happiest  are  the  marriages,'  said  the 
French  philosopher,  and  still  says  many  a  sage,  '  in  which 
man  asks  only  the  mild  companion,  and  woman  but  the 
calm  protector.'  I  will  go  to  Helen." 

He  rose  ;  and  as  he  was  about  to  lock  up  his  escritoire, 
he  remembered  the  papers  which  Leonard  had  requested 
him  to  read.  He  took  them  from  their  deposit  with  a  care- 
less hand,  intending  to  carry  them  with  him  to  his  father's 
house.  But  as  his  eye  fell  upon  the  characters,  the  hand 
suddenly  trembled,  and  he  recoiled  some  paces,  as  if  struck 
by  a  violent  blow.  Then,  gazing  more  intently  on  the  writ- 
ing, a  low  cry  broke  from  his  lips.  He  reseated  himself, 
and  began  to  read. 


CHAPTER  XI. 

RANDAL — with  many  misgivings  at  Lord  L'Estrange's 
tone,  in  which  he  was  at  no  loss  to  detect  a  latent  irony — 
proceeded  to  Norwood.  He  found  Riccabocca  exceedingly 
cold  and  distant.  But  he  soon  brought  that  sage  to  com- 
municate the  suspicions  which  Lord  L'Estrange  had  in- 
stilled into  his  mind,  and  these  Randal  was  as  speedily 
enabled  to  dispel.  He  accounted  at  once  for  his  visits  to 
Levy  and  Peschiera.  Naturally  he  had  sought  Levy,  an 
acquaintance  of  his  own — nay,  of  Audley  Egerton's  ;  but 
whom  he  knew  to  be  professionally  employed  by  the  Count. 
He  had  succeeded  in  extracting  from  the  Baron,  Peschiera's 
suspicious  change  of  lodgment  from  Mivart's  Hotel  to  the 
purlieus  of  Leicester  Square  ; — had  called  there  on  the 
Count — forced  an  entrance — openly  accused  him  of  ab- 
stracting Violante  ;  high  words  had  passed  between  them — 
even  a  challenge.  Randal  produced  a  note  from  a  military 
friend  of  his,  whom  he  had  sent  to  the  Count  an  hour  after 


948  MY  NOVEL;   OR, 

quitting  the  hotel.  This  note  stated  that  arrangements 
were  made  for  a  meeting  near  Lord's  Cricket  Ground,  at 
seven  o'clock  the  next  morning.  Randal  submitted  to  Ric- 
cabocca  another  formal  memorandum  from  the  same  war- 
like friend — to  the  purport  that  Randal  and  himself  had 
repaired  to  the  ground,  and  no  Count  been  forthcoming.  It 
must  be  owned  that  Randal  had  taken  all  suitable  precau- 
tions to  clear  himself.  Such  a  man  is  not  to  blame  for  want 
of  invention,  if  he  be  sometimes  doomed  to  fail. 

"  I  then,  much  alarmed,"  continued  Randal,  "  hastened 
to  Baron  Levy,  who  informed  me  that  the  Count  had 
written  him  word  that  he  should  be  for  some  time  absent 
from  England.  Rushing  thence,  in  despair,  to  your  friend 
Lord  L'Estrange,  I  heard  that  your  daughter  was  safe  with 
you.  And  though,  as  I  have  just  proved,  I  would  have 
risked  my  life  against  so  notorious  a  duellist  as  the  Count, 
on  the  mere  chance  of  preserving  Violante  from  his  sup- 
posed designs,  I  am  rejoiced  to  think  that  she  has  no  need 
of  my  unskilful  arm.  But  how  and  why  can  the  Count 
have  left  England  after  accepting  a  challenge  ?  A  man  so 
sure  of  his  weapon  too — reputed  to  be  as  fearless  of  danger 
as  he  is  blunt  in  conscience.  Explain;— you  who  know 
mankind  so  well — explain.  I  cannot." 

The  philosopher  could  not  resist  the  pleasure  of  narra- 
ting the  detection  and  humiliation  of  his  foe — the  wit, 
ingenuity,  and  readiness  of  his  friend.  So  Randal  learned, 
by  little  and  little,  the  whole  drama  of  the  preceding  night. 
He  saw,  then,  that  the  exile  had  all  reasonable  hope  of 
speedy  restoration  to  rank  and  wealth.  Violante,  indeed, 
would  be  a  brilliant  prize — too  brilliant,  perhaps,  for 
Randal — but  not  to  be  sacrificed  without  an  effort.  There- 
fore, wringing  convulsively  the  hand  of  his  meditated 
father-in-law,  and  turning  away  his  head  as  if  to  conceal 
his  emotions,  the  ingenuous  young  suitor  faltered  forth — 
"  That  now  Dr.  Riccabocca  was  so  soon  to  vanish  into  the 
Duke  di  Serrano,  he — Randal  Leslie  of  Rood,  born  a 
gentleman,  indeed,  but  of  fallen  fortunes — had  no  right  to 
claim  the  promise  which  had  been  given  to  him  while  a 
father  had  cause  to  fear  for  a  daughter's  future  ;  with  the 
fear  ceased  the  promise.  Might  Heaven  bless  father  and 
daughter  both  !" 

This  address  touched  both  the  heart  and  honor  of  the 
exile.  Randal  Leslie  knew  his  man.  And  though,  before 
Randal's  visit,  Riccabocca  was  not  quite  so  much  a  philoso- 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  949 

pher,  but  what  he  would  have  been  well  pleased  to  have  found 
himself  released,  by  proof  of  the  young  man's  treachery,  from 
an  alliance  below  the  rank  to  which  he  had  all  chance  of 
early  restoration  ;  yet  no  Spaniard  was  ever  more  tenacious 
of  plighted  word  than  this  inconsistent  pupil  of  the  pro- 
found Florentine.  And  Randal's  probity  being  now  clear 
to  him,  he  repeated  with  stately  formalities,  his  previous 
offer  of  Violante's  hand. 

"  But,"  still  falteringly  sighed  the  provident  and  far- 
calculating  Randal — "  but  your  only  child,  your  sole  heir- 
ess !  Oh,  might  not  your  consent  to  such  a  marriage  (if 
known  before  your  recall)  jeopardize  your  cause  ?  Your 
lands,  your  principalities,  to  devolve  on  the  child  of  an 
humble  Englishman  !  I  dare  not  believe  it.  Ah,  would 
Violante  were  not  your  heiress  !  " 

"  A  noble  wish,"  said  Riccabocca,  smiling  blandly,  "and 
one  that  the  Fates  will  realize.  Cheer  up  ;  Violante  will 
not  be  my  heiress." 

"  Ah,"  cried  Randal,  drawing  a  long  breath — "  ah,  what 
do  I  hear ! " 

"  Hist  !  I  shall  soon  a  second  time  be  a  father.  And,  to 
judge  by  the  unerring  researches  of  writers  upon  that  most 
interesting  of  all  subjects,  parturitive  science,  I  shall  be  the 
father  of  a  son.  He  will,  of  course,  succeed  to  the  titles  of 
Serrano.  And  Violante " 

"  Will  have  nothing,  I  suppose  !  "  exclaimed  Randal, 
trying  his  best  to  look  overjoyed,  till  he  had  got  his  paws 
out  of  the  trap  into  which  he  had  so  incautiously  thrust 
them. 

"  Nay,  her  portion  by  our  laws — to  say  nothing  of  my 
affection — would  far  exceed  the  ordinary  dower  which  the 
daughters  of  London  merchants  bring  to  the  sons  of  British 
peers.  Whoever  marries  Violante,  provided  I  regain  my 
estates,  must  submit  to  the  cares  which  the  poets  assure  us 
ever  attend  on  wealth." 

"  Oh  !  "  groaned  Randal,  as  if  already  bowed  beneath 
the  cares,  and  sympathizing  with  the  poets. 

"  And  now  let  me  present  you  to  your  betrothed  !  " 

Although  poor  Randal  had  been  remorselessly  hurried 
along  what  Schiller  calls  the  "gamut  of  feeling,"  during 
the  last  three  minutes,  down  to  the  deep  chord  of  despair 
at  the  abrupt  intelligence  that  his  betrothed  was  no  heiress 
after  all  ;  thence  ascending  to  vibrations  of  pleasant  doubt 
as  to  the  unborn  usurper  of  her  rights,  according  to  the 


950  -  MY  NOVEL;    OR, 

prophecies  of  parturitive  science  ;  and  lastly,  swelling  into 
a  concord  of  all  sweet  thoughts  at  the  assurance  that,  come 
what  might,  she  would  be  a  wealthier  bride  than  a  peer's 
son  could  discover  in  the  matrimonial  Potosi  of  Lombard 
Street  ;  still  the  tormented  lover  was  not  there  allowed  to 
repose  his  exhausted  though  ravished  soul.  For,  at  the 
idea  of  personally  confronting  the  destined  bride — whose 
very  existence  had  almost  vanished  from  his  mind's  eye, 
amidst  the  golden  showers  that  it  saw  falling  divinely  round 
her — Randal  was  suddenly  reminded  of  the  exceeding  blunt- 
ness  with  which,  at  their  last  interview,  it  had  been  his  pol- 
icy to  announce  his  suit,  and  of  the  necessity  of  an  impromptu 
falsetto  suited  to  the  new  variations  that  tossed  him  again  to 
and  fro  on  the  merciless  gamut.  However,  he  could  not 
recoil  from  her  father's  proposition,  though,  in  order  to 
prepare  Riccabocca  for  Violante's  representation,  he  con- 
fessed pathetically  that  his  impatience  to  obtain  her  con- 
sent, and  baffle  Peschiera,  had  made  him  appear  a  rude  and 
presumptuous  wooer.  The  philosopher,  who  was  disposed 
to  believe  one  kind  of  courtship  to  be  much  the  same  as  an- 
other, in  cases  where  the  result  of  all  courtships  was  once 
predetermined — smiled  benignly,  patted  Randal's  thin  cheek 
with  a  "  Pooh,  pooh,  pazzie  !  "  and  left  the  room  to  summon 
Violante. 

"If  knowledge  be  power,"  soliloquized  Randal,  "ability 
is  certainly  good  luck,  as  Miss  Edgeworth  shows  in  that 
story  of  Murad  the  Unlucky,  which  I  read  at  Eton  ;  very 
clever  story  it  is,  too.  So  nothing  comes  amiss  to  me. 
Violante's  escape,  which  has  cost  me  the  Count's  ten  thou- 
sand pounds,  proves  to  be  worth  to  me,  I  dare  say,  ten  times 
as  much.  No  doubt  she'll  have  a  hundred  thousand  pounds 
at  the  least.  And  then,  if  her  father  have  no  other  child, 
after  all,  or  the  child  he  expects  die  in  infancy,  why,  once 
reconciled  to  his  government  and  restored  to  his  estates,  the 
law  must  take  its  usual  course,  and  Violante  will  be  the 
greatest  heiress  in  Europe.  As  to  the  young  lady  herself. 
I  confess  she  rather  awes  me  ;  I  know  I  shall  be  henpecked. 
Well,  all  respectable  husbands  are.  There  is  something 
scampish  and  ruffianly  in  not  being  henpecked."  Here 
Randal's  smile  might  have  harmonized  well  with  Pluto's 
"  iron  tears  ;  "  but,  iron  as  the  smile  was,  the  serious  young 
man  was  ashamed  of  it.  "  What  am  I  about  ?  "  said  he,  half 
aloud,  "chuckling  to  myself,  and  wasting  time  when  I 
ought  to  be  thinking  gravely  how  to  explain  away  my 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  951 

former  cavalier  courtship  ?  Such  a  masterpiece  as  I 
thought  it  then  !  But  who  could  foresee  the  turn  things 
would  take  ?  Let  me  think  ;  let  me  think.  Plague  on  it, 
here  she  comes." 

But  Randal  had  not  the  fine  ear  of  your  more  romantic 
lover  ;  and,  to  his  great  relief,  the  exile  entered  the  room 
unaccompanied  by  Violante.  Riccabocca  looked  somewhat 
embarrassed. 

"  My  dear  Leslie,  you  must  excuse  my  daughter  to-day  ; 
she  is  still  suffering  from  the  agitation  she  has  gone  through, 
and  cannot  see  you." 

The  lover  tried  not  to  look  too  delighted. 

"  Cruel,"  said  he  ;  "yet  I  would  not  for  worlds  force 
myself  on  her  presence.  I  hope,  duke,  that  she  will  not 
find  it  too  difficult  to  obey  the  commands  which  dispose 
of  her  hand,  and  intrust  her  happiness  to  my  grateful 
charge." 

"  To  be  plain  with  you,  Randal,  she  does  at  present 
seem  to  find  it  more  difficult  than  I  foresaw.  She  even  talks 
of " 

"  Another  attachment — Oh,  heavens  !  " 

"Attachment,  pazzie !  Whom  has  she  seen?  No — a 
convent !  But  leave  it  to  me.  In  a  calmer  hour  she  will 
comprehend  that  a  child  must  know  no  lot  more  enviable 
and  holy  than  that  of  redeeming  her  father's  honor.  And 
now,  if  you  are  returning  to  London,  may  I  ask  you  to  con- 
vey to  young  Mr.  Hazeldean  my  assurances  of  undying  gra- 
titude for  his  share  in  my  daughter's  delivery  from  that  poor 
baffled  swindler." 

It  is  noticeable  that,  now  Peschiera  was  no  longer  an 
object  of  dread  to  the  nervous  father,  he  became  but  an  ob- 
ject of  pity  to  the  philosopher,  and  of  contempt  to  the 
grandee. 

"True,"  said  Randal,  "you  told  me  Frank  had  a  share 
in  Lord  L'Estrange's  very  clever  and  dramatic  device. 
My  Lord  must  be  by  nature  a  fine  actor — comic,  with  a 
touch  of  melodrame  !  Poor  Frank  !  apparently  he  has  lost 
the  woman  he  adored — Beatrice  di  Negra.  You  say  she 
has  accompanied  the  Count.  Is  the  marriage  that  was  to  be 
between  her  and  Frank  broken  off  ?  " 

"  I  did  not  know  such  a  marriage  was  contemplated.  I 
understood  her  to  be  attached  to  another.  Not  that  that  is 
any  reason  why  she  should  not  have  married  Mr.  Hazeldean. 
Express  to  him  my  congratulations  on  his  escape." 


952  MY  NOVEL;    OR, 

"Nay,  he  must  not  know  that  I  have  inadvertently  be- 
trayed his  confidence  ;  but  you  now  guess,  what  perhaps 
puzzled  you  before — viz.,  how  I  came  to  be  so  well  ac- 
quainted with  the  Count  and  his  movements.  I  was  so 
intimate  with  my  relation  Frank,  and  Frank  was  affianced 
to  the  Marchesa." 

"I  am  glad  you  give  me  that  explanation  ;  it  suffices. 
After  all,  the  Marcheca  is  not  by  nature  a  bad  woman — 
that  is,  not  worse  than  women  generally  are,  so  Harley 
says,  and  Violante  forgives  and  excuses  her." 

"  Generous  Violante  !  But  it  is  true.  So  much  did  the 
Marchesa  appear  to  me  possessed  of  fine,  though  ill-regu- 
lated qualities,  that  I  always  considered  her  disposed  to  aid 
in  frustrating  her  brother's  criminal  designs.  So  I  even 
said,  if  I  remember  right,  to  Violante." 

Dropping  this  prudent  and  precautionary  sentence,  in 
order  to  guard  against  anything  Violante  might  say  as  to 
that  subtle  mention  of  Beatrice  which  had  predisposed  her 
to  confide  in  the  Marchesa,  Randal  then  hurried  on, — "  But 
you  want  repose.  I  leave  you,  the  happiest,  the  most  grate- 
ful of  men.  I  will  give  your  courteous  message  to  Frank." 


CHAPTER  XII. 

CURIOUS  to  learn  what  had  passed  between  Beatrice  and 
Frank,  and  deeply  interested  in  all  that  could  oust  Frank 
out  of  the  Squire's  good-will,  or  aught  that  could  injure  his 
own  prospects,  by  tending  to  unite  son  and  father,  Randal 
was  not  slow  in  reaching  his  young  kinsman's  lodgings. 
It  might  be  supposed  that  having,  in  all  probability,  just 
secured  so  great  a  fortune  as  would  accompany  Violante's 
hand,  Randal  might  be  indifferent  to  the  success  of  his 
scheme  on  the  Hazeldean  exchequer.  Such  a  supposition 
would  grievously  wrong  this  profound  young  man.  For,  in 
the  first  place,  Violante  was  not  yet  won  nor  her  father  yet 
restored  to  the  estates  which  would  defray  her  dower  ;  and, 
in  the  next  place,  Randal,  like  lago,  loved  villany  for  the 
genius  it  called  forth  in  him.  The  sole  luxury  the  abstem- 
ious aspirer  allowed  to  himself  was  that  which  is  found  in 
intellectual  restlessness.  Untempted  by  wine,  dead  to  love, 
unamused  by  pleasure,  indifferent  to  the  arts,  despising  lit- 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  953 

erature,  save  as  means  to  some  end  of  power,  Randal  Leslie 
was  the  incarnation  of  thought,  hatched  out  of  the  corrup- 
tion of  will.  At  twilight  we  see  thin  airy  spectral  insects, 
all  win?  and  nippers,  hovering,  as  if  they  could  never  pause, 
over  some  sullen  mephitic  pool.  Just  so,  methinks,  hover 
over  Acheron  such  gnat-like,  noiseless  soarers  into  gloomy 
air  out  of  Stygian  deeps,  as  are  the  thoughts  of  spirits  like 
Randal  Leslie's.  Wings  have  they,  but  only  the  better  to 
pounce  down — draw  their  nutriment  from  unguarded  mater- 
ial cuticles  ;  and  just  when,  maddened,  you  strike,  and  ex- 
ulting exclaim,  "  Caught,  by  Jove  !  "  wh — irr  flies  the  dia- 
phanous ghostly  larva,  and  your  blow  falls  on  your  own 
twice-offended  cheek. 

The  young  men  who  were  acquainted  with  Randal  said 
he  had  not  a  vice  !  The  fact  being,  that  his  whole  compo- 
sition was  one  epic  vice,  so  elaborately  constructed  that  it 
had  not  an  episode  which  a  critic  could  call  irrelevant. 
Grand  young  man ! 

"  But,  my  dear  fellow,"  said  Randal,  as  soon  as  he  had 
learned  from  Frank  all  that  had  passed  on  board  the  vessel 
between  him  and  Beatrice,  "  I  cannot  believe  this.  '  Never 
loved  you  ! '  What  was  her  object,  then,  in  deceiving,  not 
only  you,  but  myself  ?  I  suspect  her  declaration  was  but 
some  heroical  refinement  of  generosity.  After  her  brother's 
dejection  and  probable  ruin,  she  might  feel  that  she  was 
no  match  for  you.  Then,  too,  the  Squire's  displeasure.  I 
see  it  all — just  like  her — noble,  unhappy  woman  ! " 

Frank  shook  his  head.  "  There  are  moments,"  said  he, 
with  a  wisdom  that  comes  out  of  those  instincts  which 
awake  from  the  depths  of  youth's  first  great  sorrow — "  mo- 
ments when  a  woman  cannot  feign,  and  there  are  tones  in 
the  voice  of  a  woman  which  men  cannot  misinterpret.  She 
does  not  love  me — she  never  did  love  me  ;  I  can  see  that 
her  heart  has  been  elsewhere.  No  matter— all  is  over.  I 
don't  deny  that  I  am  suffering  an  intense  grief  ;  it  gnaws 
like  a  kind  of  sullen  hunger ;  and  I  feel  so  broken,  too,  as 
if  I  had  grown  old,  and  there  was  nothing  left  worth  living 
for.  I  don't  deny  all  that." 

"  My  poor  dear  friend,  if  you  would  but  believe " 

"  I  don't  want  to  believe  anything,  except  that  I  have 
been  a  great  fool.  I  don't  think  lean  ever  commit  such 
follies  again.  But  I'm  a  man.  I  shall  get  the  better  of  this  ; 
I  should  despise  myself  if  I  could  not.  And  now  let  us  talk 
of  my  dear  father.  Has  he  left  town  ?  " 


954  MY  NOVEL;    OR, 

"  Left  List  night,  by  the  mail.  You  can  write  and  tell 
him  you  have  given  up  the  Marchesa,  and  all  will  be  well 
again  between  you." 

"  Give  her  up  !  Fie,  Randal  !  Do  you  think  I  should 
tell  such  a  lie  ? — She  gave  me  up  ;  I  can  claim  no  merit  out 
of  that." 

"  Oh,  yes  !  I  can  make  the  Squire  see  all  to  your  advan- 
tage. Oh,  if  it  were  only  the  Marchesa  !  but,  alas  !  that 
cursed  post-obit !  How  could  Levy  betray  you  ?  Never 
trust  to  usurers  again  ;  they  cannot  resist  the  temptation  of 
of  a  speedy  profit.  They  first  buy  the  son,  and  then  sell 
him  to  the  father.  And  the  Squire  has  such  strange  no- 
tions on  a  matter  of  this  kind." 

"  He  is  right  to  have  them.  There,  just  read  this  letter 
from  my  mother.  It  came  to  me  this  morning.  I  could 
hang  myself,  if  I  were  a  dog  ;  but  I'm  a  man,  and  so  I  must 
bear  it." 

Randal  took  Mrs.  Hazeldean's  letter  from  Frank's  trem- 
bling hand. — The  poor  mother  had  learned,  though  but 
imperfectly,  Frank's  misdeeds  from  some  hurried  lines 
which  the  Squire  had  despatched  to  her  ;  and  she  wrote, 
as  good,  indulgent,  but  sensible,  right-minded  mothers 
alone  can  write.  More  lenient  to  an  imprudent  love  than 
the  Squire,  she  touched  with  discreet  tenderness  on  Frank's 
rash  engagements  with  a  foreigner,  but  severely  on  his  own 
open  defiance  of  his  father's  wishes.  Her  anger  was,  how- 
ever, reserved  for  that  unholy  post-obit.  Here  the  hearty, 
genial  wife's  love  overcame  the  mother's  affection.  To 
count,  in  cold  blood,  on  that  husband's  death,  and  to  wound 
his  heart  so  keenly,  just  where  its  jealous  fatherly  fondness 
made  it  most  susceptible  ! 

"O  Frank,  Frank!"  wrote  Mrs.  Hazeldean,  "were  it 
not  for  this,  were  it  only  for  your  unfortunate  attachment 
to  the  Italian  lady,  only  for  your  debts,  only  for  the  errors 
of  hasty,  extravagant  youth,  I  should  be  with  you  now — my 
arms  round  your  neck,  kissing  you,  chiding  you  back  to 
your  father's  heart.  But — but  the  thought  that  between 
you  and  his  heart  has  been  the  sordid  calculation  of  his 
death— that  is  a  wall  between  us.  I  cannot  come  near  you. 
I  should  not  like  to  look  on  your  face,  and  think  how  my 
William's  tears  fell  over  it,  when  I  placed  you,  new  born, 
in  his  arms,  and  bade  him  welcome  his  heir.  What !  you  a 
mere  boy  still,  your  father  yet  in  the  prime  of  life,  and  the 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  955 

heir  cannot  wait  till  nature  leaves  him  fatherless.  Frank, 
Frank  !  this  is  so  xmlike  you.  Can  London  have  ruined 
already  a  disposition  so  honest  and  affectionate  ? — No  ;  I 
cannot  believe  it.  There  must  be  some  mistake.  Clear  it 
up,  I  implore  you  ;  or,  though  as  a  mother  I  pity  you,  as  a 
wife  I  cannot  forgive. 

"  HARRIET   HAZELDEAN." 

Even  Randal  was  affected  by  the  letter  ;  for,  as  we  know, 
even  Randal  felt  in  his  own  person  the  strength  of  family 
ties.  The  poor  Squire's  choler  and  bluff  ness  had  disguised 
the  parental  heart  from  an  eye  that,  however  acute,  had  not 
been  willing  to  search  for  it;  and  Randal,  ever  affected 
through  his  intellect,  had  despised  the  very  weakness  on 
which  he  had  preyed.  But  the  mother's  letter,  so  just  and 
sensible  (allowing  that  the  Squire's  opinions  had  naturally 
influenced  the  wife  to  take,  what  men  of  the  world  would 
call  a  very  exaggerated  view  of  the  every-day  occurrence  of 
loans  raised  by  a  son,  payable  only  at  a  father's  death), — 
this  letter,  I  say,  if  exaggerated  according  to  fashionable 
notions,  so  sensible  if  judged  by  natural  affections,  touched 
the  dull  heart  of  the  schemer,  because  approved  by  the 
quick  tact  of  his  intelligence. 

"  Frank,"  said  he,  with  a  sincerity  that  afterward  amazed 
himself,  "go  down  at  once  to  Hazeldean — see  your  mother, 
and  explain  to  her  how  this  transaction  really  happened. 
The  woman  you  loved,  and  wooed  as  wife,  in  danger  of  an 
arrest — your  distraction  of  mind,  Levy's  counsels^ — your 
hope  to  pay  off  the  debt,  so  incurred  to  the  usurer,  from  the 
fortune  you  would  shortly  receive  with  the  Marchesa. 
Speak  to  your  mother — she  is  a  woman  ;  women  have  a 
common  interest  in  forgiving  all  faults  that  arise  from  the 
source  of  their  power  over  us  men  ; — I  mean  love.  Go !  " 

"No — I  cannot  go  ;— you  see  she  would  not  like  to  look 
on  my  face.  And  I  cannot  repeat  what  you  say  so  glibly. 
Besides,  somehow  or  other,  as  I  am  so  dependent  upon  my 
father — and  he  has  said  as  much — I  feel  as  if  it  would  be 
mean  in  me  to  make  any  excuses.  I  did  the  thing,  and 
must  suffer  for  it.  But  I'm  a  m — an— no — I'm  not  a  man 
here."  Frank  burst  into  tears. 

At  the  sight  of  those  tears,  Randal  gradually  recovered 
from  his  strange  aberration  into  vulgar  and  low  humanity. 
His  habitual  contempt  for  his  kinsman  returned  ;  and  with 
contempt  came  the  natural  indifference  to  the  sufferings  of 


956  My  NOVEL;    OR, 

the  thing  to  be  put  to  use.  It  is  contempt  for  the  worm 
that  makes  the  angler  fix  it  on  the  hook,  and  observe  with 
complacency  that  the  vivacity  of  its  wriggles  will  attract  the 
bite.  If  the  worm  could  but  make  the  angler  respect,  or 
even  fear  it,  the  barb  would  find  some  other  bait.  Few 
anglers  would  impale  an  estimable  silkworm,  and  still  fewer 
the  anglers  who  would  finger  into  service  a  formidable 
hornet. 

"  Pooh,  my  dear  Frank,"  said  Randal,  "  I  have  given 
you  my  advice  ;  you  reject  it.  Well,  what  then  will  you 
do?" 

"  I  shall  ask  for  leave  of  absence,  and  run  away  some- 
where," said  Frank,  drying  his  tears.  "  I  can't  face  Lon- 
don ;  I  can't  mix  with  others.  I  want  to  be  by  myself,  and 
wrestle  with  all  that  I  feel  here — in  my  heart.  Then  I  shall 
write  to  my  mother,  say  the  plain  truth,  and  leave  her  to 
judge  as  kindly  of  me  as  she  can." 

"  You  are  quite  right.  Yes,  leave  town  !  Why  not  go 
abroad  ?  You  have  never  been  abroad.  New  scenes  will 
distract  your  mind.  Run  over  to  Paris." 

"  Not  to  Paris — I  don't  want  gaieties  ;  but  I  did  intend 
to  go  abroad  somewhere — any  dull  dismal  hole  of  a  place. 
Good-bye.  Don't  think  of  me  any  more  for  the  present." 

"  But  let  me  know  where  you  go  !  and  meanwhile  I  will 
see  the  Squire." 

"  Say  as  little  of  me  as  you  can  to  him.  I  know  you 
mean  most  kindly — but  oh,  how  I  wish  there  never  had 
been  any  third  person  between  me  and  my  father  !  There  ; 
you  may  well  snatch  away  your  hand.  What  an  ungrateful 
wretch  to  you  I  am  !  I  do  believe  I  am  the  wickedest  fel- 
low. What,  you  shake  hands  with  me  still.  My  dear  Randal, 
you  have  the  best  heart — God  bless  you."  Frank  turned 
away,  and  disappeared  within  his  dressing-room. 

"  They  must  be  reconciled  now,  sooner  or  later — Squire 
and  son," — said  Randal  to  himself,  as  he  left  the  lodgings. 
"  I  don't  see  how  I  can  prevent  that — the  Marchesa  being 
withdrawn — unless  Frank  does  it  for  me.  But  it  is  well  he 
should  be  abroad — something  may  be  made  out  of  that  ; 
meanwhile,  I  may  yet  do  all  that  I  could  reasonably  hope 
to  do — even  if  Frank  had  married  Beatrice — since  he  was 
not  to  be  disinherited.  Get  the  Squire  to  advance  the 
money  for  the  Thornhill  purchase — complete  the  affair  ; — 
this  marriage  with  Violante  will  help  ; — Levy  must  know 
that ;  secure  the  borough  ; — well  thought  of.  I  will  go  to 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  957 

Avenel's.  By  the  bye — by  the  bye — the  Squire  might  as 
well  keep  me  still  in  the  entail  after  Frank — supposing 
Frank  die  childless.  This  love  affair  may  keep  him  long 
from  marrying.  His  hand  was  very  hot — a  hectic  color  ; — 
those  strong-looking  fellows  often  go  off  in  a  rapid  decline, 
especially  if  anything  preys  on  their  minds — their  minds  are 
so  very  small. 

"  Ah — the  Hazeldean  Parson — and  with  Avenel  !  That 
young  man,  too  —  who  is  he  ?  I  have  seen  him  before 
somewhere.  My  dear  Mr.  Dale,  this  is  a  pleasant  surprise. 
I  thought  you  had  returned  to  Hazeldean  with  our  friend 
the  Squire  ? " 

MR.  DALE. — The  Squire  !  Has  he  left  town,  and  with- 
out telling  me  ? 

RANDAL  (taking  aside  the  Parson). — He  was  anxious  to 
get  back  to  Mrs.  Hazeldean,  who  was  naturally  very  un- 
easy about  her  son  and  this  foolish  marriage  ;  but  I  am 
happy  to  tell  you  that  that  marriage  is  effectually  and  per- 
manently broken  off. 

MR.  DALE. — How,  how  ?  My  poor  friend  told  me  he  had 
wholly  failed  to  make  any  impression  on  Frank — forbade 
me  to  mention  the  subject.  I  was  just  going  to  see  Frank 
myself.  I  always  had  some  influence  with  him.  But,  Mr. 
Leslie,  explain  this  very  sudden  and  happy  event — the 
marriage  broken  off ! 

RANDAL. — It  is  a  long  story,  and  I  dare  not  tell  you  my 
humble  share  in  it.  Nay,  I  must  keep  that  secret.  Frank 
might  not  forgive  me.  Suffice  it  that  you  have  my  word 
that  the  fair  Italian  has  left  England,  and  decidedly  refused 
Frank's  addresses.  But  stay — take  my  advice — don't  go  to 
him  ; — you  see  it  was  not  only  the  marriage  that  has  of- 
fended the  Squire,  but  some  pecuniary  transactions — an 
unfortunate  poit-obit  bond  on  the  Casino  property.  Frank 
ought  to  be  left  to  his  own  repentant  reflections.  They 
will  be  most  salutary — you  know  his  temper — he  don't  bear 
reproof  ;  and  yet  it  is  better,  on  the  other  hand,  not  to  let 
him  treat  too  lightly  what  has  passed.  Let  us  leave  him  to 
himself  for  a  few  days.  He  is  in  an  excellent  frame  of 
mind. 

MR.  DALE  (shaking  Randal's  hand  warmly). — You  speak 
admirably — a  post-obit!  —  so  often  as  he  has  heard  his 
father's  opinion  on  such  transactions.  No — I  will  not  see 
him — I  should  be  too  angry 

RANDAL  (leading  the  Parson  back,  resumes,  after  an  ex- 


9$8  MY  NOVEL;   OK, 

change  of  salutations  with  Avenel,  who,  meanwhile,  had 
been  conferring  with  his  nephew). — You  should  not  be  so 
long  away  from  your  rectory,  Mr.  Dale.  What  will  your 
parish  do  without  you  ? 

MR.  DALE. — The  old  fable  of  the  wheel  and  the  fly.  I 
am  afraid  the  wheel  rolls  on  the  same.  But  if  I  am  absent 
from  my  parish,  I  am  still  in  the  company  of  one  who  does 
me  honor  as  an  old  parishioner.  You  remember  Leonard 
Fairfield,  your  antagonist  in  the  Battle  of  the  Stocks  ? 

MR.  AVENEL. — My  nephew,  I  am  proud  to  say,  sir. 

Randal  bowed  with  marked  civility — Leonard  with  a  re- 
serve no  less  marked. 

MR.  AVENEL  (ascribing  his  nephew's  reserve  to  shyness). 
— You  should  be  friends,  you  two  youngsters.  Who  knows 
but  you  may  run  together  in  the  same  harness  ?  Ah,  that 
reminds  me,  Leslie — I  have  a  word  or  two  to  say  to  you. 
Your  servant,  Mr.  Dale.  Shall  be  happy  to  present  you  to 

Mrs.  Avenel.  My  card — Eaton  Square — Number .  You 

will  call  on  me  to-morrow,  Leonard.  And  mind,  I  shall  be 
very  angry  if  you  persist  in  your  refusal.  Such  an  open- 
ing! (Avenel  took  Randal's  arm,  while  the  Parson  and 
Leonard  walked  on.) 

"Any  fresh  hints  as  to  Lansmere  ?  "  asked  Randal. 

"Yes  ;  I  have  now  decided  on  the  plan  of  contest.  We 
must  fight  two  and  two — you  and  Egerton  against  me 
and  (if.  can  get  him  to  stand,  as  I  hope)  my  nephew, 
Leonard." 

"  What ! "  said  Randal,  alarmed  ;  "  then,  after  all,  I  can 
hope  for  no  support  from  you  ? " 

"  I  don't  say  that ;  but  I  have  reason  to  think  Lord 
L'Estrange  will  bestir  himself  actively  in  favor  of  Egerton. 
If  so,  it  will  be  a  very  sharp  contest ;  and  I  must  manage 
the  whole  election  on  our  side,  and  unite  all  our  shaky 
votes,  which  I  can  best  do  by  standing  myself  in  the  first 
instance,  reserving  it  to  after-consideration  whether  I  shall 
throw  up  at  the  last ;  for  I  don't  particularly  want  to 
come  in,  as  I  did  a  little  time  ago,  before  I  had  found  out 
my  nephew.  Wonderful  young  man  ! — with  such  a  head — 
will  do  me  credit  in  the  rotten  old  House  ;  and  I  think  I 
had  best  leave  London,  go  to  Screwstown,  and  look  to  my 
business.  No  ;  if  Leonard  stand,  I  must  firs-t  see  to  get 
him  in  ;  and  next,  to  keep  Egerton  out.  It  will  probably, 
therefore,  end  in  the  return  of  one  and  one  on  either  side, 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  959 

as  we  thought  of  before.  Leonard  on  our  side  ;  and  Eger- 
ton  sha'n't  be  the  man  on  the  other.  You  understand  ? " 

"  I  do,  my  dear  Avenel.  Of  course,  as  I  before  said,  I 
can't  dictate  to  your  party  whom  they  should  prefer — 
Egerton  or  myself.  And  it  will  be  obvious  to  the  public 
that  your  party  would  rather  defeat  so  eminent  an  adver- 
sary as  Mr.  Egerton,  than  a  tyro  in  politics  like  me.  Of 
course  I  cannot  scheme  for  such  a  result ;  it  would  be  mis- 
construed, and  damage  my  character.  But  I  rely  equally 
on  your  friendly  promise." 

"  Promise  !  No — I  don't  promise  ;  I  must  first  see  how 
the  cat  jumps  ;  and  I  don't  know  yet  how  our  friends  may 
like  you,  nor  how  they  can  be  managed.  All  I  can  say  is, 
that  Audley  Egerton  sha'n't  be  M.P.  for  Lansmere.  Mean- 
while, you  will  take  care  not  to  commit  yourself  in  speak- 
ing, so  that  our  party  can't  vote  for  you  consistently  ;  they 
must  count  on  having  you — when  you  get  into  the  House." 

"  I  am  not  a  violent  party-man  at  present,"  answered 
Randal,  prudently  ;  "  and  if  public  opinion  prove  on  your 
side,  it  is  the  duty  of  a  statesman  to  go  with  the  times." 

"Very  sensibly  said;  and  I  have  a  private  bill  or  two, 
and  some  other  little  jobs,  I  want  to  get  through  the 
House,  which  we  can  discuss  later,  should  it  come  to  a 
frank  understanding  between  us.  We  must  arrange  how 
to  meet  privately  at  Lansmere,  if  necessary.  I'll  see  to 
that.  I  shall  go  down  this  week.  I  think  of  taking  a 
hint  from  the  free  and  glorious  land  of  America,  and  "es- 
tablishing secret  caucuses.  Nothing  like  'em." 

"Caucuses  ?" 

"  Small  sub-committees  that  spy  on  their  men  night  and 
day,  and  don't  suffer  them  to  be  intimidated  to  vote  the 
other  way.'? 

"You  have  an  extraordinary  head  for  public  affairs, 
Avenel.  You  should  come  into  Parliament  yourself;  your 
nephew  is  so  very  young." 

"  So  are  you." 

"Yes,  but  I  know  the  world.     Does  he  ?" 

"The  world  knows  him,  though  not  by  name,  and  he 
has  been  the  making  of  me." 

"  How  ?    You  surprise  me." 

Avenel  first  explained  about  the  patent  which  Leonard 
had  secured  to  him  ;  and  next  confided,  upon  honor,  Leon- 
ard's identity  with  the  anonymous  author  whom  the  Par- 
son had  supposed  to  be  Professor  Moss. 


960  MY  NOVEL;    OR, 

Randal  Leslie  felt  a  jealous  pang.  What !  then — had 
this  village  boy — this  associate  of  John  Burley  (literary 
vagabond,  whom  he  supposed  had  long  since  gone  to  the 
dogs,  and  been  buried  at  the  expense  of  the  parish) — had 
this  boy  so  triumphed  over  birth,  rearing,  circumstances, 
that,  if  Randal  and  Leonard  had  met  together  in  any  public 
place,  and  Leonard's  identity  with  the  rising  author  been 
revealed,  every  eye  would  have  turned  from  Randal  to 
gaze  on  Leonard?  The  common  consent  of  mankind 
would  have  acknowledged  the  supreme  royalty  of  genius, 
when  it  once  leaves  its  solitude,  and  strides  into  the  world. 
What !  was  this  rude  villager  the  child  of  Fame  who,  with- 
out an  effort,  and  unconsciously,  had  inspired  in  the  wear- 
ied heart  of  Beatrice  di  Negra  a  love  that  Randal  knew,  by 
an  instinct,  no  arts,  no  craft,  could  ever  create  for  him  in 
the  heart  of  woman  ?  And,  now,  did  this  same  youth  stand 
on  the  same  level  in  the  ascent  to  power  as  he,  the  well- 
born Randal  Leslie,  the  accomplished  protege  of  the  superb 
Audley  Egerton  ?  Were  they  to  be  rivals  in  the  same  arena 
of  practical  busy  life?  Randal  gnawed  his  quivering  lip. 

All  the  while,  however,  the  young  man  whom  he  so 
envied  was  a  prey  to  sorrows  deeper  far  than  could  ever 
find  room  or  footing  in  the  narrow  and  stony  heart  of  the 
unloving  schemer.  As  Leonard  walked  through  the 
crowded  streets  with  the  friend  and  monitor  of  his  child- 
hood, confiding  the  simple  tale  of  his  earlier  trials — when, 
amidst  the  wreck  of  fortune,  and  in  despair  of  fame,  the 
Child-angel  smiled  by  his  side,  like  Hope — all  renown 
seemed  to  him  so  barren,  all  the  future  so  dark  !  His  voice 
trembled,  and  his  countenance  became  so  sad  that  his  ben- 
ignant listener,  divining  that  around  the  image  of  Helen 
there  clung  some  passionate  grief  that  overshadowed  all 
worldly  success,  drew  Leonard  gently  on,  till  the  young 
man,  long  yearning  for  some  confidant,  told  him  all  ; — how, 
faithful  through  long  years  to  one  pure  and  ardent  memory, 
Helen  had  been  seen  once  more — the  child  ripened  to 
woman,  and  the  memory  revealing  itself  as  love. 

The  Parson  listened  with  a  mild  and  thoughtful  brow, 
which  expanded  into  a  more  cheerful  expression  as  Leon- 
ard closed  his  story. 

"I  see  no  reason  to  despond,"  said  Mr.  Dale.  "You 
fear  that  Miss  Digby  does  not  return  your  attachment ;  you 
dwell  upon  her  reserve — her  distant  though  kindly  manner. 
Cheer  up !  All  young  ladies  are  under  the  influence  of 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  961 

what  phrenologists  call  the  organ  of  Secretiveness,  when 
they  are  in  the  society  of  the  object  of  their  preference. 
Just  as  you  describe  Miss  Digby's  manner  to  you,  was  my 
Carry's  manner  to  myself." 

The  Parson  here  indulged  in  a  very  appropriate  digres-. 
sion  upon  female  modesty,  which  he  wound  up  by  asserting, 
that  that  estimable  virtue  became  more  and  more  influenced 
by  the  secretive  organ,  in  proportion  as  the  favored  suitor 
approached  near  and  nearer  to  a  definite  proposal.  It  was 
the  duty  of  a  gallant  and  honorable  lover  to  make  that 
proposal  in  distinct  and  orthodox  form,  before  it  could  be 
expected  that  a  young  lady  should  commit  herself  and  the 
dignity  of  her  sex  by  the  slightest  hint  as  to  her  own 
inclinations. 

'•Next,"  continued  the  Parson,  "you  choose  to  torment 
yourself  by  contrasting  your  own  origin  and  fortunes  with 
the  altered  circumstances  of  Miss  Digby — the  ward  of  Lord 
L'Estrange,  the  guest  of  Lady  Lansmere.  You  say  that  if 
Lord  L'Estrange  could  have  countenanced  such  a  union,  he 
would  have  adopted  a  different  tone  with  you — sounded 
your  heart,  encouraged  your  hopes,  and  so  forth.  I  view 
things  differently.  I  have  reason  to  do  so  ;  and,  from  all 
you  have  told  me  of  this  nobleman's  interest  in  your  fate, 
I  venture  to  make  you  this  promise,  that  if  Miss  Digby 
would  accept  your  hand,  Lord  L'Estrange  shall  ratify  her 
choice." 

"  My  dear  Mr.  Dale,"  cried  Leonard,  transported,  "you 
make  me  that  promise  ?  " 

"  I  do — from  what  you  have  said,  and  from  what  I  my- 
self know  of  Lord  L'Estrange.  Go,  then,  at  once  to 
Knightsbridge — see  Miss  Digby — show  her  your  heart — ex- 
plain to  her,  if  you  will,  your  prospects — ask  her  permission 
to  apply  to  Lord  L'Estrange  (since  he  has  constituted  him- 
self her  guardian)  ;  and  if  Lord  L'Estrange  hesitate — which, 
if  your  happiness  be  set  on  this  union,  I  think  he  will  not 
— let  me  know,  and  leave  the  rest  to  me." 

Leonard  yielded  himself  to  the  Parson's  persuasive  elo- 
quence. Indeed,  when  he  recalled  to  mind  those  passages 
in  the  manuscripts  of  the  ill-fated  Nora  which  referred  to 
the  love  that  Harley  had  once  borne  to  her  (for  he  felt  con- 
vinced that  Harley  and  the  boy  suitor  of  Nora's  narrative 
were  one  and  the  same) ;  and  when  all  the  interest  that 
Harley  had  taken  in  his  own  fortunes  was  explained  by  his 
relationship  to  her  (even  when  Lord  L'Estrange  had  sup- 

41 


962  MY  NOVF.L;    OR, 

posed  it  less  close  than  he  would  now  discover  it  to  be), 
the  young  man,  reasoning  by  his  own  heart,  could  not  but 
suppose  that  the  noble  Harley  would  rejoice  to  confer 
happiness  upon  the  son  of  her,  so  beloved  by  his  boyhood. 

"  And  to  thee,  perhaps,  O  my  mother  !  "  thought  Leon- 
ard, with  swimming  eyes — "  to  thee,  perhaps,  even  in  thy 
grave,  I  shall  owe  the  partner  of  my  life, 'as  to  the  mystic 
breath  of  thy  genius  I  owe  the  first  pure  aspirations  of  my 
soul." 

It  will  be  seen  that  Leonard  had  not  confided  to  the 
Parson  his  discovery  of  Nora's  manuscripts,  nor  even  his 
knowledge  of  his  real  birth  ;  for  the  proud  son  naturally 
shrank  from  any  confidence  that  implicated  Nora's  fair  name, 
until  at  last  Harley,  who,  it  was  clear  from  those  papers, 
must  have  intimately  known  his  father,  should  perhaps  de- 
cide the  question  which  the  papers  themselves  left  so  terribly 
vague — viz.,  whether  he  were  the  offspring  of  a  legal  mar- 
riage, or  Nora  had  been  the  victim  of  some  unholy  fraud. 

While  the  Parson  still  talked,  and  while  Leonard  still 
mused  and  listened,  their  steps  almost  mechanically  took  the 
direction  toward  Knightsbridge,  and  paused  at  the  gates  of 
Lord  Lansmere's  house. 

"Go  in,  my  young  friend  ;  I  will  wait  without  to  know 
the  issue,"  said  the  Parson,  cheeringly.  "  Go  ;  and,  with 
gratitude  to  Heaven,  learn  how  to  bear  the  most  precious 
joy  that  can  befall  mortal  man  ;  or  how  to  submit  to  youth's 
sharpest  sorrow,  with  the  humble  belief  that  even  sorrow  is 
but  some  mercy  concealed." 


CHAPTER  XIII. 

LEONARD  was  shown  into  the  drawing-room,  and  it  so 
,hanced  that  Helen  was  there  alone.  The  girl's  soft  face 
was  sadly  changed  even  since  Leonard  had  seen  it  last ;  for 
the  grief  of  natures  mild  and  undemonstrative  as  hers,  gnaws 
with  quick  ravages  ;  but  at  Leonard's  unexpected  entrance, 
the  color  rushed  so  vividly  to  the  pale  cheeks,  that  its  hectic 
might  be  taken  for  the  lustre  of  blood  and  health.  She  rose 
hurriedly,  and  in  great  confusion  faltered  out,  "  that  she 
believed  Lady  Lansmere  was  in  her  room— she  would  go  for 
her,"  and  moved  toward  the  door,  without  seeming  to  notice 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  963 

the  hand  tremulously  held  forth  to  her  ;  when  Leonard  ex- 
claimed, in  uncontrollable  emotions  which  pierced  to  her 
very  heart,  in  the  keen  accent  of  reproach — 

"  Oh.  Miss  Digby — oh,  Helen — is  it  thus  that  you  greet 
me — rather  thus  that  you  shun  me  ?  Could  I  have  foreseen 
this  when  we  two  orphans  stood  by  the  mournful  bridge  ; 
so  friendless — so  desolate — and  so  clinging  each  to  each  ! 
Happy  time  !  "  He  seized  her  hand  suddenly  as  he  spoke 
the  last  words,  and  bowed  his  face  over  it. 

"I  must  not  hear  you.  Do  not  talk  so,  Leonard — you 
break  my  heart.  Let  me  go — let  me  go." 

"  Is  it  that  I  am  grown  hateful  to  you?  is  it  merely  that 
you  see  my  love  and  would  discourage  it  ?  Helen,  speak 
to  me — speak  !  " 

He  drew  her  with  tender  force  toward  him  ;  and  hold- 
ing her  firmly  by  both  hands,  sought  to  gaze  upon  the  face 
that  she  turned  from  him — turned  in  such  despair. 

"  You  do  not  know,"  she  said  at  last,  struggling  for 
composure — "you  do  not  know  the  new  claims  on  me — my 
altered  position — how  I  am  bound,  or  you  would  be  the 
last  to  speak  thus  to  me,  the  first  to  give  me  courage — and 
bid  me— bid  me " 

"Bid  you  what?" 

"  Feel  nothing  here  but  duty ! "  cried  Helen,  drawing 
from  his  clasp  both  her  hands,  and  placing  them  firmly  on 
her  breast. 

"Miss  Digby,"  said  Leonard,  after  a  short  pause  of 
bitter  reflection,  in  which  he  wronged,  while  he  thought 
to  divine,  her  meaning,  "you  speak  of  new  claims  on  you, 
your  altered  position — I  comprehend.  You  may  retain 
some  tender  remembrance  of  the  past ;  but  your  duty 
now  is  to  rebuke  my  presumption.  It  is  as  I  thought  and 
feared.  This  vain  reputation  which  I  have  made  is  but 
a  hollow  sound — it  gives  me  no  rank,  assures  me  no  for- 
tune. I  have  no  right  to  look  for  the  Helen  of  old  in  the 
Helen  of  to-day.  Be  it  so — forget  what  I  have  said,  and 
forgive  me." 

This  reproach  stung  to  the  quick  the  heart  to  which  it 
appealed.  A  flash  brightened  the  meek  tearful  eyes,  al- 
most like  the  flash  of  resentment — her  lips  writhed  in 
torture,  and  she  felt  as  if  all  other  pain  were  light  com- 
pared with  the  anguish  that  Leonard  could  impute  to  her 
motives  which  to  her  simple  nature  seemed  so  unworthy 
of  her,  and  so  galling  to  himself.  * 


964  MY  NOVEL;    OR, 

A  word  rushed  as  by  inspiration  to  her  lip,  and  that 
word  calmed  and  soothed  her. 

"Brother!"  she  said,  touchingly,  "brother!" 

The  word  had  a  contrary  effect  on  Leonard.  Sweet  as  it 
was,  tender  as  the  voice  that  spoke  it,  it  imposed  a  bound- 
ary to  affection — it  came  as  a  knell  to  hope.  He  recoiled, 
shook  his  head  mournfully — "  Too  late  to  accept  that  tie — 
too  late  even  for  friendship.  Henceforth — for  long  years 
to  come — henceforth,  till  this  heart  has  ceased  to  beat 
at  your  name — to  thrill  at  your  presence,  we  two — are 
strangers." 

"  Strangers  !  Well — yes,  it  is  right — it  must  be  so  ;  we 
must  not  meet.  Oh,  Leonard  Fairfield,  who  was  it  in 
those  days  that  you  recall  to  me — who  was  it  that  found 
you  destitute  and  obscure — who,  not  degrading  you  by 
charity,  placed  you  in  your  right  career — opened  to  you, 
amidst  the  labyrinth  in  which  you  were  well-nigh  lost,  the 
broad  road  to  knowledge,  independence,  fame  ?  Answer 
me — answer  !  Was  it  not  the  same  who  reared — sheltered 
your  sister  orphan  ?  If  I  could  forget  what  I  have  owed  to 
him,  should  I  not  remember  what  he  has  done  for  you  ? 
Can  I  hear  of  your  distinction  and  not  remember  it  ?  Can 
I  think  how  proud  she  may  be  who  will  one  day  lean  on 
your  arm,  and  bear  the  name  you  have  already  raised 
beyond  all  the  titles  of  an  hour  ?  Can  I  think  of  this,  and 
not  remember  our  common  friend,  benefactor,  guardian  ? 
Would  you  forgive  me,  if  I  failed  to  do  so  ?" 

"  But,"  faltered  Leonard,  fear  mingling  with  the  conjec- 
tures these  words  called  forth — "  but  is  it  that  Lord  L'Es- 
trange  would  not  consent  to  our  union  ? — or  of  what  do  you 
speak  ?  You  bewilder  me." 

Helen  felt  for  some  moments  as  if  it  were  impossible  to 
reply  ;  and  the  words  at  length  were  dragged  forth  as  from 
the  depth  of  her  very  soul. 

"  He  came  to  me — our  noble  friend.  I  never  dreamed 
of  it.  He  did  not  tell  me  that  he  loved  me.  He  told  me 
that  he  was  unhappy,  alone  ;  that  in  me,  and  only  in  me,  he 
could  find  a  comforter,  a  soother — He,  he  ! — And  I  had  just 
arrived  in  England — was  under  his  mother's  roof — had  not 
then  once  more  seen  you  ;  and — and — what  could  I  answer  ? 
Strengthen  rne — strengthen  me,  you  whom  I  look  up  to 
and  revere.  Yes,  yes — you  are  right.  We  must  see  each 
other  no  more.  I  am  betrothed  to  another — to  him ! 
Strengthen  me  ! " 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  965 

All  the  inherent  nobleness  of  the  poet's  nature  rose  at 
once  at  this  appeal. 

"Oh,  Helen —sister — Miss  Digby,  forgive  me.  You  need 
no  strength  from  me  ;  I  borrow  it  from  you.  I  comprehend 
you — I  respect.  Banish  all  thought  of  me.  Repay  our 
common  benefactor.  Be  what  he  asks  of  you — his  com- 
forter, his  soother  ;  be  more — his  pride  and  his  joy.  Hap- 
piness will  come  to  you,  as  it  comes  to  those  who  confer 
happiness  and  forget  self.  God  comfort  you  in  the  passing 
struggle  ;  God  bless  you  in  the  long  years  to  come.  Sister 
— I  accept  the  holy  name  now,  and  will  claim  it  hereafter, 
when  I  too  can  think  more  of  others  than  myself." 

Helen  had  covered  her  face  with  her  hands,  sobbing; 
with  that  soft  womanly  constraint  which  presses  woe  back 
into  the  heart.  A  strange  sense  of  utter  solitude  suddenly 
pervaded  her  whole  being,  and  by  that  sense  of  solitude  she 
knew  that  he  was  gone. 


CHAPTER  XIV. 

IN  another  room  in  that  same  house  sat,  solitary  as 
Helen,  a  stern,  gloomy,  brooding  man,  in  whom  they  who 
had  best  known  him  from  his  childhood  could  scarcely  have 
recognized  a  trace  of  the  humane,  benignant,  trustful,  but 
wayward  and  varying  Harley,  Lord  L' Estrange. 

He  had  read  that  fragment  of  a  memoir,  in  which,  out 
of  all  the  chasms  of  his  barren  and  melancholy  past,  there 
rose  two  malignant  truths  that  seemed  literally  to  glare 
upon  him  with  mocking  and  demon  eyes  :  the  woman 
whose  remembrance  had  darkened  all  the  sunshine  of  his 
life,  had  loved  another  ;  the  friend  in  whom  he  had  con- 
fided his  whole  affectionate  loyal  soul  had  been  his  per- 
fidious rival.  He  had  read  from  the  first  word  to  the  last, 
as  if  under  a  spell  that  held  him  breathless  ;  and  when  he 
closed  the  manuscript,  it  was  without  groan  or  sigh  ;  but 
over  his  pale  lips  there  passed  that  withering  smile,  which 
is  as  sure  an  index  of  a  heart  overcharged  with  dire  and 
fearful  passions,  as  the  arrowy  flash  of  the  lightning  is  of 
tempests  that  are  gathered  within  the  cloud. 

He  then  thrust  the  papers  into  his  bosom,  and,  keeping 
his  hand  over  them  firmly  clenched,  he  left  the  room,  and 


966  MY  NOVEL;    OR, 

walked  slowly  toward  his  father's  house.  With  every  step 
by  the  way,  his  nature,  in  the  war  of  its  elements,  seemed 
to  change  and  harden  into  forms  of  granite.  Love,  human- 
ity, trust,  vanished  away.  Hate,  revenge,  misanthropy, 
suspicion,  and  scorn  of  all  that  could  wear  the  eyes  of 
affection,  or  speak  with  the  voice  of  honor,  came  fast 
through  the  gloom  of  his  thoughts,  settling  down  in  the 
wilderness,  grim  and  menacing  as  the  harpies  of  ancient 
song— 

" Uncseque  manus,  et  pallida  semper  Ora."  * 

Thus  the  gloomy  man  had  crossed  the  threshold  of  his 
father's  house,  and  silently  entered  the  apartments  still  set 
apart  for  him.  He  had  arrived  about  an  hour  before 
Leonard  ;  and  as  he  stood  by  the  hearth,  with  his  arms 
folded  on  his  breast,  and  his  eyes  fixed  lead-like  on  the 
ground,  his  mother  came  in  to  welcome  and  embrace  him. 
He  checked  her  eager  inquiries  after  Violante — he  recoiled 
from  the  touch  of  her  hand. 

"  Hold,  madam,"  said  he,  startling  her  ear  with  the  cold 
austerity  of  his  tone.  "  I  cannot  heed  your  questions — I  am 
filled  with  the  question  I  must  put  to  yourself.  You  op- 
posed my  boyish  love  for  Leonora  Avehel.  I  do  not  blame 
you — all  mothers  of  equal  rank  would  have  done  the  same. 
Yet,  had  you  not  frustrated  all  frank  intercourse  with  her,  I 
might  have  taken  refusal  from  her  own  lips — survived  that 
grief,  and  now  been  a  happy  man.  Years  since  then  have 
rolled  away — rolled  over  her  quiet  slumbers,  and  my  restless 
waking  life.  All  this  time  were  you  aware  that  Audley 
Egerton  had  been  the  lover  of  Leonora  Avenel  ? " 

"  Harley,  Harley  !  do  not  speak  to  me  in  that  cruel 
voice — do  not  look  at  me  with  those  hard  eyes  !  " 

"  You  knew  it,  then— you,  my  mother  ! "  continued 
Harley,  unmoved  by  her  rebuke  ;  "and  why  did  you  never 
say,  '  Son,  you  are  wasting  the  bloom  and  uses  of  your  life 
in  sorrowful  fidelity  to  a  lie  ?  You  are  lavishing  trust  and 
friendship  on  a  perfidious  hypocrite  ?  ' ' 

"  How  could  I  speak  to  you  thus — how  could  I  dare  to 
do  so — seeing  you  still  so  cherished  the  memory  of  that  un- 
happy girl — still  believed  that  she  had  returned  your  affec- 
tion ?  Had  I  said  to  you  what  I  knew  (but  not  till  after  her 
death),  as  to  her  relations  with  Audley  Egerton " 

"  Well  ? — you  falter— go  on — had  you  done  so  ? " 

*  "  Hands  armed  with  fangs,  and  lips  forever  pale." 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  967 

"  Would  you  have  felt  no  desire  for  revenge  ?  Might 
there  not  have  been  strife  between  you — danger — blood- 
shed ?  Harley,  Harley  !  Is  not  such  silence  pardonable  in  a 
mother  ?  And  why  deprive  you  too  of  the  only  friend  you 
seemed  to  prize — who  alone  had  some  influence  over  you  | 
who  concurred  with  me  in  the  prayer  and  hope,  that  some  day 
you  would  find  a  living  partner  worthy  to  replace  this  lost 
delusion,  arouse  your  faculties — be  the  ornament  your 
youth  promised  to  your  country  ?  For  you  wrong  Audley 
— indeed  you  do  !  " 

"Wrong  him!     Ah!  let  me  not  do  that.     Proceed." 

"  I  do  not  excuse  him  his  rivalship,  nor  his  first  con- 
cealment of  it.  But  believe  me,  since  then,  his  genuine  re- 
morse, his  anxious  tenderness  for  your  welfare,  his  dread 
of  losing  your  friendship " 

"  Stop — it  was  doubtless  Audley  Egerton  who  induced 
you  to  conceal  what  you  call  his  '  relations '  with  her  whom  I 
can  now  so  calmly  name — Leonora  Avenel  ?  " 

"  It  was  so,  in  truth — and  from  motives  that " 

"  Enough — let  me  hear  no  more." 

"  But  you  will  not  think  too  sternly  of  what  is  passed  ; 
you  are  about  to  form  new  ties.  You  cannot  be  wild  and 
wicked  enough  to  meditate  what  your  brow  seems  to 
threaten.  You  cannot  dream  of  revenge — risk  Audley's 
life  or  your  own  ?  " 

"Tut — tut — tut]  What  cause  here  for  duels?  Single 
combats  are  out  of  date — civilized  men  do  not  slay  each 
other  with  sword  and  pistol.  Tut !— revenge  !  does  it  look 
like  revenge,  that  one  object  which  brings  me  hither  is  to 
request  my  father's  permission  to  charge  myself  with  the 
care  of  Audley  Egerton's  election  ?  What  he  values  most 
in  the  world  is  his  political  position  ;  and  his  political  exis- 
tence is  at  stake.  You  know  that  I  have  had  through  life 
the  character  of  a  weak,  easy,  somewhat  over-generous  man. 
Such  men  are  not  revengeful.  Hold  !  You  lay  your  hand 
on  my  arm — I  know  the  magic  of  that  light  touch,  mother  ; 
but  its  power  over  me  is  gone.  Countess  of  Lansmere,  hear 
me  !  Ever  from  infancy  (save  in  that  frantic  passion  for 
which  I  now  despise  myself),  I  have  obeyed  you,  I  trust,  as 
a  duteous  son.  Now,  our  relative  positions  are  somewhat 
altered.  I  have  the  right  to  exact — I  will  not  say  to  command 
— the  right  which  wrong  and  injury  bestow  upon  all  men. 
Madam,  the  injured  man  has  prerogatives  that  rival  those 
of  kings.  I  now  call  upon  you  to  question  me  no  more-— 


968  MY  NOVEL;   OR, 

not  again  to  breathe  the  name  of  Leonora  Avenel,  unless  I 
invite  the  subject ;  and  not  to  inform  Audley  Egerton  by  a 
hint — by  a  breath — that  I  have  discovered — what  shall  I 
call  it  ? — his  '  pardonable  deceit.'  Promise  me  this,  by 
your  affection  as  mother,  and  on  your  faith  as  gentlewoman 
— or  I  declare  solemnly,  that  never  in  life  will  you  look 
upon  my  face  again." 

Haughty  and  imperious  though  the  Countess  was,  her 
spirit  quailed  before  Haiiey's  brow  and  voice. 

"  Is  this  my  son — this  my  gentle  Harley  ? "  she  said,  falter- 
ingiy.  "  Oh  !  put  your  arms  round  my  neck — let  me  feel 
that  I  have  not  lost  my  child  !  " 

Harley  looked  softened,  but  he  did  not  obey  the  pa- 
thetic prayer ;  nevertheless,  he  held  out  his  hand,  and 
turning  away  his  face,  said,  in  a  milder  voice,  "  Have  I 
your  promise  ? " 

"You  have — you  have  ;  but  on  condition  that  there  pass 
no  words  between  you  and  Audley  that  can  end  but  in  the 
strife  which " 

"  Strife  !  "  interrupted  Harley.  "  I  repeat  that  the  idea 
of  challenge  and  duel  between  me  and  my  friend  from  our 
school-days,  and  on  a  quarrel  that  we  could  explain  to  no 
seconds,  would  be  a  burlesque  upon  all  that  is  grave  in  the 
realities  of  life  and  feeling.  I  accept  your  promise  and 
seal  it  thus " 

He  pressed  his  lips  to  his  mother's  forehead,  and  pas- 
sively received  her  embrace. 

"  Hush,"  he  said,  withdrawing  from  her  arms  ;  "  I  hear 
my  father's  voice." 

Lord  Lansmere  threw  open  the  door  widely,  and  with  a 
certain  consciousness  that  a  door  by  which  an  Earl  of 
Lansmere  entered  ought  to  be  thrown  open  widely.  It 
could  not  have  been  opened  with  more  majesty  if  a  huisster, 
or  officer  of  the  Household,  had  stood  on  either  side.  The 
Countess  passed  by  her  lord  with  a  light  step,  and  escaped. 

"  I  was  occupied  with  my  architect  in  designs  for  the 
new  infirmary,  of  which  I  shall  make  a  present  to  our 
county.  I  have  only  just  heard  that  you  were  here,  Harley. 
What's  all  this  about  our  fair  Italian  guest  ?  Is  she  not 
coming  back  to  us  ?  Your  mother  refers  me  to  you  for  ex- 
planations." 

"  You  shall  have  them  later,  my  dear  father  ;  at  present 
I  can  think  only  of  public  affairs." 

"  Public  affairs ! — they  are  indeed  alarming.     I  am  re- 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  969 

joiced  to  hear  you  express  yourself  so  worthily.  An  awful 
crisis,  Harley  !  And,  gracious  heaven  !  I  have  heard  that  a 
low  man,  who  was  born  in  Lansmere,  but  made  a  fortune  in 
America,  is  about  to  contest  the  borough.  They  tell  me  he 
is  one  of  the  Avenels — a  born  Blue— is  it  possible  ?" 

"  I  have  come  here  on  that  business.  As  a  peer  you 
cannot,  of  course,  interfere.  But  I  propose,  with  your 
leave,  to  go  down  myself  to  Lansmere,  and  undertake  the 
superintendence  of  the  election.  It  would  be  better,  per- 
haps, if  you  were  not  present ;  it  would  give  us  more  liberty 
of  action." 

"  My  dear  Harley,  shake  hands  ;  anything  you  please. 
You  know  how  I  have  wished  to  see  you  come  forward,  and 
take  that  part  in  life  which  becomes  your  birth." 

"Ah,  you  think  I  have  sadly  wasted  my  existence  hither- 
to." 

"To  be  frank  with  you,  yes,  Harley,"  said  the  Earl,  with 
a  pride  that  was  noble  in  its  nature,  and  not  without  dig- 
nity in  its  expression.  "  The  more  we  take  from  our 
country,  the  more  we  owe  to  her.  From  the  moment  you 
came  into  the  world,  as  the  inheritor  of  lands  and  honors, 
you  were  charged  with  a  trust  for  the  benefit  of  others, 
that  it  degrades  one  of  our  order  of  gentlemen  not  to  dis- 
charge." 

Harley  listened  with  a  sombre  brow,  and  made  no  direct 
reply.  • 

"  Indeed,"  resumed  the  Earl,  "  I  would  rather  you  were 
about  to  canvass  for  yourself  than  for  your  friend  Egerton. 
But  I  grant  he  is  an  example  that  it  is  never  too  late  to 
follow.  Why,  who  that  had  seen  you  both  as  youths,  not- 
withstanding Audley  had  the  advantage  of  being  some 
years  your  senior — who  could  have  thought  that  he  was  the 
one  to  become  distinguished  and  eminent — and  you  to 
degenerate  into  the  luxurious  idler,  averse  to  all  trouble 
and  careless  of  all  fame  ?  You,  with  such  advantages,  not 
only  of  higher  fortune,  but,  as  every  one  said,  of  superior 
talents — you,  who  had  then  so  much  ambition — so  keen  a 
desire  for  glory,  sleeping  with  Plutarch's  Lives  under  your 
pillow,  and  only,  my  wild  son,  only  too  much  energy.  But 
you  are  a  young  man  still — it  is  not  too  late  to  redeem  the 
years  you  have  thrown  away." 

"  The  years — are  nothing — mere  dates  in  an  almanac  ; 
but  the  feelings,  what  can  give  me  back  those  ? — the  hope, 
the  enthusiasm,  the — no  matter  !  feelings  do  not  help  men 


970  MY  NOVEL;    OR, 

to  rise  in  the  world.  Egerton's  feelings  are  not  too  lively. 
What  I  might  have  been,  leave  it  to  me  to  remember — let 
us  talk  of  the  example  you  set  before  me — of  Audley  Eger- 
ton." 

"  We  must  get  him  in,"  said  the  Earl,  sinking  his  voice 
into  a  whisper.  "  It  is  of  more  importance  to  him  than  I 
ever  thought  for.  But  you  know  his  secrets.  Why  did  you 
not  confide  to  me  frankly  the  state  of  his  affairs  ?  " 

"  His  affairs  !  Do  you  mean  that  they  are  seriously  em- 
barrassed ?  This  interests  me  much.  Pray,  speak  ;  what 
do  you  know  ? " 

"  He  has  discharged  the  greater  part  of  his  establish- 
ment. That  in  itself  is  natural  on  quitting  office  ;  but  still 
it  set  people  talking  ;  and  it  has  got  wind  that  his  estates 
are  not  only  mortgaged  for  more  than  they  are  worth,  but 
that  he  has  been  living  upon  the  discount  of  bills  ;  in  short, 
he  has  been  too  intimate  with  a  man  whom  we  all  know  by 
sight — a  man  who  drives  the  finest  horses  in  London,  and 
they  tell  me  (but  that  I  cannot  believe)  lives  in  the  familiar 
society  of  the  young  puppies  he  snares  to  perdition. 
What's  the  man's  name  ?  Levy,  is  it  not  ? — yes,  Levy." 

"  I  have  seen  Levy  with  him,"  said  Harley  ;  and  a  sinister 
joy  lighted  up  his  falcon  eyes.  "  Levy — Levy — it  is  well." 

"  I  hear  but  the  gossip  of  the  clubs,"  resumed  the  Earl. 
"  But  they  do  say  that  Levy  makes  little  disguise  of  his 
power  over  our  very  distinguished  friend,  and  rather  pa- 
rades it  as  a  merit  with  our  party  (and,  indeed,  with  all  men 
— for  Egerton  has  personal  friends  in  every  party),  that  he 
keeps  sundry  bills  locked  up  in  his  desk  until  Egerton  is 
once  more  safe  in  Parliament.  Nevertheless  if,  after  all, 
our  friend  were  to  lose  his  election,  and  Levy  were  then  to 
seize  on  his  effects,  and  proclaim  his  ruin — it  would  se- 
riously damage,  perhaps  altogether  destroy,  Audley's  politi- 
cal career." 

"So  I  conclude,"  said  Harley.  ."A  Charles  Fox  might 
be  a  gamester,  and  a  William  Pitt  be  a  pauper.  But  Aud- 
ley Egerton  is  not  o/  their  giant  stature  ; — he  stands  so  high 
because  he  stands  upon  heaps  of  respectable  gold.  Audley 
Egerton,  needy  and  impoverished — out  of  Parliament,  and, 
as  the  vulgar  slang  has  it,  out  at  elbows,  skulking  from  duns, 
perhaps  in  the  Bench " 

"  No,  no — our  party  would  never  allow  that  ;  we  would 
subscribe — 

"  Worse  than  all,  living  as  the  pensioner  of  the  party  he 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  971 

aspired  to  lead  !  You  say  truly.  His  political  prospects 
would  be  blasted.  A  man  whose  reputation  lay  in  his  out- 
ward respectability !  Why,  people  would  say  that  Audley 
Egerton  has  been — a  solemn  lie  ;  eh,  my  father  ? " 

"  How  can  you  talk  with  such  coolness  of  your  friend  ? 
You  need  say  nothing  to  interest  me  in  his  election — if  you 
mean  that.  Once  in  Parliament,  he  must  soon  again  be  in 
office — and  learn  to  live  on  his  salary.  You  must  get  him 
to  submit  to  me  the  schedule  of  his  liabilities.  I  have  a 
head  for  business,  as  you  know.  I  will  arrange  his  affairs 
for  him.  And  I  will  yet  bet  five  to  one,  though  I  hate 
wagers,  that  he  will  be  prime  minister  in  three  years.  He 
is  not  brilliant,  it  is  true  ;  but  just  at  this  crisis  we  want  a 
safe,  moderate,  judicious,  conciliatory  man  ;  and  Audley  has 
so  much  tact,  such  experience  of  the  House,  such  knowl- 
edge of  the  world,  and,"  added  the  Earl,  emphatically  sum- 
ming up  his  eulogies,  "  he  is  so  thorough  a  gentleman  !  " 

"  A  thorough  gentleman,  as  you  say — the  soul  of  honor! 
But,  my  dear  father,  it  is  your  hour  for  riding ;  let  me  not 
detain  you.  It  is  settled,  then  ;  you  do  not  come  yourself 
to  Lansmere.  You  put  the  house  at  my  disposal,  and  allow 
me  to  invite  Egerton,  of  course,  and  what  other  guests  I 
may  please  ;  in  short  you  leave  all  to  me  ?  " 

"  Certainly  ;  and  if  you  cannot  get  in  your  friend,  who 
can  ?  That  borough,  it  is  an  awkward,  ungrateful  place, 
and  has  been  the  plague  of  my  life.  So  much  as  I  have 
spent  there,  too, — so  much  as  I  have  done  to  its  trade." 
And  the  Earl,  with  an  indignant  sigh,  left  th&  room. 

Harley  seated  himself  deliberately  at  his  writing-table, 
leaning  his  face  on  his  hand,  and  looking  abstractedly  into 
space  from  under-knit  and  lowering  brows. 

Harley  L'Estrange  was,  as  we  have  seen,  a  man  singu- 
larly tenacious  of  affections  and  impressions.  He  was  a 
man,  too,  whose  nature  was  eminently  bold,  loyal,  and 
candid  ;  even  the  apparent  whim  and  levity  which  misled 
the  world,  both  as  to  his  dispositions  and  his  powers,  might 
be  half  ascribed  to  that  open  temper,  which,  in  its  over- 
contempt  for  all  that  seemed  to  savor  of  hypocrisy,  sported 
with  forms  and  ceremonials,  and  extracted  humor,  some- 
times extravagant,  sometimes  profound  —  from  "the  solemn 
plausibilities  of  the  world."  The  shock  he  had  now  re- 
ceived smote  the  very  foundations  of  his  mind,  and,  over- 
throwing all  the  airier  structures  which  fancy  and  wit  had 
built  upon  its  surface,  left  it  clear  as  a  new  world  for  the 


972  MY  NOVEL;    OR, 

operations  of  the  darker  and  more  fearful  passions.  When 
a  man  of  a  heart  so  loving,  and  a  nature  so  irregularly  pow- 
erful as  Harley's,  suddenly  and  abruptly  discovers  deceit 
where  he  had  most  confided,  it.  is  not  (as  with  the  calmer 
pupils  of  that  harsh  teacher  Experience)  the  mere  with- 
drawal of  esteem  and  affection  from  the  one  offender, — it 
is,  that  trust  in  everything  seems  gone, — it  is,  that  the  in- 
jured spirit  looks  back  to  the  Past,  and  condemns  all  its 
kindlier  virtues  as  follies  that  conduced  to  its  own  woe  ; 
and  looks  on  to  the  Future  as  to  a  journey  beset  with  smil- 
ing traitors,  whom  it  must  meet  with  an  equal  simulation, 
or  crush  with  a  superior  force.  The  guilt  of  treason  to 
men  like  these  is  incalculable, — it  robs  the  world  of  all  the 
benefits  they  would  otherwise  have  lavished  as  they  passed, 
— it  is  responsible  for  all  the  ill  that  springs  from  the  cor- 
ruption of  natures,  whose  very  luxuriance,  when  the  atmos- 
phere is  once  tainted,  does  but  diffuse  disease  ;  even  as  the 
malaria  settles  not  over  thin  and  barren  soils,  nor  over 
wastes  that  have  been  from  all  time  desolate,  but  over  the 
places  in  which  southern  suns  had  once  ripened  delightful 
gardens,  or  the  sites  of  cities,  in  which  the  pomp  of  palaces 
has  passed  away. 

It  was  not  enough  that  the  friend  of  his  youth,  the  con- 
fidant of  his  love,  had  betrayed  his  trust — been  the  secret 
and  successful  rival ; — not  enough  that  the  woman  his  boy- 
hood had  madly  idolized,  and  all  the  while  he  had  sought 
her  traces  with  pining  remorseful  heart, — believing  she  but 
eluded  his  suit  from  the  emulation  of  a  kindred  generosity, 
— desiring  rather  to  sacrifice  her  own  love,  than  to  cost  to 
his  the  sacrifice  of  all  which  youth  rashly  scorns,  and  the 
world  so  highly  estimates; — not  enough  that  all  this  wh'-e 
her  refuge  had  been  the  bosom  of  another.  This  was  *ot 
enough  of  injury.  His  whole  life  had  been  wasted  on  a 
delusion — his  faculties  and  aims, — the  wholesome  ambition 
of  lofty  minds  had  been  arrested  at  the  very  onset  of  fair 
existence, — his  heart  corroded  by  a  regret  for  which  there 
was  no  cause, — his  conscience  charged  with  the  terror  that 
his  wild  chase  had  urged  a  too  tender  victim  to  the  grave, 
over  which  he  had  mourned.  What  years  that  might  other- 
wise have  been  to  himself  so  serene',  to  the  world  so  useful, 
had  been  consumed  in  objectless,  barren,  melancholy 
dreams  !  And  all  this  while  to  whom  had  his  complaints 
been  uttered  ? — to  the  man  who  knew  that  his  remorse  was 
an  idle  spectre,  and  his  faithful  sorrow  a  mocking  self- 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  973 

deceit.  Every  thought  that  could  gall  man's  natural  pride, 
every  remembrance  that  could  sting  into  revenge  a  heart 
that  had  loved  too  deeply  not  to  be  accessible  to  hate,  con- 
spired to  goad  those  maddening  Furies  who  come  into 
every  temple  which  is  once  desecrated  by  the  presence  of 
the  evil  passions.  In  that  sullen  silence  of  the  soul,  ven- 
geance took  the  form  of  justice.  Changed  though  his  feel- 
ings toward  Leonara  Avenel  were,  the  story  of  her  grief 
and  her  wrongs  embittered  still  more  his  wrath  against  his 
rival.  The  fragments  of  her  memoir  left  naturally  on  Har- 
ley's  mind  the  conviction  that  she  had  been  the  victim  of 
an  infamous  fraud — the  dupe  of  a  false  marriage.  His  idol 
had  not  only  been  stolen  from  the  altar,  it  had  been  sullied 
by  the  sacrifice, — broken  with  remorseless  hand  and  thrust 
into  dishonored  clay, — mutilated, — defamed, — its  very 
memory  a  thing  of  contempt  to  him  who  had  ravished  it 
from  worship.  The  living  Harley  and  the  dead  Nora — both 
called  aloud  to  their  joint  despoiler,  "  Restore  what  thou 
hast  taken  from  us,  or  pay  the  forfeit !  " 

Thus,  then,  during  the  interview  between  Helen  and 
Leonard, — thus  Harley  L'Estrange  sat  alone  !  and  as  a 
rude  irregular  lump  of  steel,  when  wheeled  round  into 
rapid  motion,  assumes  the  form  of  the  circle  it  describes, 
so  his  iron  purpose,  hurried  on  by  his  relentless  passion, 
filled  the  space  into  which  he  gazed  with  optical  delusions 
— scheme  after  scheme  revolving  and  consummating  the 
circles  that  clasped  a  foe. 


CHAPTER  XV. 

THE  entrance  of  a  servant,  announcing  a  name  which 
Harley,  in  the  absorption  of  his  gloomy  reverie,  did  not 
hear,  was  followed  by  that  of  a  person  on  whom  he  lifted 
his  eyes  in  the  cold  and  haughty  surprise  with  which  a  man, 
much  occupied,  greets  and  rebukes  the  intrusion  of  an  un- 
welcome stranger. 

"  It  is  so  long  since  your  lordship  has  seen  me,"  said 
the  visitor,  with  mild  dignity,  "that  I  cannot  wonder  you 
do  not  recognize  my  person,  and  have  forgotten  my  name." 

"Sir,"  answered  Harley,  with  an  impatient  rudeness  ill 
in  harmony  with  the  urbanity  for  which  he  was  usually  dis- 


974  MY  NOVEL;    OR, 

tinguished — "sir,  your  person  is  strange  to  me,  and  your 
name  I  did  not  hear  ;  but,  at  all  events,  I  am  not  now  at 
leisure  to  attend  to  you.  Excuse  my  plainness." 

"  Yet,  pardon  me  if  I  still  linger.  My  name  is  Dale.  I 
was  formerly  curate  at  Lansmere  ;  and  I  would  speak  to 
your  lordship"  in  the  name  and  the  memory  of  one  once  dear 
to  you — Leonora  Avenel." 

HARLEY  (after  a  short  pause). — Sir,  I  cannot  conjecture 
your  business.  But  be  seated.  I  remember  you  now,  though 
years  have  altered  both  ;  and  I  have  since  heard  much  in 
your  favor  from  Leonard  Fairfield.  Still,  let  me  pray  that 
you  will  be  brief. 

MR.  DALE. — May  I  assume  at  once  that  you  have  divined 
the  parentage  of  the  young  man  you  call  Fairfield  ?  When 
I  listened  to  his  grateful  praises  of  your  beneficence,  and 
marked  with  melancholy  pleasure  the  reverence  in  which 
he  holds  you,  my  heart  swelled  within  me.  I  acknowledge 
the  mysterious  force  of  nature. 

HARLEY. — Force  of  nature  !     You  talk  in  riddles. 

MR.  DALE  (indignantly). — Oh,  my  lord,  how  can  you  so 
disguise  your  better  self  ?  Surely  in  Leonard  Fairfield  you 
have  long  since  recognized  the  son  of  Nora  Avenel  ? 

Harley  passed  his  hand  over  his  face.  "  Ah  !  "  thought 
he,  "  she  lived  to  bear  a  son,  then — a  son  to  Egerton  !  Leo- 
nard is  that  son.  I  should  have  known  him  by  the  likeness 
— by  the  fond  foolish  impulse  that  moved  me  to  him.  This 
is  why  he  confided  to  me  these  fearful  memoirs.  He  seeks 
his  father — he  shall  find  him." 

MR.  DALE  (mistaking  the  cause  of  Harley's  silence). — I 
honor  your  compunction,  my  lord.  Oh  !  let  your  heart 
and  your  conscience  continue  to  speak  to  your  worldly  pride. 

HARLEY. — My  compunction,  heart,  conscience  !  Mr. 
Dale,  you  insult  me  ! 

MR.  DALE  (sternly). — Not  so  ;  I  am  fulfilling  my  mission, 
which  bids  me  rebuke  the  sinner.  Leonora  Avenel  speaks 
in  me,  and  commands  the  guilty  father  to  acknowledge  the 
innocent  child  ! 

Harley  half  rose,  and  his  eyes  literally  flashed  fire  ;  but 
he  calmed  his  anger  into  irony.  "Ha!"  said  he,  with  a 
sarcastic  smile,  "so  you  suppose  that  /was  the  perfidious 
seducer  of  Nora  Avenel — that  /am  the  callous  father  of  the 
child  who  came  into  the  world  without  a  name.  Very  well, 
sir,  taking  these  assumptions  for  granted,  what  is  it  you  de- 
mand from  me  on  behalf  of  this  young  man  ?  " 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  97$ 

"  I  ask  from  you  his  happiness,"  replied  Mr.  Dale,  im- 
ploringly ;  and  yielding  to  the  compassion  with  which  Leo- 
nard inspired  him,  and  persuaded  that  Lord  L'Estrange 
felt  a  father's  love  for  the  boy  whom  he  had  saved  from  the 
whirlpool  of  London,  and  guided  to  safety  and  honorable 
independence,  he  here,  with  simple  eloquence,  narrated  all 
Leonard's  feelings  for  Helen — his  silent  fidelity  to  her 
image,  though  a  child's — his  love  when  he  again  beheld  her 
as  a  woman — the  modest  fears  which  the  Parson  himself 
had  combated — the  recommendation  that  Mr.  Dale  had 
forced  upon  him,  to  confess  his  affection  to  Helen,  and 
plead  his  cause.  "Anxious,  as  you  may  believe,  for  his 
success,"  continued  the  Parson,  "  I  waited  without  your 
gates  till  he  came  from  Miss  Digby's  presence.  And  oh, 
my  lord,  had  you  but  seen  his  face  ! — such  emotion  and 
such  despair  !  I  could  not  learn  from  him  what  had  passed. 
He  escaped  from  me,  and  rushed  away.  All  that  I  could 
gather  was  from  a  few  broken  words,  and  from  those  words  I 
formed  the  conjecture  (it  may  be  erroneous)  that  the  obstacle 
to  his  happiness  was  not  in  Helen's  heart,  my  lord,  but 
seemed  to  me  as  if  it  were  in  yourself.  Therefore,  when  he 
had  vanished  from  my  sight,  I  took  courage,  and  came  at 
once  to  you.  If  he  be  your  son,  and  Helen  Digby  be  your 
ward — she  herself  an  orphan,  dependent  on  your  bounty — 
why  should  they  be  severed  ?  Equals  in  years — united  by 
early  circumstance — congenial,  it  seems,  in  simple  habits 
and  refined  tastes — what  should  hinder  their  union,  unless 
it  be  the  want  of  fortune  ? — and  all  men  know  your  wealth — 
none  ever  questioned  your  generosity.  My  lord,  my  lord, 
your  look  freezes  me.  If  I  have  offended,  do  not  visit  my 
offence  on  him — on  Leonard  ! " 

"  And  so,"  said  Harley,  still  controlling  his  rage,  "  so 
this  boy — whom,  as  you  say,  I  saved  from  that  pitiless 
world  which  has  engulfed  many  a  nobler  genius — so,  in  re- 
turn for  all,  he  has  sought  to  rob  me  of  the  last  affection, 
poor  and  lukewarm  though  it  was,  that  remained  to  me  in 
life.  He  presumed  to  lift  his  eyes  to  my  affianced  bride ! 
He  !  And  for  aught  I  know,  steal  from  me  her  living  heart, 
and  leave  to  me  her  icy  hand  ! " 

"  Oh,  my  lord,  your  affianced  bride  !     I  never  dreamed 
of  this.     I  implore  your  pardon.     The  very  thought  is  so 
terrible — so  unnatural — the   son  to  woo   the   father's — 
Oh,  what  sin  have  I  fallen  into  !     The  sin  was  mine — I  urged 


9;6  MY  NOVEL;    OR, 

and  persuaded  him  to  it.  He  was  ignorant  as  myself. 
Forgive  him,  forgive  him  ! " 

"  Mr.  Dale,"  said  Harley,  rising,  and  extending  his  hand, 
which  the  poor  Parson  felt  himself  unworthy  to  take — "  Mr. 
Dale,  you  are  a  good  man — if,  indeed,  this  universe  of  liars 
contains  some  man  who  does  not  cheat  our  judgment  when 
we  deem  him  honest.  Allow  me  only  to  ask  why  you  con- 
sider Leonard  Fairfield  to  be  my  son  ?" 

"  Was  not  your  youthful  admiration  for  poor  Nora  evi- 
dent to  me  ?  Remember,  I  was  a  frequent  guest  at  Lans- 
mere  Park  ;  and  it  was  so  natural  that  you,  with  all  your 
brilliant  gifts,  should  captivate  her  refined  fancy — her  affec- 
tionate heart." 

"  Natural — you  think  so — go  on." 

"Your  mother,  as  became  her,  separated  you.  It  was 
not  unknown  to  me  that  you  still  cherished  a  passion  which 
your  rank  forbade  to  be  lawful.  Poor  girl  !  she  left  the 
roof  of  her  protectress,  Lady  Jane.  Nothing  was  known  of 
her  till  she  came  to  her  father's  house  to  give  birth  to  a 
child,  and  die.  And  the  same  day  that  dawned  on  her 
corpse,  you  hurried  from  the  place.  Ah  !  no  doubt  your 
conscience  smote  you — you  have  never  returned  to  Lans- 
mere  since." 

Harley 's  breast  heaved — he  waved  his  hand — the  Parson 
resumed — 

"Whom  could  I  suspect  but  you?  I  made  inquiries, 
they  confirmed  my  suspicions." 

"  Perhaps  you  inquired  of  my  friend,  Mr.  Egerton  ?  He 
was  with  me  when — when — as  you  say,  I  hurried  from  the 
place." 

"  I  did,  my  lord." 

"And  he?" 

"  Denied  your  guilt ;  but  still,  a  man  of  honor  so  nice,  of 
heart  so  feeling,  could  not  feign  readily.  His  denial  did  not 
deceive  me." 

"  Honest  man  ! "  said  Harley  ;  and  his  hand  griped  the 
breast  over  which  still  rustled,  as  if  with  a  ghostly  sigh, 
the  records  of  the  dead.  "  He  knew  she  had  left  a  son, 
too  ? " 

"  He  did,  my  lord  ;  of  course,  I  told  him  that." 

"  The  son  whom  I  found  starving  in  the  streets  of  Lon- 
don !  Mr.  Dale,  as  you  see,  your  words  move  me  very 
much.  I  cannot  deny  that  he  who  wronged,  it  may  be  with 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  977 

no  common  treachery,  that  young  mother — for  Nora  Avenel 
was  not  one  to  be  lightly  seduced  into  error — 

"  Indeed,  no  !" 

"  And  who  then  thought  no  more  of  the  offspring  of  her 
anguish  and  his  own  crime — I  cannot  deny  that  that  man 
deserves  some  chastisement — should  render  some  atonement. 
Am  I  not  right  here  ?  Answer  with  the  plain  speech  which 
becomes  your  sacred  calling." 

"  I  cannot  say  otherwise,  my  lord,"  replied  the  Parson, 
pitying  what  appeared  to  him  such  remorse.  "  But  if  he 
repent " 

"  Enough,"  interrupted  Harley,  "  I  now  invite  you  to  visit 
me  at  Lansmere  ;  give  me  your  address,  and  I  will  apprise 
you  of  the  day  on  which  I  will  request  your  presence. 
Leonard  Fairfield  shall  find  a  father — I  was  about  to  say, 
worthy  of  himself.  For  the  rest — stay ;  reseat  yourself. 
For  the  rest," — and  again  the  sinister  smile  broke  from 
Harley's  eye  and  lip — "  I  will  not  yet  say  whether  I  can,  ojr 
ought  to,  resign  to  a  younger  and  fairer  suitor  the  lady  who 
has  accepted  my  own  hand.  I  have  no  reason  yet  to  believe 
that  she  prefers  him.  But  what  think  you,  meanwhile,  of 
this  proposal  ?  Mr.  Avenel  wishes  his  nephew  to  contest 
the  borough  of  Lansmere — has  urged  me  to  obtain  the 
young  man's  consent.  True,  that  he  may  thus  endanger  the 
seat  of  Mr.  Audley  Egerton.  What  then  ?  Mr.  Audley 
Egerton  is  a  great  man,  and  may  find  another  seat ;  that 
should  not  stand  in  the  way.  Let  Leonard  obey  his  uncle. 
If  he  win  the  election  ;  why,  he'll  be  a  more  equal  match,  in 
the  world's  eye,  for  Miss  Digby — that  is,  should  she  prefer 
him  to  myself  ;  and  if  she  do  not,  still,  in  public  life,  there  is  a 
cure  for  all  private  sorrow.  That  is  a  maxim  of  Mr.  Audley 
Egerton's  ;  and  he,  you  know,  is  a  man  not  only  of  the 
nicest  honor,  but  the  deepest  worldly  wisdom.  Do  you  like 
my  proposition  ?" 

"It  seems  to  me  most  considerate — most  generous." 

"  Then  you  shall  take  to  Leonard  the  lines  I  am  about 
to  write." 

LORD  L'ESTRANGE  TO  LEONARD  FAIRFIELD. 

"  I  have  read  the  memoir  you  intrusted  to  me.  I  will 
follow  up  all  the  clues  that  it  gives  me.  Meanwhile  I  re- 
quest you  to  suspend  all  questions — forbear  all  reference  to 
a  subject  which,  as  you  may  well  conjecture,  is  fraught  with 


978  MY  NOVEL;    OR, 

painful  recollections  to  myself.  At  this  moment,  too,  I  am 
compelled  to  concentre  my  thoughts  upon  affairs  of  a  pub- 
lic nature,  and  yet  which  may  sensibly  affect  yourself. 
There  are  reasons  why  I  urge  you  to  comply  with  your 
uncle's  wish,  and  stand  for  the  borough  of  Lansmere  at  the 
approaching  election.  If  the  exquisite  gratitude  of  your 
nature  so  overrates  what  I  may  have  done  for  you,  that  you 
think  you  owe  me  some  obligations,  you  will  richly  repay 
them  on  the  day  in  which  I  hear  you  hailed  as  member  for 
Lansmere.  Relying  on  that  generous  principle  of  self- 
sacrifice  which  actuates  all  your  conduct,  I  shall  count 
upon  your  surrendering  your  preference  to  private  life,  and 
entering  the  arena  of  that  noble  ambition  which  has  con- 
ferred such  dignity  on  the  name  of  my  friend  Audley  Eger- 
ton.  He,  it  is  true,  will  be  your  opponent  ;  but  he  is  too 
generous  not  to  pardon  my  zeal  for  the  interest  of  a  youth 
whose  career  I  am  vain  enough  to  think  that  I  have  aided. 
And  as  Mr.  Randal  Leslie  stands  in  coalition  with  Egerton, 
and  Mr.  Avenel  believes  that  two  candidates  of  the  same 
party  cannot  both  succeed,  the  result  may  be  to  the  satis- 
faction of  all  the  feelings  which  I  entertain  for  Audley  Eger- 
ton, and  for  you,  who,  I  have  reason  to  think,  will  emulate 
his  titles  to  my  esteem. 

"  Yours, 

"  L'ESTRANGE. 

"  There,  Mr.  Dale,"  said  Harley,  sealing  his  letter,  and 
giving  it  into  the  Parson's  hands.  "  There,  you  shall  deliver 
this  note  to  your  friend.  But  no — upon  second  thoughts, 
since  he  does  not  yet  know  of -your  visit  to  me,  it  is  best 
that  he  should  be  still  in  ignorance  of  it.  For  should  Miss 
Digby  resolve  to  abide  by  her  present  engagements,  it  were 
surely  kind  to  save  Leonard  the  pain  of  learning  that  you 
had  communicated  to  me  that  rivalry  he  himself  had  con- 
cealed. Let  all  that  has  passed  between  us  be  kept  in  strict 
confidence." 

"  I  will  obey  you,  my  lord,"  answered  the  Parson, 
meekly,  startled  to  find  that  he  who  had  come  to  arrogate 
authority,  was  now  submitting  to  commands  ;  and  all  at 
fault  what  judgment  he  could  venture  to  pass  upon  the  man 
whom  he  had  regarded  as  a  criminal,  who  had  not  even 
denied  the  crime  imputed  to  him,  yet  who  now  impressed 
the  accusing  priest  with  something  of  that  respect  which 
Mr.  Dale  had  never  before  conceded  but  to  Virtue.  Could 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  979 

he  have  then  but  looked  into  the  dark  and  stormy  heart, 
which  he  twice  misread  ! 

"  It  is  well — very  well,"  muttered  Harley,  when  the  door 
had  closed  upon  the  Parson.  "The  viper  and  the  viper's 
brood !  So  it  was  this  man's  son  that  I  led  from  the  dire 
Slough  of  Despond  ;  and  the  son  unconsciously  imitates  the 
father's  gratitude  and  honor — Ha — ha  !  "  Suddenly  the  bit- 
ter laugh  was  arrested  ;  a  flash  of  almost  celestial  joy  darted 
through  the  warring  elements  of  storm  and  darkness.  If 
Helen  returned  Leonard's  affection,  Harley  L'Estrange  was 
free  !  And  through  that  flash  the  face  of  Violante  shone 
upon  him  as  an  angel's.  But  the  heavenly  light  and  the 
angel  face  vanished  abruptly,  swallowed  up  in  the  black 
abyss  of  the  rent  and  tortured  soul. 

"Fool !"  said  the  unhappy  man,  aloud,  in  his  anguish — 
"  fool !  what  then  ?  Were  I  free,  would  it  be  to  trust  my 
fate  again  to  falsehood  ?  If,  in  all  the  bloom  and  glory  of 
my  youth,  I  failed  to  win  the  heart  of  a  village  girl — if, 
once  more  deluding  myself,  it  is  in  vain  that  I  have  tended, 
reared,  cherished,  some  germ  of  woman's  human  affection 
in  the  orphan  I  saved  from  penury — how  look  for  love  in 
the  brilliant  princess,  whom  all  the  sleek  Lotharios  of  our 
gaudy  world  will  surround  with  their  homage  when  once 
she  alights  on  their  sphere !  If  perfidy  be  my  fate — what 
hell  of  hells  in  the  thought? — that  a  wife  might  lay  her 
head  in  my  bosom — and  —  oh,  horror!  horror! — No! — 
I  would  not  accept  her  hand  were  it  offered,  nor  believe  in 
her  love  were  it  pledged  to  me.  Stern  soul  of  mine — 
wise  at  last,  love  never  more  —  never  more  believe  in 
truth  !" 


CHAPTER  XVI. 

As  Harley  quitted  the  room,  Helen's  pale,  sweet  face 
looked  forth  from  a  door  in  the  same  corridor.  She  ad- 
vanced toward  him  timidly. 

"May  I  speak  with  you?"  she  said,  in  almost  inaudible 
accents.  "I  have  been  listening  for  your  footstep." 

Harley  looked'at  her  steadfastly.  Then,  without  a  word, 
he  followed  her  into  the  room  she  had  left,  and  closed  the 
door. 


980  MY  NOVEL;    OR, 

"  I  too,"  said  he,  "  meant  to  seek  an  interview  with  your- 
self— but  later.  You  would  speak  to  me,  Helen — say  on. — 
Ah  !  child,  what  mean  you  ?  Why  this  ?  " — for  Helen  was 
kneeling  at  his  feet. 

"Let  me  kneel,"  she  said,  resisting  the  hand  that  sought 
to  raise  her.  "  Let  me  kneel  till  I  have  explained  all,  and 
perhaps  won  your  pardon.  You  said  something  the  other 
evening.  It  has  weighed  on  my  heart  and  my  conscience 
ever  since.  You  said,  '  that  I  should  have  no  secret  from 
you  ;  for  that,  in  our  relation  to  each  other,  would  be  deceit.' 
I  have  had  a  secret ;  but,  oh,  believe  me !  it  was  long  ere  it 
was  clearly  visible  to  myself.  You  honored  me  with  a  suit 
so  far  beyond  my  birth,  my  merits.  You  said  that  I  might 
console  and  comfort  you.  At  those  words,  what  answer 
could  I  give  ?  —  I,  who  owe  you  so  much  more  than  a 
daughter's  duty  ?  And  I  thought  that  my  affections  were 
free — that  they  would- obey  that  duty.  But — but — but — " 
continued  Helen,  bowing  her  head  still  lowlier,  and  in  a 
voice  far  fainter — "  I  deceived  myself.  I  again  saw  him  who 
has  been  all  in  the  world  to  me,  when  the  world  was  so 
terrible — and  then — and  then — I  trembled.  I  was  terrified 
at  my  own  memories — my  own  thoughts.  Still  I  struggled 
to  banish  the  past — resolutely — firmly.  Oh,  you  believe  me, 
do  you  not  ?  And  I  hoped  to  conquer.  Yet  ever  since 
those  words  of  yours,  I  felt  that  I  ought  to  tell  you  even  of 
the  struggle.  This  is  the  first  time  we  have  met  since  you 
spoke  them.  And  now — now — I  have  seen  him  again,  and 
— and — though  not  by  a  word  could  she  you  had  deigned 
to  woo  as  your  bride  encourage  hope  in  another — though 
there — there  where  you  now  stand — he  bade  me  farewell, 
and  we  parted  as  for  ever  ; — yet — yet — O  Lord  L'Estrange ! 
in  return  for  your  rank,  wealth,  your  still  nobler  gifts  of 
nature — what  should  I  bring  ? — something  more  than  grati- 
tude, esteem,  reverence — at  least  an  undivided  heart,  fillei 
with  your  image,  and  yours  alone.  And  this  I  cannot  give. 
Pardon  me  not  for  what  I  say  now,  but  for  not  saying  it  be- 
fore. Pardon  me — O  my  benefactor,  pardon  me  !  " 

"  Rise,  Helen,"  said  Harley,  with  relaxing  brow,  though 
still  unwilling  to  yield  to  one  softer  and  holier  emotion. 
"  Rise  !  "  And  he  lifted  her  up,  and  drew  her  toward  the 
light.  "  Let  me  look  at  your  face.  There  seems  no  guile 
here.  These  tears  are  surely  honest.  If  I  cannot  be  loved, 
it  is  my  fate,  and  not  your  crime.  Now,  listen  to  me.  If 
you  grant  me  nothing  else,  will  you  give  me  the  obedience 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  981 

which  the  ward  owes  to  the  guardian, — the  child  to  the 
parent  ? " 

"Yes — oh  yes  !  "  murmured  Helen. 

"Then  while  I  release  you  from  all  troth  to  me,  I  claim 
the  right  to  refuse,  if  I  so  please  it,  my  assent  to  the  suit  of 
— of  the  person  you  prefer.  I  acquit  you  of  deceit,  but  I 
reserve  to  myself  the  judgment  I  shall  pass  on  him.  Until 
I  myself  sanction  that  suit,  will  you  promise  not  to  recall  in 
any  way  the  rejection  which,  if  I  understand  you  rightly, 
you  have  given  to  it  ? " 

"  I  promise." 

"And  if  I  say  to  you,  '  Helen,  this  man  is  not  worthy 
of  you ' ' 

"  No,  no  !  do  not  say  that — I  could  not  believe  you." 

Harley  frowned,  but  resumed  calmly — "  If,  then,  I  say, 
1  Ask  me  not  wherefore,  but  I  forbid  you  to  be  the  wife  of 
Leonard  Fairfield,'  what  would  be  your  answer  ? " 

"  Ah,  my  lord,  if  you  can  but  comfort  him,  do  with  me 
as  you  will  ;  but  do  not  command  me  to  break  his  heart." 

"  Oh,  silly  child,"  cried  Harley,  laughing  scornfully, 
"  hearts  are  not  found  in  the  race  from  which  that  man 
sprang.  But  I  take  your  promise  with  its  credulous  con- 
dition. Helen,  I  pity  you.  I  have  been  as  weak  as  you, 
bearded  man  though  I  be.  Some  day  or  other,  you  and  I 
may  live  to  laugh  at  the  follies  at  which  you  weep  now.  I 
can  give  you  no  other  comfort,  for  I  know  of  none." 

He  moved  to  the  door,  and  paused  at  the  threshold.  "  I 
shall  not  see  you  again  for  some  days,  Helen.  Perhaps  I 
may  request  my  mother  to  join  me  at  Lansmere  ;  if  so, 
I  shall  pray  you  to  accompany  her.  For  the  present,  let  all 
believe  that  our  position  is  unchanged.  The  time  will  soon 
come  when  I  may " 

Helen  looked  up  wistfully  through  her  tears. 

"  I  may  release  you  from  air  duties  to  me,"  continued 
Harley,  with  grave  and  severe  coldness  ;  "  or  I  may  claim 
your  promise  in  spite  of  the  condition ;  for  your  lover's 
heart  will  not  be  broken.  Adieu  ! " 


982  MY  NOVEL;    OR, 


CHAPTER  XVII. 

As  Harley  entered  London,  he  came  suddenly  upon 
Randal  Leslie,  who  was  hurrying  from  Eaton  Square,  hav- 
ing not  only  accompanied  Mr.  Avenel  in  his  walk,  but  gone 
home  with  him,  and  spent  half  the  day  in  that  gentleman's 
society.  He  was  now  on  his  way  to  the  House  of  Commons, 
at  which  some  disclosure  as  to  the  day  for  the  dissolution 
of  Parliament  was  expected. 

"  Lord  L'Estrange,"  said  Randal,  "  I  must  stop  you.  I 
have  been  to  Norwood,  and  seen  our  noble  friend.  He  has 
confided  to  me,  of  course,  all  that  passed.  How  can  I  ex- 
press my  gratitude  to  you  !  By  what  rare  talent — with 
what  signal  courage — you  have  saved  the  happiness — per- 
haps even  the  honor — of  my  plighted  bride  !  " 

"Your  bride  !  The  Duke,  then,  still  holds  to  the  promise 
you  were  fortunate  enough  to  obtain  from  Dr.  Ricca- 
bocca  ? " 

"  He  confirms  that  promise  more  solemnly  than  ever. 
You  may  well  be  surprised  at  his  magnanimity." 

"  No  ;  he  is  a  philosopher — nothing  in  him  can  surprise 
me.  But  he  seemed  to  think,  when  I  saw  him,  that  there 
were  circumstances  you  might  find  it  hard  to  explain." 

"  Hard  !  nothing  so  easy.  Allow  me  to  tender  to  you 
the  same  explanations  which  satisfied  one  whom  philosophy 
itself  has  made  as  open  to  truth  as  he  is  clear-sighted  to 
imposture. 

"Another  time,  Mr.  Leslie.  If  your  bride's  father  be 
satisfied,  what  right  have  I  to  doubt  ?  By  the  way,  you 
stand  for  Lansmere.  Do  me  the  favor  to  fix  your  quarters 
at  the  Park  during  the  election.  You  will,  of  course, 
accompany  Mr.  Egerton." 

"You  are  most  kind,"  answered  Randal,  greatly  sur- 
prised. 

"  You  accept  ?  That  is  well.  We  shall  then  have  ample 
opportunity  for  those  explanations  which  you  honor  me  by 
offering  ;  and,  to  make  your  visit  still  more  agreeable,  I 
may,  perhaps,  induce  our  friends  at  Norwood  to  meet  you. 
Good  day." 

Harley  walked  on,  leaving  Randal  motionless  in  amaze, 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  983 

but  tormented  with  suspicion.  What  could  such  courtesies 
in  Lord  L'Estrange  portend  ?  Surely  no  good. 

"  1  am  about  to  hold  the  balance  of  justice,"  said  Harley 
to  himself. — "I  will  cast  the  light-weight  of  that  knave  into 
the  scale.  Violante  never  can  be  mine  ;  but  I  did  not  save 
her  from  a  Peschiera  to  leave  her  to  a  Randal  Leslie.  Ha, 
ha  !  Audley  Egerton  has  some  human  feeling — tenderness 
for  that  youth  whom  he  has  selected  from  the  world  in 
which  he  left  Nora's  child  to  the  jaws  of  Famine.  Through 
that  side  I  can  reach  at  his  heart,  and  prove  him  a  fool  like 
myself,  where  he  esteemed  and  confided  !  Good." 

Thus  soliloquizing,  Lord  L'Estrange  gained  the  corner 
of  Bruton  Street,  when  he  was  again  somewhat  abruptly 
accosted. 

"My  dear  Lord  L'Estrange,  let  me  shake  you  by  the 
hand  ;  for  Heaven  knows  when  I  may  see  you  again  ;  and 
you  have  suffered  me  to  assist  in  one  good  action." 

"  Frank  Hazeldean,  I  arn  pleased  indeed  to  meet  you. 
Why  do  you  indulge  in  that  melancholy  doubt  as  to  the 
time  when  I  may  see  you  again  ?  " 

"  I  have  just  got  leave  of  absence.  I  am  not  well,  and  I 
am  rather  hipped,  so  I  shall  go  abroad  for  a  few  weeks." 

In  spite  of  himself,  the  sombre  brooding  man  felt  interest 
and  sympathy  in  the  dejection  that  was  evident  in  Frank's 
voice  and  countenance.  "  Another  dupe  to  affection," 
thought  he,  as  if  in  apology  to  himself  ; — "  of  course,  a 
dupe  ;  he  is  honest  and  artless — at  present."  He  pressed 
kindly  on  the  arm  which  he«had  involuntarily  twined  within 
his  own.  "  I  conceive  how  you  now  grieve,  my  young 
friend,"  said  he  ;  "  but  you  will  congratulate  yourself  here- 
after on  what  this  day  seems  to  you  an  affliction." 

"  My  dear  Lord " 

"  I  am  much  older  than  you,  but  not  old  enough  for 
such  formal  ceremony.  Pray,  call'me  L'Estrange." 

"  Thank  you  ;  and  I  should  indeed  like  to  speak  to  you 
as  a  friend. — There  is  a  thought  on  my  mind  which  haunts 
me.  I  dare  say  it  is  foolish  enough,  but  I  am  sure  you  will 
not  laugh  at  me.  You  heard  what  Madame  di  Negra  said 
to  me  last  night.  I  have  been  trifled  with  and  misled,  but  I 
cannot  forget  so  soon  how  dear  to  me  that  woman  was.  I 
am  not  going  to  bore  you  with  such  nonsense  ;  but  from 
what  I  can  understand,  her  brother  is  likely  to  lose  all  his 
fortune  ;  and,  even  if  not,  he  is  a  sad  scoundrel.  I  cannot 
bear  the  thought  that  she  should  be  so  dependent  on  him — 


984  'MY  NOVEL;    OR, 

that  she  may  come  to  want. — After  all,  there  must  be  good 
in  her — good  in  her  to  refuse  my  hand  if  she  did  not  love 
me.  A  mercenary  woman  so  circumstanced  would  not  have 
done  that." 

"You  are  quite  right.  But  do  not  torment  yourself 
with  such  generous  fears.  Madame  di  Negra  shall  not  come 
to  want — shall  not  be  dependent  on  her  infamous  brother. 
The  first  act  of  the  Duke  of  Serrano,  on  regaining  his  es- 
tates, will  be  a  suitable  provision  for  his  kinswoman.  I  will 
answer  for  this." 

"  You  take  a  load  off  my  mind.  I  did  not  mean  to  ask 
you  to  intercede  with  Riccabocca — that  is,  the  Duke  (it  is 
so  hard  to  think  he  can  be  a  Duke  !)  I,  alas  !  have  nothing 
in  my  power  to  bestow  upon  Madame  di  Negra.  I  may  in- 
deed, sell  my  commission  ;  but  then  I  have  a  debt  which  I 
long  to  pay  off,  and  the  sale  of  the  commission  would  not 
suffice  even  for  that ;  and  perhaps  my  father  might  be  still 
more  angry  if  I  do  sell  it.  Well,  good-bye.  I  shall  now  go 
away  happy — that  is,  comparatively.  One  must  bear  things 
like — a  man  !  " 

"  I  should  like,  however,  to  see  you  again  before  you  go 
abroad.  I  will  call  on  you.  Meanwhile,  can  you  tell  me 
the  number  of  one  Baron  Levy  ?  He  lives  in  this  street,  I 
know  !  " 

"  Levy  !  Oh,  have  no  dealings  with  him,  I  advise — I 
entreat  you  !  He  is  the  most  plausible,  dangerous  rascal, 
and,  for  Heaven's  sake  !  pray  be  warned  by  me,  and  let 
nothing  entangle  you  into — a  POST-OBIT  !  " 

"  Be  reassured,  I  am  more  accustomed  to  lend  money 
than  borrow  it  ;  and,  as  to  a  post-obit,  I  have  a  foolish  pre- 
judice against  such  transactions." 

"Don't  call  it  foolish,  L'Estrange  ;  I  honor  you  for  it. 
How  I  wish  I  had  known  you  earlier — so  few  men  of  the 
world  are  like  you.  Even  Randal  Leslie,  who  is  so  fault- 
less in  most  things,  and  never  gets  into  a  scrape  himself, 
called  my  own  scruples  foolish.  However " 

"  Stay — Randal  Leslie  !  What !  He  advised  you  to 
borrow  on  a  post-obit,  and  probably  shared  the  loan  with 
you  ?" 

"  Oh  no  ;  not  a  shilling." 

"Tell  me  all  about  it,  Frank.  Perhaps,  as  I  see  that 
Levy  is  mixed  up  in  the  affair,  your  information  may  be 
useful  to  myself,  and  put  me  on  my  guard  in  dealing  with 
that  popular  gentleman." 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  985 

Frank,  who  somehow  or  other  felt  himself  quite  at  home 
with  Harley,  and  who,  with  all  his  respect  for  Randal  Les- 
lie's talents,  had  a  vague  notion  that  Lord  L'Estrange  was 
quite  as  clever,  and  from  his  years  and  experience,  likely  to 
be  a  safer  and  more  judicious  counsellor,  was  noways  loath 
to  impart  the  confidence  thus  pressed  for. 

He  told  Harley  of  his  debts — his  first  dealings  with  Levy  ; 
— the  unhappy  post-obit  into  which  he  had  been  hurried  by 
the  distress  of  Madame  di  Negra ;  his  father's  anger — his 
mother's  letter — his  own  feelings  of  mingled  shame  and 
pride,  which  made  him  fear  that  repentance  would  but  seem 
self-interest — his  desire  to  sell  his  commission,  and  let 
its  sale  redeem  in  part  \\\e  post-obit ;  in  short,  he  made  what 
is  called  a  clean  breast  of  it.  Randal  Leslie  was  necessarily 
mixed  up  with  this  recital  ;  and  the  subtle  cross-question- 
ings of  Harley  extracted  far  more  as  to  that  young  diplo- 
matist's agency  in  all  these  melancholy  concerns,  than  the 
ingenuous  narrator  himself  was  aware  of. 

"So  then,"  said  Harley,  "Mr.  Leslie  assured  you  of 
Madame  di  Negra's  affection,  when  you  yourself  doubted 
of  it?" 

"  Yes  ;  she  took  him  in,  even  more  than  she  did  me."  . 

"  Simple  Mr.  Leslie  !  And  the  same  kind  friend — who 
is  related  to  you — did  you  say  ?" 

"  His  grandmother  was  a  Hazeldean." 

"Humph.  The  same  kind  relation  led  you  to  believe 
that  you  could  pay  off  the  bond  with  the  Marchesa's  por- 
tion, and  that  he  could  obtain  the  consent  of  your  parents 
to  your  marriage  with  that  lady  ?  " 

"  I  ought  to  have  known  better ;  my  father's  prejudices 
against  foreigners  and  Papists  are  so  strong." 

"  And  now  Mr.  Leslie  concurs  with  you,  that  it  is  best 
for  you  to  go  abroad,  and  trust  to  his  intercession  with  your 
father.  He  has  evidently,  then,  gained  a  great  influence 
over  Mr.  Hazeldean." 

"My  father  naturally  compares  me  with  him— he  so 
clever,  so  promising,  so  regular  in  his  habits,  and  I  such  a 
reckless  scapegrace." 

"  And  the  bulk  of  your  father's  property  is  unentailed — 
Mr.  Hazeldean  might  disinherit  you  ?" 

"  I  deserve  it.     I  hope  he  will." 

"You  'have  no  brothers  nor  sisters — no  relation,    per- 
haps, after  your  parents,  nearer  to  you  than  your  excellent 
friend  Mr.  Randal  Leslie?" 
42 


986  MY  NOVEL;    OR, 

"  No  ;  that  is  the  reason  he  is  so  kind  to  me,  otherwise 
I  am  the  last  person  to  suit  him.  You  have  no  idea  how 
well-informed  and  clever  he  is,"  added  Frank,  in  a  tone  be- 
tween admiration  and  awe. 

"  My  dear  Hazeldean,  you  will  take  my  advice — will  you 
not  ?" 

"Certainly.     You  are  too  good." 

"  Let  all  your  family,  Mr.  Leslie  included,  suppose  you 
to  be  gone  abroad  ;  but  stay  quietly  in  England,  and  within 
a  day's  journey  of  Lansmere  Park.  I  am  obliged  to  go 
thither  for  the  approaching  election.  I  may  ask  you  to 
come  over.  I  think  I  see  a  way  to  serve  you  ;  and  if  so, 
you  will  soon  hear  from  me.  Now,  Baron  Levy's  number?" 

"  That  is  the  house  with  the  cabriolet  at  the  door.  How 
such  a  fellow  can  have  such  a  horse  ! — 'tis  out  of  all 
keeping  !" 

"  Not  at  all ;  horses  are  high-spirited,  generous,  unsus- 
picious animals.  They  never  know  if  it  is  a  rogue  who 
drives  them.  I  have  your  promise,  then,  and  you  will  send 
me  your  address  ?  " 

"  I  will.  Strange  that  I  feel  more  confidence  in  you 
than  I  do  even  in  Randal  !  Do  take  care  of  Levy." 

Lord  L'Estrange  and  Frank  here  shook  hands,  and 
Frank,  with  an  anxious  groan,  saw  L'Estrange  disappear 
within  the  portals  of  the  sleek  destroyer. 


CHAPTER  XVIII. 

LORD  L'ESTRANGE  followed  the  spruce  servant  into 
Baron  Levy's  luxurious  study. 

The  Baron  looked  greatly  amazed  at  his  unexpected 
visitor  ;  but  he  got  up — handed  a  chair  to  my  lord  with  a 
low  bow.  "  This  is  an  honor,"  said  he. 

"  You  have  a  charming  abode  here,"  said  Lord  L'Es- 
trange, looking  round.  "Very  fine  bronzes — excellent 
taste.  Your  reception-rooms  above  are,  doubtless,  a  model 
to  all  decorators  !  " 

"  Would  your  lordship  condescend  to  see  them  ? "  said 
Levy,  wondering,  but  flattered. 

"With  the  greatest  pleasure." 

"  Lights  ! "  cried  Levy,  to  the  servant  who  answered 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  987 

his  bell.  "Lights  in  the  drawing-rooms  —  it  is  growing 
dark." 

Lord  L'Estrange  followed  the  usurer  up-stairs ;  admired 
everything — pictures,  draperies,  Sevres  china,  to  the  very 
shape  of  the  downy  fauteuils,  to  the  very  pattern  of  the 
Tournay  carpets.  Reclining  then  on  one  of  the  voluptuous 
sofas,  Lord  L'Estrange  said,  smilingly,  "  You  are  a  wise 
man  ;  there  is  no  advantage  in  being  rich,  unless  one  enjoys 
one's  riches." 

"  My  own  maxim,  Lord  L'Estrange." 

"  And  it  is  something,  too,  to  have  a  taste  for  good  so- 
ciety. Small  pride  would  you  have,  my  dear  Baron,  in 
these  rooms,  luxurious  though  they  are,  if  filled  with  guests 
of  vulgar  exterior  and  plebeian  manners.  It  is  only  in  the 
world  in  which  we  move  that  we  find  persons  who  harmon- 
ize, as  it  were,  with  the  porcelain  of  Sevres,  and  these  sofa? 
that  might  have  come  from  Versailles." 

"  I  own,"  said  Levy,  "that  I  have  what  some  may  call  a 
weakness  in  a  parvenu  like  myself.  I  have  a  love  for  the 
beau  monde.  It  is  indeed  a  pleasure  to  me  when  I  receive 
men  like  your  lordship." 

"But  why  call  yourself  a  parvenu?  Though  you  are 
contented  to  honor  the  name  of  Levy,  we,  in  society,  all 
know  that  you  are  the  son  of  a  long-descended  English 
peer.  Child  of  love,  it  is  true  ;  but  the  Graces  smile  on 
those  over  whose  birth  Venus  presided.  Pardon  my  old- 
fashioned  mythological  similes — they  go  so  well  with  these 
rooms — Louis  Quinze." 

"  Since  you  touch  on  my  birth,"  said  Levy,  his  color 
rather  heightening,  not  with  shame,  but  With  pride,  "  I 
don't  deny  that  it  has  had  some  effect  on  my  habits  and 
tastes  in  life.  In  fact " 

"  In  fact,  own  that  you  would  be  a  miserable  man,  in 
spite  of  all  your  wealth,  if  the  young  dandies,  who  throng 
to  your  banquets,  were  to  cut  you  dead  in  the  streets  ; — if, 
when  your  high-stepping  horse  stopped  at  your  club,  the 
porter  shut  the  door  in  your  face ; — if,  when  you  lounged 
into  the  opera-pit,  handsome  dog  that  you  are,  each  spend- 
thrift rake  in  '  Fop's  Alley,'  who  now  waits  but  the  scratch 
of  your  pen  to  endorse  billets-doux  with  the  charm  that  can 
chain  to  himself  for  a  month  some  nymph  of  the  Ballet, 
spinning  round  in  a  whirlwind  of  tulle, — would  shrink  from 
the  touch  of  your  condescending  forefinger  with  more 
dread  of  its  contact  than  a  bailiff's  tap  in  the  thick  of  Pall 


98S  MY  NOVEL;    OR, 

Mall  could  inspire  ; — if,  reduced  to  the  company  of  city 
clerks,  parasite  led-captains " 

"  Oh,  don't  go  on,  my  dear  lord,"  cried  Levy,  laughing 
affectedly.  "  Impossible  though  the  picture  be,  it  is  really 
appalling.  Cut  rne  off  from  May  Fair  and  St.  James's,  and 
I  should  go  into  my  strong  closet  and  hang  myself." 

"  And  yet,  my  dear  Baron,  all  this  may  happen  if  I  have 
the  whim  just  to  try  ; — all  this  will  happen,  unless,  ere  I 
leave  your  house,  you  concede  the  conditions  I  come  here 
to  impose." 

"  My  Lord  !  "  exclaimed  Levy,  starting  up,  and  pulling 
down  his  waistcoat  with  nervous  passionate  fingers,  "  if 
you  were  not  under  my  own  roof,  I  would " 

"  Truce  with  mock  heroics.  Sit  down,  sir — sit  down. 
I  will  briefly  state  my  threat — more  briefly  my  conditions. 
You  will  be  scarcely  more  prolix  in  your  reply.  Your  for- 
tune I  cannot  touch — your  enjoyment  of  it  I  can  destroy. 
Refuse  my  conditions — make  me  your  enemy— and  war  to 
che  knife  !  I  will  interrogate  all  the  young  dupes  you 
have  ruined.  I  will  learn  the  history  of  all  the  transactions 
by  which  you  have  gained  the  wealth  that  it  pleases  you  to 
spend  in  courting  the  society  and  sharing  the  vices  of  men 
who — go  with  these  rooms,  Louis  Quinze  !  Not  a  roguery 
of  yours  shall  escape  me,  down  even  to  your  last  notable 
connivance  with  an  Italian  reprobate  for  the  criminal  ab- 
duction of  an  heiress.  All  these  particulars  I  will  proclaim 
in  the  clubs  to  which  you  have  gained  admittance — in  every 
club  in  London  which  you  yet  hope  to  creep  into.  All 
these  I  will  impart  to  some  such  authority  in  the  Press  as 
Mr.  Henry  Norreys  ; — all  these  I  will,  upon  the  voucher  of 
my  own  name,  have  so  published  in  some  journals  of  re- 
pute, that  you  must  either  tacitly  submit  to  the  revelations 
that  blast  you,  or  bring  before  a  court  of  law  actions  that 
will  convert  accusations  into  evidence.  It  is  but  by  suf- 
ferance that  you  are  now  in  society — you  are  excluded 
when  one  man  like  me  comes  forth  to  denounce  you.  You 
try  in  vain  to  sneer  at  my  menace — your  white  lips  show 
your  terror.  I  have  rarely  in  life  drawn  any  advantage 
from  my  rank  and  position  ;  but  I  am  thankful  that  they 
give  me  the  power  to  make  my  voice  respected  and  my  ex- 
posure triumphant.  Now,  Baron  Levy,  will  you  go  into 
your  strong  closet  and  hang  yourself,  or  will  you  grant  me  my 
very  moderate  conditions  ?  You  are  silent.  I  will  relieve 
you,  and  state  those  conditions.  Until  the  general  election, 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  989 

about  to  take  place,  is  concluded,  you  will  obey  me  to  the 
letter  in  all  that  I  enjoin — no  demur,  and  no  scruple.  And 
the  first  proof  of  obedience  I  demand  is,  your  candid  dis- 
closure of  all  Mr.  Audley  Egerton's  pecuniary  affairs." 

"  Has  my  client  Mr.  Egerton  authorized  you  to  request 
of  me  that  disclosure  ?  " 

"  On  the  contrary,  all  that  passes  between  us  you  will 
conceal  from  your  client." 

"You  would  save  him  from  ruin?  Your  trusty  friend, 
Mr.  Egerton  !  "  said  the  Baron,  with  a  livid  sneer. 

"  Wrong  again,  Baron  Levy.  If  I  would  save  him  from 
ruin,  you  are  scarcely  the  man  I  should  ask  to  assist  me." 

"  Ah,  I  guess.     You  have  learned  how  he " 

"  Guess  nothing,  but  obey  in  all  things.  Let  us  descend 
to  your  business-room." 

Levy  said  not  a  word  until  he  had  reconducted  his 
visitor  into  his  den  of  destruction — all  gleaming  with 
spoliaria  in  rose-wood.  Then  he  said  this:  "If,  Lord 
L'Estrange,  you  seek  but  revenge  on  Audley  Egerton, 
you  need  not  have  uttered  those  threats,  I  too — hate  the 
man." 

Harley  looked  at  him  wistfully,  and  the  nobleman  felt  a 
pang  that  he  had  debased  himself  into  a  single  feeling 
which  the  usurer  could  share.  Nevertheless  the  inter- 
view appeared  to  close  with  satisfactory  arrangements, 
and  to  produce  amicable  understanding.  For,  as  the  Baron 
ceremoniously  followed  Lord  L'Estrange  through  the  hall, 
his  noble  visitor  said,  with  marked  affability — 

"  Then  I  shall  see  you  at  Lansmere  with  Mr.  Egerton, 
to  assist  in  conducting  his  election.  It  is  a  sacrifice  of 
your  time  worthy  of  your  friendship  ;  not  a  step  farther,  I 
beg.  Baron,  I  have  the  honor  to  wish  you  good  evening." 

As  the  street-door  opened  on  Lord  L'Estrange,  he  again 
found  himself  face  to  face  with  Randal  Leslie,  whose  hand 
was  already  lifted  to  the  knocker. 

"  Ha,  Mr.  Leslie  ! — you  too  a  client  of  Baron  Levy's  ;-— 
a  very  useful,  accommodating  man." 

Randal  stared  and  stammered, — "  I  come  in  haste  from 
the  House  of  Commons  on  Mr.  Egerton's  business.  Don't 
you  hear  the  newspaper  venders  crying  out  '  Great  news — 
Dissolution  of  Parliament  ?  " 

"  We  are  prepared.  Levy  himself  consents  to  give  us 
the  aid  of  his  talents.  Kindly,  obliging — clever  person  !  " 

Randal  hurried  into  Levy's  study,  to  which  the  usurer 


990  MY  NOVEL;    OR, 

had  shrunk  back,  and  was  now  wiping  his  brow  with  his 
scented  handkerchief,  looking  heated  and  haggard,  and 
very  indifferent  to  Randal  Leslie. 

"  How  is  this  ? "  cried  Randal.  "  I  come  to  tell  you 
first  of  Peschiera's  utter  failure,  the  ridiculous  coxcomb, 
and  I  meet  at  your  door  the  last  man  I  thought  to  find 
there — the  man  who  foiled  us  all,  Lord  L'Estrange.  What 
brought  him  to  you  ?  Ah,  perhaps  his  interest  in  F-gerton's 
election  ? " 

"Yes,"  said  Levy,  sulkily.  "I  know  all  about  Pes- 
chiera.  I  cannot  talk  to  you  now  ;  I  must  make  arrange- 
ments for  going  to  Lansmere." 

"  But  don't  forget  my  purchase  from  Thornhill.  I  shall 
have  the  money  shortly  from  a  surer  source  than  Pes- 
chiera." 

"The  Squire?" 

"Or  a  rich  father-in-law." 

In  the  meanwhile,  as  Lord  L'Estrange  entered  Bond 
Street,  his  ears  were  stunned  by  vociferous  cries  from  the 
Stentors  employed  by  Standard,  Sun,  and  Globe — Great 
news — Dissolution  of  Parliament — Great  news  !  "  The  gas- 
lamps  were  lighted — a  brown  fog  was  gathering  over  the 
streets,  blending  itself  with  the  falling  shades  of  night. 
The  forms  of  men  loomed  large  through  the  mist.  The 
lights  from  the  shops  looked  red  and  lurid.  Loungers 
usually  careless  as  to  politics,  were  talking  eagerly  and 
anxiously  of  King,  Lords,  Commons,  "  Constitution  at 
stake" — "Triumph  of  liberal  opinions," — according  to 
their  several  biases.  Hearing,  and  scorning — unsocial, 
isolated — walked  on  Harley  L'Estrange.  With  his  direr 
passions  had  been  roused  up  all  the  native  powers  that 
made  them  doubly  dangerous.  He  became  proudly  con- 
scious of  his  own  great  faculties,  but  exulted  in  them  only 
so  far  as  they  could  minister  to  the  purpose  which  had 
invoked  them. 

"  I  have  constituted  myself  a  Fate,"  he  said  inly  ;  "  let 
the  gods  be  but  neutral — while  I  weave  the  meshes.  Then, 
as  Fate  itself  when  it  has  fulfilled  its  mission,  let  me  pass 
away  into  shadow,  with  the  still  and  lonely  stride  that  none 
may  follow. 

'  Oh  for  a  lodge  in  some  vast  wilderness.' 

How  weary  I  am  of  this  world  of  men  ! "  And  again  the 
cry  "  Great  news — National  crisis — Dissolution  of  Parlia- 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  991 

ment — Great  news  ! "  rang  through  the  jostling  throng. 
Three  men,  arm-in-arm,  brushed  by  Harley,  and  were 
stopped  at  the  crossing  by  a  file  of  carriages.  The  man  in 
the  centre  was  Audley  Egerton.  His  companions  were  an 
ex-minister  like  himself,  and  one  of  those  great  proprietors 
who  are  proud  of  being  above  office,  and  vain  of  the  power 
to  make  and  unmake  Governments. 

"  You  are  the  only  man  to  lead  us,  Egerton,"  said  this 
last  personage.  "  Do  but  secure  your  seat,  and  as  soon  as 
this  popular  fever  has  passed  away,  you  must  be  something 
more  than  the  leader  of  Opposition — you  must  be  the  first 
man  in  England." 

"  Not  a  doubt  of  that,"  chimed  in  the  fellow  ex-minister 
— a  worthy  man — perfect  red-tapist,  but  inaudible  in  the 
reporters'  gallery.  "  And  your  election  is  quite  safe,  eh  ? 
All  depends  on  that.  You  must  not  be  thrown  out  at  such 
a  time,  even  for  a  month  or  two.  I  hear  that  you  will  have 
a  contest — some  townsman  of  the  borough,  I  think.  But 
the  Lansmere  interest  must  be  all  powerful  ;  and  I  suppose 
L'Estrange  will  come  out  and  canvass  for  you.  You  are 
not  the  man  to  have  lukewarm  friends." 

"  Don't  be  alarmed  about  my  election.  I  am  as  sure  of 
that  as  of  L'Estrange's  friendship." 

Harley  heard,  writh  a  grim  smile,  and  passing  his  hand 
within  his  vest,  laid  it  upon  Nora's  memoir. 

"  What  could  we  do  in  Parliament  without  you  !  "  said 
the  great  proprietor,  almost  piteously. 

"  Rather  what  could  I  do  without  Parliament  ?  Public 
life  is  the  only  existence  I  own.  Parliament  is  all  in  all  to 
me.  But  we  may  cross  now." 

Harley's  eye  glittered  cold  as  it  followed  the  tall  form  of 
the  statesman,  towering  high  above  all  other  passers-by. 

"Ay,"  he  muttered — "ay,  rest  as  sure  of  my  friendship 
as  I  am  of  thine  !  And  be  Lansmere  our  field  of  Phillippi ! 
There,  where  thy  first  step  was  made  in  the  only  life  that 
thou  own'st  as  existence,  shall  the  ladder  itself  rot  from 
under  thy  footing.  There,  where  thy  softer  victim  slunk  to 
death  from  the  deceit  of  thy  love,  shall  deceit  like  thine 
own  dig  a  grave  for  thy  frigid  ambition.  I  borrow  thy 
quiver  of  fraud  ;  its  still  arrows  shall  strike  thee  ;  and  thou 
too  shalt  say,  when  the  barb  pierces  home,  '  This  comes 
from  the  hand  of  a  friend.'  Ay,  at  Lansmere,  at  Lansmere, 
shall  the  end  crown  the  whole  !  Go,  and  dot  on  the  can- 


992  MY  NOVEL;    OR, 

vas  the  lines  for  a  lengthened  perspective,  where  my  eyes 
note  already  the  vanishing-point  of  the  picture." 

Then  through  the  dull  log,  and  under  the  pale  gas-lights, 
Harley  L'Estrange  pursued  his  noiseless  way,  soon  dis- 
tinguished no  more  amongst  the  various,  motley,  quick- 
succeeding  groups,  with  their  infinite  subdivisions  of 
thought,  care,  and  passion  ;  while  loud  over  all  their  low 
murmurs,  or  silent  hearts,  were  heard  the  tramp  of  horses 
and  din  of  wheels,  and  the  vociferous,  discordant  cry  that 
had  ceased  to  attract  an  interest  in  the  ears  it  vexed — 
"  Great  News,  Great  News — Dissolution  of  Parliament — 
Great  News  ! " 


CHAPTER  XIX. 

THE  scene  is  at  Lansmere  Park — a  spacious  pile,  com- 
menced in  the  reign  of  Charles  II. ;  enlarged  and  altered  in 
the  reign  of  Anne.  Brilliant  interval  in  the  History  of 
our  National  Manners,  when  even  the  courtier  dreaded 
to  be  dull,  and  Sir  Fopling  raised  himself  on  tiptoe  to 
catch  the  ear  of  a  wit — when  the  names  of  Devonshire  and 
Dorset,  Halifax  and  Carteret,  Oxford  and  Bolingbroke, 
unite  themselves,  brother-like,  with  those  of  Hobbes  and 
of  Dryden,  of  Prior  and  Bentley,  of  Arbuthnot,  Gay,  Pope, 
and  Swift ;  and  still,  wherever  we  turn,  to  recognize  some 
ideal  of  great  Lord  or  fine  Gentleman — the  Immortals  of 
Literature  stand  by  his  side. 

The  walls  of  the  rooms  at  Lansmere  were  covered  with 
the  portraits  of  those  who  illustrate  that  time  which  Europe 
calls  the  Age  of  Louis  XIV.  A  L'Estrange,  who  had  lived 
through  the  reigns  of  four  English  princes  (and  with  no 
mean  importance  through  all),  had  collected  those  like- 
nesses of  noble  contemporaries.  As  you  passed  through 
the  chambers — opening  one  on  the  other  in  that  pomp 
of  parade  introduced  with  Charles  II.  from  the  palaces 
of  France,  and  retaining  its  mode  till  Versailles  and  the 
Trianon  passed,  themselves,  out  of  date — you  felt  you  were 
in  excellent  company.  What  saloons  of  our  day,  demeaned 
to  tailed  coats  and  white  waistcoats,  have  that  charm  of 
high  breeding  which  speaks  out  from  the  canvas  of  Kneller 
and  Jervis,  Vivien  and  Rigaud  ?  And  withal,  notwithstand- 
ing lace  and  brocade — the  fripperies  of  artificial  costume — 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  993 

still  those  who  give  interest  or  charm  to  that  day,  look 
from  their  portraits  like  men — raking  or  dtbonnaire,  if  you 
will — never  mincing  nor  feminine.  Can  we  say  as  much 
of  the  portraits  of  Lawrence  ?  Gaze  there  on  fair  Marl- 
borough — what  delicate  perfection  of  features,  yet  how 
easy  in  boldness,  how  serene  in  the  conviction  of  power !  So 
fair  and  so  tranquil  he  might  have  looked  through  the 
cannon-reek  at  Ramilies  and  Blenheim,  suggesting  to  Addi- 
son  the  image  of  an  angel  of  war.  Ah,  there,  Sir  Charles 
Sedley,  the  Lovelace  of  wits !  Note  that  strong  jaw  and 
marked  brow  ; — do  you  not  recognize  the  courtier  who 
scorned  to  ask  one  favor  of  the  king  with  whom  he  lived  as 
an  equal,  and  who  stretched  forth  the  right  hand  of  man 
to  hurl  from  a  throne  the  king  who  had  made  his  daughter 
— a  Countess  ?  * 

Perhaps,  from  his  childhood  thus  surrounded  by  the 
haunting  faces — that  spoke  of  their  age  as  they  looked  from 
the  walls — that  age  and  those  portraits  were  not  without  in- 
fluence on  the  character  of  Harley  L'Estrange.  The  whim 
and  the  daring — the  passion  for  letters  and  reverence  for 
genius — the  mixture  of  levity  and  strength — the  polished 
sauntering  indolence,  or  the  elastic  readiness  of  energies 
once  called  into  action — all  might  have  found  their  proto- 
types in  the  lives  which  those  portraits  rekindled.  The 
deeper  sentiment,  the  more  earnest  nature,  which  in  Harley 
L'Estrange  were  commingled  with  the  attributes  common 
to  a  former  age — these,  indeed,  were  of  "his  own.  Our  age 
so  little  comprehended,  while  it  colors  us  from  its  atmos- 
phere ! — so  full  of  mysterious  and  profound  emotions,  which 
our  ancestors  never  knew  ! — Will  those  emotions  be  under- 
stood by  our  descendants  ? 

In  this  stately  house  were  now  assembled,  as  Harley's 
guests,  many  of  the  more  important  personages  whom  the 
slow  length  of  this  story  has  made  familiar  to  the  reader. 
The  two  candidates  for  the  borough  in  the  True  Blue  inter- 
est— Audley  Egerton  and  Randal  Leslie  ; — and  Levy — chief 
among  the  barons  to  whom  modern  society  grants  a  seign- 
iory of  pillage,  which,  had  a  baron  of  old  ever  ventured  to 
arrogate,  burgess  and  citizen,  socman  and  bocman,  villein 

*  Sedley  was  so  tenacious  of  his  independence,  that  when  his  affairs  were  most  embarrassed, 
he  refused  all  pecuniary  aid  from  Charles  II.  His  bitter  sarcasm,  in  vindication  of  the  part 
he  took  in  the  disposition  of  James  II,,  who  had  corrupted  his  daughter,  and  made  her 
Countess  of  Dorchester,  is  well  known.  "As  the  King  has  made  my  daughter  a  Countess, 
the  least  I  can  do,  in  common  gratitude,  it  to  asmt  in  making  his  majesty's  daughter — a 
Queen  t  H 


994  MY  NOVEL;    OR, 

and  churl,  would  have  burned  him  alive  in  his  castle  ;  the 
Duke  di  Serrano,  still  fondly  clinging  to  his  title  of  doctor 
and  pet  name  of  Riccabocca  ; — Jemima,  not  yet  with  the 
airs  of  a  duchess,  but  robed  in  very  thick  silks,  as  the 
chrysalis  state  of  a  duchess  ; — Violante,  too,  was  there, 
sadly  against  her  will,  and  shrinking  as  much  as  possible 
into  the  retirement  of  her  own  chamber.  The  Countess  of 
Lansmere  had  deserted  her  lord,  in  order  to  receive  the 
guests  of  her  son  ;  my  lord  himself,  ever  bent  on  being  of 
use  in  some  part  of  his  country,  and  striving  hard  to  dis- 
tract his  interest  from  his  plague  of  a  borough,  had  gone 
down  into  Cornwall  to  inquire  into  the  social  condition  of 
certain  troglodytes  who  worked  in  some  mines  which  the 
Earl  had  lately  had  the  misfortune  to  wring  from  the  Court 
of  Chancery,  after  a  lawsuit  commenced  by  his  grandfather  ; 
and  a  Blue  Book,  issued  in  the  past  session  by  order  of 
Parliament,  had  especially  quoted  the  troglodytes  thus  de- 
volved on  the  Earl  as  bipeds  who  were  in  considerable 
ignorance  of  the  sun,  and  had  never  been  known  to  wash 
their  feet  since  the  day  that  they  came  into  the  world — 
their  world  underground,  chipped  off  from  the  Bottomless 
Pit! 

With  the  Countess  came  Helen  Digby,  of  course  ;  and 
Lady  Lansmere,  who  had  hitherto  been  so  civilly  cold  to 
the  wife  elect  of  her  son,  had,  ever  since  her  interview  with 
Harley  at  Knightsbridge,  clung  to  Helen  with  almost  a  ca- 
ressing fondness.  "The  stern  Countess  was  tamed  by  fear  ; 
she  felt  that  her  own  influence  over  Harley  was  gone ;  she 
trusted  to  the  influence  of  Helen — in  case  of  what? — ay, 
what?  It  was  because  the  danger  was  not  clear  to  her,  that 
her  bold  spirit  trembled  ;  superstitions,  like  suspicions,  are, 
"as  bats  among  birds,  and  fly  by  twilight."  Harley  had 
ridiculed  the  idea  of  challenge  and  strife  between  Audley 
and  himself;  but  still  Lady  Lansmere  dreaded  the  fiery 
emotions  of  the  last,  and  the  high  spirit  and  austere  self- 
respect  which  were  proverbial  to  the  first.  Involuntarily  she 
strengthened  her  intimacy  with  Helen.  In  case  her  alarm 
should  appear  justified,  what  mediator  could  be  so  persua- 
sive in  appeasing  the  angrier  passions,  as  one  whom  court- 
ship and  betrothal  sanctified  to  the  gentlest  ? 

On  arriving  at  Lansmere,  the  Countess,  however,  felt 
somewhat  relieved.  Harley  had  received  her,  if  with  a 
manner  less  cordial  and  tender  than  had  hitherto  distin- 
guished it,  still  with  easy  kindness  and  calm  self-possession. 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  995 

His  bearing  towards  Audley  Egerton  still  more  reassured 
her :  it  was  not  marked  by  any  exaggeration  of  familiarity 
or  friendship — which  would  at  once  have  excited  her  ap- 
prehension of  some  sinister  design — nor,  on  the  other  hand, 
did  it  betray,  by  covert  sarcasms,  an  ill-suppressed  resent- 
ment. It  was  exactly  what,  under  the  circumstances,  would 
have  been  natural  to  a  man  who  had  received  an  injury 
from  an  intimate  friend,  which,  in  generosity  or  discretion, 
he  resolved  to  overlook,  but  which  those  aware  of  it  could 
just  perceive  had  cooled  or  alienated  the  former  affection. 
Indefatigably  occupying  himself  with  all  the  details  of  the 
election,  Harley  had  a  fair  pretext  for  absenting  himself 
from  Audley,  who,  really  looking  very  ill,  and  almost  worn 
out,  pleaded  indisposition  as  an  excuse  for  dispensing  with 
the  fatigues  of  a  personal  canvass,  and,  passing  much  of  his 
time  in  his  own  apartments,  left  all  the  preparations  for 
contest  to  his  more  active  friends.  It  was  not  till  he  had 
actually  arrived  at  Lansmere  that  Audley  became  acquainted 
with  the  name  of  his  principal  opponent.  Richard  Avenel ! 
the  brother  of  Nora!  rising  up  from  obscurity,  thus  to  stand 
front  to  front  against  him  in  a  contest  on  which  all  his  fates 
were  cast.  Egerton  quailed  as  before  an  appointed  aven- 
ger. He  would  fain  have  retired  from  the  field ; — he  spoke 
to  Harley  ! 

"  How  can  you  support  all  the  painful  remembrances 
which  the  very  name  of  my  antagonist  must  conjure  up?" 

"Did  you  not  tell  me,"  answered  Harley,  "to  strive 
against  such  remembrances  —  to  look  on  them  as  sickly 
dreams  ?  I  am  prepared  to  brave  them.  Can  you  be  more 
sensitive  than  J  ?" 

Egerton  durst  not  say  more.  He  avoided  all  further 
reference  to  the  subject.  The  strife  raged  around  him,  and 
he  shut  himself  out  from  it — shut  himself  up  in  solitude  with 
his  own  heart  Strife  enough  there  !  Once,  late  at  night, 
he  stole  forth  and  repaired  to  Nora's  grave.  He  stood  there, 
amidst  the  rank  grass,  and  under  the  frosty  starlight,  long, 
and  in  profound  silence.  His  whole  past  life  seemed  to 
rise  before  him  ;  and,  when  he  regained  his  lonely  room, 
and  strove  to  survey  the  future,  still  he  could  behold  only 
that  past  and  that  grave. 

In  thus  declining  all  active  care  for  an  election,  to  his 
prospects  so  important,  Audley  Egerton  was  considered  to 
have  excuse,  not  only  in  the  state  of  his  health,  but  in  his 
sense  of  dignity.  A  statesman  so  eminent,  of  opinions  so 


996  MY  NOVEL;    OR, 

well  known,  of  public  services  so  incontestable,  might  well  be 
spared  the  personal  trouble  that  falls  upon  obscurer  candi- 
dates. And  besides,  according  to  current  report,  and  the 
judgment  of  the  Blue  Committee,  the  return  of  .Mr.  Eger- 
ton  was  secure.  But,  though  Audley  himself  was  thus  in- 
dulgently treated,  Harley  and  the  Blue  Committee  took 
care  to  inflict  double  work  upon  Randal.  That  active  young 
spirit  found  ample  materials  for  all  its  restless  energies. 
Randal  Leslie  was  kept  on  his  legs  from  sunrise  to  star- 
light. There  does  not  exist  in  the  Three  Kingdoms  a  con- 
stituency more  fatiguing  to  a  candidate  than  that  borough 
of  Lansmere.  As  soon  as  you  leave  the  High  Street, 
wherein,  according  to  immemorial  usage,  the  Blue  can- 
vasser is  first  led,  in  order  to  put  him  into  spirits  for  the 
toils  that  await  him  (delectable,  propitious,  constitutional 
High  Street,  in  which  at  least  two-thirds  of  the  electors — 
opulent  tradesmen  employed  at  the  Park — always  vote  for 
"  my  lord's  man,"  and  hospitably  prepare  wine  and  cakes 
in  their  tidy  back-parlors  !) — as  soon  as  you  quit  this  strong- 
hold of  the  party,  labyrinths  of  lanes  and  defiles  stretch 
away  into  the  farthest  horizon  ;  level  ground  is  found  no- 
where ;  it  is  all  up-hill  and  down-hill — now  rough  craggy 
pavements  that  blister  the  feet,  and  at  the  very  first  tread 
upon  which  all  latent  corns  shook  prophetically — now  deep 
muddy  ruts,  into  which  you  sink  ankle-deep — oozing  slush 
creeping  into  the  pores,  and  moistening  the  way  for  catarrh, 
rheum,  cough,  sore  throat,  bronchitis,  and  phthisis.  Black 
sewers,  and  drains  Acherontian,  running  before  the  thresh- 
olds, and  so  filling  the  homes  behind  with  effluvia,  that, 
while  one  hand  clasps  the  grimy  paw  of  the  voter,  the  other 
instinctively  guards  from  typhus  and  cholera  your  abhor- 
rent nose.  Not  in  those  days  had  mankind  ever  heard  of  a 
sanitary  reform  !  and,  to  judge  of  the  slow  progress  which 
that  reform  seems  to  make,  sewer  and  drain  would  have 
been  much  the  same  if  they  had.  Scot-and-lot  voters  were 
the  independent  electors  of  Lansmere,  with  the  additional 
franchise  of  Freemen.  Universal  suffrage  could  scarcely 
more  efficiently  swamp  the  franchises  of  men  who  care  a 
straw  what  becomes  of  Great  Britain  !  With  all  Randal 
Leslie's  profound  diplomacy,  all  his  art  in  talking  over,  de- 
ceiving, and  (to  borrow  Dick  Avenel's  vernacular  phrase) 
"  humbugging  "  educated  men,  his  eloquence  fell  flat  upon 
minds  invulnerable  to  appeals  whether  to  State  or  to  Church, 
to  Reform  or  to  Freedom.  To  catch  a  Scot-and-lot  voter 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  997 

by  such  frivolous  arguments,  Randal  Leslie  might  as  well 
have  tried  to  bring  down  a  rhinoceros  by  a  pop-gun  charged 
with  split  peas  !  The  young  man  who  so  firmly  believed 
that  "knowledge  was  power,"  was  greatly  disgusted.  It 
was  here  the  ignorance  that  foiled  him.  When  he  got  hold 
of  a  man  with  some  knowledge,  Randal  was  pretty  sure  to 
trick  him  out  of  a  vote. 

Nevertheless,  Randal  Leslie  walked  and  talked  on,  with 
most  credible  perseverance.  The  Blue  Committee  allowed 
that  he  was  an  excellent  canvasser.  They  conceived  a  lik- 
ing for  him,  mingled  with  pity.  For,  though  sure  of  Eger- 
ton's  return,  they  regarded  Randal's  as  out  of  the  question. 
He  was  merely  there  to  keep  split  votes  from  going  to  the 
opposite  side;  to  serve  his  patron,  the  ex-minister;  shake 
the  paws  and  smell  the  smells  which  the  ex-minister  was  too 
great  a  man  to  shake  and  to  smell.  But,  in  point  of  fact, 
none  of  that  Blue  Committee  knew  anything  of  the  pros- 
pects of  the  election.  Harley  received  all  the  reports  of 
each  canvass-day.  Harley  kept  the  canvass-book,  locked  up 
from  all  eyes  but  his  own,  or  it  might  be  Baron  Levy's,  as 
Audley  Egerton's  confidential,  if  not  strictly  professional  ad- 
viser ; — Baron  Levy,  the  millionaire,  had  long  since  retired 
from  all  acknowledged  professions.  Randal,  however — 
close,  observant,  shrewd — perceived  that  he  himself  was 
much  stronger  than  the  Blue  Committee  believed.  And,  to 
his  infinite  surprise,  he  owed  that  strength  to  Lord  L'Es- 
trange's  exertions  on  his  behalf.  For  though  Harley,  after 
the  first  day  on  which  he  ostentatiously  showed  himself  in 
the  High  Street,  did  not  openly  canvass  with  Randal,  yet 
when  the  reports  were  brought  in  to  him,  and  he  saw  the 
names  of  the  voters  who  gave  one  vote  to  Audley  and  with- 
held the  other  from  Randal,  he  would  say  to  Randal,  dead 
beat  as  that  young  gentleman  was,  "  Slip  out  with  me,  the 
moment  dinner  is  over,  and  before  you  go  the  round  of  the 
public-houses  ;  there  are  some  voters  we  must  get  for  you 
to-night.  And  sure  enough  a  few  kindly  words  from  the 
popular  heir  of  the  Lansmere  baronies  usually  gained  over 
the  electors,  from  whom,  though  Randal  had  proved  that  all 
England  depended  on  their  votes  in  his  favor,  Randal  would 
never  have  extracted  more  than  a  "Wu'll,  I  shall  waute  gin 
the  Dauy  coomes  !  "  Nor  was  this  all  that  Harley  did  for 
the  younger  candidate.  If  it  was  quite  clear  that  only  one 
vote  could  be  won  for  the  Blues,  and  the  other  was  pledged 
to  the  Yellows,  Harley  would  say,  "  Then  put  it  down  to 


998  MY  NOVEL;   OR, 

Mr.  Leslie  ; " — a  request  the  more  readily  conceded,  since 
Audley  Egerton  was  considered  so  safe  by  the  Blues,  and 
alone  worth  a  fear  by  the  Yellows. 

Thus  Randal,  who  kept  a  snug  little  canvass-book  of  his 
own,  became  more  and  more  convinced  that  he  had  a  better 
chance  than  Egerton,  even  without  the  furtive  aid  he  ex- 
pected from  Avenel  ;  and  he  could  only  account  for  Har- 
ley's  peculiar  exertions  in  his  favor,  by  supposing  that  Har- 
ley,  unpractised  in  elections,  and  deceived  by  the  Blue 
Committee,  believed  Egerton  to  be  perfectly  safe,  and  sought, 
for  the  honor  of  the  family  interest,  to  secure  both  the  seats. 

Randal's  public  cares  thus  deprived  him  of  all  opportu- 
nity of  pressing  his  courtship  on  Violante  ;  and,  indeed, 
if  ever  he  did  find  a  moment  in  which  he  could  steal  to  her 
reluctant  side,  Harley  was  sure  to  seize  that  very  moment 
to  send  him  off  to  canvass  an  hesitating  freeman,  or  ha- 
rangue in  some  public-house. 

Leslie  was  too  acute  not  to  detect  some  motive  hostile 
to  his  wooing,  however  plausibly  veiled  in  the  guise  of 
zeal  for  his  election,  in  this  officiousness  of  Harley's.  But 
Lord  L'Estrange's  manner  to  Violante  was  so  little  like 
that  of  a  jealous  lover,  and  he  was  so  well  aware  of  her 
engagement  to  Randal,  that  the  latter  abandoned  the  sus- 
picion he  had  before  conceived,  that  Harley  was  his  rival. 
And  he  was  soon  led  to  believe  that  Lord  L'Estrange 
had  another,  more  disinterested,  and  less  formidable  mo- 
tive for  thus  stinting  his  opportunites  to  woo  the  heiress. 

"Mr.  Leslie,"  said  Lord  L'Estrange,  one  day,  "the 
Duke  has  confided  to  me  his  regret  at  his  daughter's  re- 
luctance to  ratify  his  own  promise  ;  and  knowing,  the  warm 
interest  I  take  in  her  welfare — for  his  sake  and  her  own  ; 
believing,  also,  that  some  services  to  herself,  as  well  as  to 
the  father  she  so  loves,  give  me  a  certain  influence  over  her 
inexperienced  judgment,  he  has  even  requested  me  to  speak 
a  word  to  her  in  your  behalf." 

"  Ah  !  if  you  would  !"  said  Randal,  surprised. 

"  You  must  give  me  the  power  to  do  so.  You  were 
obliging  enough  to  volunteer  to  me  the  same  explanations 
which  you  gave  to  the  Duke,  his  satisfaction  with  which 
induced  him  to  renew,  or  confirm  the  promise  of  his  daugh- 
ter's hand.  Should  those  explanations  content  me,  as  they 
did  him,  I  hold  the  Duke  bound  to  fulfil  his  engagement, 
and  I  am  convinced  that  his  daughter  would,  in  that  case, 
not  be  inflexible  to  your  suit.  But,  till  such  explanations 


VARIETIES  IM  ENGLISH  LIFE. 


999 


be  given,  my  friendship  for  the  father,  and  my  interest  in 
the  child,  do  not  allow  me  to  assist  a  cause  which,  however, 
at  present,  suffers  little  by  delay." 

"  Pray,  listen  at  once  to  those  explanations." 

"  Nay,  Mr.  Leslie,  I  can  now  only  think  of  the  election. 
As  soon  as  that  is  over,  rely  on  it  you  shall  have  the 
amplest  opportunity  to  dispel  any  doubts  which  your  inti- 
macy with  Count  di  Peschiera  and  Madame  di  Negra  may 
have  suggested.  Apropos  of  the  election— here  is  a  list  of 
voters  you  must  see  at  once  in  Fish  Lane. — Don't  lose  a 
moment." 

In  the  meanwhile,  Richard  Avenel  and  Leonard  had 
taken  up  their  quarters  in  the  hotel  appropriated  to  the 
candidates  for  the  Yellows  ;  and  the  canvass  on  that  side 
was  prosecuted  with  all  the  vigor  which  might  be  expected 
from  operations  conducted  by  Richard  Avenel,  and  backed 
by  the  popular  feeling. 

The  rival  parties  met  from  time  to  time,  in  the  streets 
and  lanes,  in  all  the  pomp  of  war — banners  streaming, 
fifes  resounding  (for  bands  and  colors  were  essential  proofs 
of  public  spirit,  and  indispensable  items  in  a  candidate's 
bills,  in  those  good  old  days).  When  they  thus  encoun- 
tered, very  distant  bows  were  exchanged  between  the 
respective  chiefs.  But  Randal,  contriving  ever  to  pass 
close  to  Avenel,  had  ever  the  satisfaction  of  perceiving  that 
gentleman's  countenance  contracted  into  a  knowing  wink, 
as  much  as  to  say,  "  All  right,  in  spite  of  this  tarnation 
humbug." 

But  now  that  both  parties  were  fairly  in  the  field,  to  the 
private  arts  of  canvassing  were  added  the  public  arts  of 
oratory.  The  candidates  had  to  speak — at  the  close  of  each 
day's  canvass — out  from  wooden  boxes,  suspended  from 
the  windows  of  their  respective  hotels,  and  which  looked 
like  dens  for  the  exhibition  of  wild  beasts.  They  had  to 
speak  at  meetings  of  committees — meetings  of  electors — go 
the  nightly  round  of  enthusiastic  public-houses,  and  appeal 
to  the  sense  of  an  enlightened  people  through  wreaths  of 
smoke  and  odors  of  beer. 

The  alleged  indisposition  of  Audley  Egerton  had  spared 
him  the  excitement  of  oratory,  as  well  as  the  fatigue  of  can- 
vassing. The  practised  debater  had  limited  the  display  of 
his  talents  to  a  concise,  but  clear  and  masterly  exposition  of 
his  own  views  on  the  leading  public  questions  of  the  day, 
and  the  state  of  parties,  which,  on  the  day  after  his  arrival 


looo  MY  NOVEL;    OR, 

at  Lansmere,  was  delivered  at  a  meeting  of  his  general  com- 
mittee— in  the  great  room  of  their  hotel — and  which  was  then 
printed  and  circulated  amongst  the  voters. 

Randal,  though  he  expressed  himself  with  more  fluency 
and  self-possession  than  are  usually  found  in  the  first 
attempts  of  a  public  speaker,  was  not  effective  in  address- 
ing an  unlettered  crowd  ; — for  a  crowd  of  this  kind  is  all 
heart — and  we  know  that  Randal  Leslie's  heart  was  as 
small  as  heart  could  be.  If  he  attempted  to  speak  at  his 
own  intellectual  level,  he  was  so  subtle  and  refining  as  to 
be  incomprehensible  ;  if  he  fell  into  the  fatal  error — not  un- 
common to  inexperienced  orators — of  trying  to  lower  him- 
self to  the  intellectual  level  of  his  audience,  he  was  only 
elaborately  stupid.  No  man  can  speak  too  well  for  a  crowd 
—  as  no  man  can  write  too  well  for  the  stage  ;  but  in  neither 
case  should  he  be  rhetorical,  or  case  in  periods  the  dry 
bones  of  reasoning.  It  is  to  the  emotions,  or  to  the  hu- 
mors, that  the  speaker  of  a  crowd  must  address  himself  ; 
his  eye  must  brighten  with  generous  sentiment,  or  his  lip 
must  expand  in  the  play  of  animated  fancy  or  genial  wit. 
Randal's  voice,  too,  though  pliant  and  persuasive  in  private 
conversation,  was  thin  and  poor  when  strained  to  catch  the 
ear  of  a  numerous  assembly.  The  falsehood  of  his  nature 
seemed  to  come  out,  when  he  raised  the  tones  which  had 
been  drilled  into  deceit.  Men  like  Randal  Leslie  may  be- 
come sharp  debaters — admirable  special  pleaders  ;  they  can 
no  more  become  orators  than  they  can  become  poets. 
Educated  audiences  are  essential  to  them,  and  the  smaller 
the  audience  (that  is,  the  more  the  brain  supersedes  the 
action  of  the  heart)  the  better  they  can  speak. 

Dick  Avenel  was  generally  very  short  and  very  pithy  in 
his  addresses.  He  had  two  or  three  favorite  topics,  which 
always  told.  He  was  a  fellow-townsman — a  man  who  had 
made  his  own  way  in  life — he  wanted  to  free  his  native 
place  from  aristocratic  usurpation — it  was  the  battle  of  the 
electors,  not  his  private  cause,  etc.  He  said  little  against 
Randal — "  Pity  a  clever  young  man  should  pin  his  future 
to  two  yards  of  worn-out  red  tape  " — "  He  had  better  lay 
hold  of  the  strong  rope,  which  the  People,  in  compassion 
to  his  youth,  were  willing  yet  to  throw  out  to  save  him  from 
sinking,"  etc.  But  as  for  Audley  Egerton,  "  the  gentleman 
who  would  not  show,  who  was  afraid  to  meet  the  electors, 
who  could  only  find  his  voice  in  a  hole-and-corner  meeting, 
accustomed  all  his  venal  life  to  dark  and  nefarious  jobs  " 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  1001 

— Dick,  upon  that  subject,  delivered  philippics  truly  De- 
mosthenian.  Leonard,  on  the  contrary,  never  attacked 
Harley's  friend,  Mr.  Egerton  ;  but  he  was  merciless  against 
the  youth  who  had  filched  reputation  from  John  Burley, 
and  whom  he  knew  that  Harley  despised  as  heartily  as  him- 
self. And  Randal  did  not  dare  to  retaliate  (though  boiling 
over  with  indignant  rage),  for  fear  of  offending  Leonard's 
uncle.  Leonard  was  unquestionably  the  popular  speaker 
of  the  three.  Though  his  temperament  was  a  writer's,  not 
an  orator's — though  he  abhorred  what  he  considered  the 
theatrical  exhibition  of  self,  which  makes  what  is  called 
"  delivery  "  more  effective  than  ideas — though  he  had  little 
interest  at  any  time  in  party  politics — though  at  this  time 
his  heart  was  far  away  from  the  Blues  and  Yellows  of  Lans- 
mere,  sad  and  forlorn — yet,  forced  into  action,  the  elo- 
quence that  was  natural  to  his  conversation  poured  itself 
forth.  He  had  warm  blood  in  his  veins  ;  and  his  dislike  to 
Randal  gave  poignancy  to  his  wit,  and  barbed  his  argu- 
ments with  impassioned  invective.  In  fact,  Leonard  could 
conceive  no  other  motive  for  Lord  L'Estrange's  request  to 
take  part  in  the  election,  than  that  nobleman's  desire  to 
defeat  the  man  whom  they  both  regarded  as  an  impostor. 
And  this  notion  was  confirmed  by  some  inadvertent  expres- 
sions which  Avenel  let  fall,  and  which  made  Leonard  sus- 
pect that,  if  he  were  not  in  the  field,  Avenel  would  have 
exerted  all  his  interest  to  return  Randal  instead  of  Egerton. 
With  Dick's  dislike  to  that  statesman,  Leonard  found  it  im- 
possible to  reason  ;  nor,  on  the  other  hand,  could  all  Dick's 
scoldings  or  coaxings  induce  Leonard  to  divert  his  siege  on 
Randal  to  an  assault  upon  the  man  who,  Harley  had  often 
said,  was  dear  to  him  as  a  brother. 

In  the  meanwhile,  Dick  kept  the  canvass-book  of  the 
Yellows  as  closely  as  Harley  kept  that  of  the  Blues  ;  and, 
in  despite  of  many  pouting  fits  and  gusts  of  displeasure, 
took  precisely  the  same  pains  for  Leonard  as  Harley  took 
for  Randal.  There  remained,  however,  apparently  un- 
shaken by  the  efforts  on  either  side,  a  compact  body  of 
about  a  hundred  and  fifty  voters,  chiefly  freemen.  Would 
they  vote  Yellow  ?  Would  they  vote  Blue  ?  No  one  could 
venture  to  decide  ;  but  they  declared  that  they  would  all  vote 
the  same  way.  Dick  kept  his  secret  "  caucuses,"  as  he  called 
them,  constantly  nibbling  at  this  phalanx.  A  hundred  and 
fifty  voters  ! — they  had  the  election  in  their  hands !  Never 
were  hands  so  cordially  shaken— so  caressingly  clung  to — 


MY  NOVEL;    OR, 

so  fondly  lingered  upon  !  But  the  votes  still  stuck  as  firm 
to  the  hands  as  if  a  part  of  the  skin,  or  of  the  dirt — which 
was  much  the  same  thing ! 


CHAPTER  XX. 

WHENEVER  Audley  joined  the  other  guests  of  an  evening 
— while  Harley  was  perhaps  closeted  with  Levy  and  com- 
mittee-men, and  Randal  was  going  the  round  of  the  public- 
houses — the  one  with  whom  he  chiefly  conversed  was 
Violante.  He  had  been  struck  at  first,  despite  his  gloom, 
less,  perhaps,  by  her  extraordinary  beauty,  than  by  some- 
thing in  the  expression  of  her  countenance  which,  despite 
differences  in  feature  and  complexion,  reminded  him  of 
Nora  ;  and  when,  by  his  praises  of  Harley,  he  drew  her  at- 
tention, and  won  into  her  liking,  he  discovered,  perhaps, 
that  the  likeness  which  had  thus  impressed  him,  came  from 
some  similarities  in  character  between  the  living  and  the 
lost  one — the  same  charming  combination  of  lofty  thought 
and  child-like  innocence — the  same  enthusiasm — the  same 
rich  exuberance  of  imagination  and  feeling.  Two  souls 
that  resemble  each  other  will  give  their  likeness  to  the  looks 
from  which  they  beam.  On  the  other  hand,  the  person 
with  whom  Harley  most  familiarly  associated,  in  his  rare 
intervals  of  leisure,  was  Helen  Digby.  One  day,  Audley 
Egerton,  standing  mournfully  by  the  window  of  the  sitting- 
room  appropriated  to  his  private  use,  saw  the  two,  whom 
he  believed  still  betrothed,  take  their  way  across  the  park, 
side  by  side.  "  Pray  Heaven,  that  she  may  atone  to  him 
for  all!"  murmured  Audley.  "But  ah,  that  it  had  been 
Violante  !  Then  I  might  have  felt  assured  that  the  Future 
would  efface  the  Past — and  found  the  courage  to  tell  him 
all.  And  when  last  night  I  spoke  of  what  Harley  ought  to 
be  to  England,  how  like  were  Violante's  eyes  and  smile  to 
Nora's,  when  Nora  listened  in  delighted  sympathy  to  the 
hopes  of  my  own  young  ambition  ! "  With  a  sigh  he  turned 
away,  and  resolutely  sat  down  to  read  and  reply  to  the  vo- 
luminous correspondence  which  covered  the  table  of  the 
busy  public  man.  For,  Audley's  return  to  Parliament  be- 
ing considered  by  his  political  party  as  secure,  to  him  were 
transmitted  all  the  hopes  and  fears  of  the  large  and  influ- 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  1003 

ential  section  of  it  whose  members  looked  up  to  him  as  their 
future  chief,  and  who  in  that  general  election  (unprecedent- 
ed for  the  number  of  eminent  men  it  was  fated  to  expel 
from  Parliament,  and  the  number  of  new  politicians  it  was 
fated  to  send  into  it),  drew  their  only  hopes  of  regaining 
their  lost  power  from  Audley's  sanguine  confidence  in  the 
reaction  of  that  Public  Opinion  which  he  had  hitherto  so 
profoundly  comprehended  ;  and  it  was  too  clearly  seen, 
that  the  seasonable  adoption  of  his  counsels  would  have 
saved  the  existence  and  popularity  of  the  late  Administra- 
tion, whose  most  distinguished  members  could  now  scarcely 
show  themselves  on  the  hustings. 

Meanwhile,  Lord  L'Estrange  led  his  young  companion 
toward  a  green  hill  in  the  centre  of  the  Park,  on  which 
stood  a  circular  temple,  that  commanded  a  view  of  the 
country  round  for  miles.  They  had  walked  in  silence  till 
they  gained  the  summit  of  the  sloped  and  gradual  ascent ; 
and  then,  as  they  stood  still,  side  by  side,  Harley  thus 
spoke — 

"  Helen,  you  know  that  Leonard  is  in  the  town,  though 
I  cannot  receive  him  at  the  park,  since  he  is  standing  in 
opposition  to  my  guests,  Egerton  and  Leslie." 

HELEN. — But  that  seems  to  me  so  strange.  How — how 
could  Leonard  do  anything  that  seems  hostile  to  you  ? 

HARLEY. — Would  his  hostility  to  me  lower  him  in  your 
opinion  ?  If  he  know  that  I  am  his  rival,  does  not  rivalry 
include  hate  ? 

HELEN. — Oh,  Lord  L'Estrange,  how  can  you  speak 
thus  ? — how  so  wrong  yourself  ?  Hate— hate  j^>  you  !  and 
from  Leonard  Fairfield  ! 

HARLEY. — You  evade  my  question.  Would  his  hate  or 
hostility  to  me  affect  your  sentiments  toward  him  ? 

HELEN  (looking  down).— I  could  not  force  myself  to  be- 
lieve in  it. 

HARLEY. — Why  ? 

HELEN. — Because  it  would  be  so  unworthy  of  him. 

HARLEY. — Poor  child  !  You  have  the  delusion  of  your 
years.  You  deck  a  cloud  in  the  hues  of  the  rainbow,  and 
will  not  believe  that  its  glory  is  borrowed  from  the  sun  of 
your  own  fancy.  But  here,  at  least,  you  are  not  deceived. 
Leonard  obeys  but  my  wishes,  and,  I  believe,  against  his 
own  will.  He  has  none  of  man's  noblest  attribute,  am- 
bition. 

HELEN. — No  ambition ! 


1004  MY  NOVEL;    OR, 

HARLEY. — It  is  vanity  that  stirs  the  poet  to  toil — if  toil 
the  wayward  chase  of  his  own  chimeras  can  be  called.  Am- 
bition is  a  more  masculine  passion. 

Helen  shook  her  head  gently,  but  made  no  answer. 

HARLEY. — If  I  utter  a  word  that  profanes  one  of  your 
delusions,  you  shake  your  head  and  are  incredulous.  Pause  : 
listen  one  moment  to  my  counsels — perhaps  the  last  I  may 
ever  obtrude  upon  you.  Lift  your  eyes ;  look  around. 
Far  as  your  eye  can  reach,  nay,  far  beyond  the  line  which 
the  horizon  forms  in  the  landscape,  stretch  the  lands  of  my 
inheritance.  Yonder  you  see  the  home  in  which  my  fore- 
fathers for  many  generations  lived  with  honor  and  died  la- 
mented. All  these,  in  the  course  of  nature,  might  one  day 
have  been  your  own,  had  you  not  rejected  my  proposals. 
I  offered  you,  it  is  true,  not  what  is  commonly  called  Love  ; 
I  offered  you  sincere  esteem,  and  affections  the  more  dur- 
able for  their  calm.  You  have  not  been  reared  by  the  world  in 
the  low  idolatry  of  rank  and  wealth.  But  even  romance 
cannot  despise  the  power  of  serving  others,  which  rank  and 
wealth  bestow.  For  myself,  hitherto  indolence,  and  lately 
disdain,  rob  fortune  of  these  nobler  attributes.  But  she 
who  will  share  my  fortune  may  dispense  it  so  as  to  atone 
for  my  sins  of  omission.  On  the  other  side,  grant  that  there 
is  no  bar  to  your  preference  for  Leonard  Fairfield,  what 
does  your  choice  present  to  you  ? — Those  of  his  kindred 
with  whom  you  will  associate  are  unrefined  and  mean. 
His  sole  income  is  derived  from  precarious  labors ;  the 
most  vulgar  of  all  anxieties — the  fear  of  bread  itself  for  the 
morrow — must  mingle  with  all  your  romance,  and  soon 
steal  from  love  all  its  poetry.  You  think  his  affection  will 
console  you  for  every  sacrifice.  Folly  ! — the  love  of  poets 
is  for  a  mist — a  moonbeam — a  denizen  of  air — a  phantom 
that  they  call  an  Ideal.  They  suppose  for  a  moment  that 
they  have  found  that  Ideal  in  Chloe  or  Phyllis — Helen  or  a 
milkmaid.  Bah  ! — the  first  time  you  come  to  the  poet  with 
the  baker's  bill,  where  flies  the  Ideal  ?  I  knew  one  more 
brilliant  than  Leonard — more  exquisitely  gifted  by  nature 
— that  one  was  a  woman  ;  she  saw  a  man  hard  and  cold  as 
that  stone  at  your  feet — a  false,  hollow,  sordid  worldling ; 
she  made  him  her  Idol — beheld  in  him  all  that,  history  would 
not  recognize  in  a  Caesar — that  mythology  would  scarcely 
grant  to  an  Apollo ;  to  him  she  was  a  plaything  of  an  hour 
— she  died,  and  before  the  year  was  out  he  had  married  for 
money !  I  knew  another  instance — I  speak  of  myself,  I 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  1005 

loved  before  I  was  you  rage.  Had  an  angel  warned  me  then, 
I  would  have  been  incredulous  as  you.  How  that  ended, 
no  matter  ;  but  had  it  not  been  for  that  dream  of  maudlin 
delirium,  I  had  lived  and  acted  as  others  of  my  kind  and 
my  sphere — married  from  reason  and  judgment — been  now 
a  useful  and  happy  man.  Pause,  then.  Will  you  still  re- 
ject me  for  Leonard  Fairfield  ?  For  the  last  time  you  have 
the  option — me  and  all  the  substance  of  waking  life — Leon- 
ard Fairfield  and  the  shadows  of  a  fleeting  dream.  Speak  ! 
You  hesitate.  Nay,  take  time  to  decide. 

HELEN. — Ah,  Lord  L'Estrange,  you,  who  have  felt  what 
it  is  to  love,  how  can  you  doubt  my  answer  ? — how  think 
that  I  could  be  so  base,  so  ungrateful  as  take  from  your- 
self what  you  call  the  substance  of  waking  life,  while  my 
heart  was  far  away — faithful  to  what  you  call  a  dream  ? 

HARLEY. — But,  can  you  not  dispel  the  dream? 

HELEN  (her  whole  face  one  flush). — It  was  wrong  to  call 
it  dream  !  It  is  the  reality  of  life  to  me.  All  things  else 
are  as  dreams. 

HARLEY  (taking  her  hand  and  kissing  it  with  respect). 
— Helen,  you  have  a  noble  heart,  and  I  have  tempted  you 
in  vain.  I  regret  your  choice,  though  I  will  no  more  op- 
pose it.  I  regret  it,  though  I  shall  never  witness  your  dis- 
appointment. As  the  wife  of  that  man,  I  shall  see  and 
know  you  no  more. 

HELEN. — Oh,  no! — do  not  say  that.     Why? — wherefore? 

HARLEY  (his  brows  meeting). — He  is  the  child  of  fraud 
and  of  shame.  His  father  is  my  foe,  and  my  hate  descends 
to  the  son.  He,  too,  the  son,  filches  from  me — but  com- 
plaints are  idle.  When  the  next  few  days  are  over,  think 
of  me  but  as  one  who  abandons  all  right  over  your  actions, 
and  is  a  stranger  to  your  future  fate.  Pooh  ! — dry  your 
tears ;  so  long  as  you  love  Leonard  or  esteem  me,  rejoice 
that  our  paths  do  not  cross. 

He  walked  on  impatiently ;  but  Helen,  alarmed  and 
wondering,  followed  close,  took  his  arm  timidly,  and  sought 
to  soothe  him.  She  felt  that  he  wronged  Leonard — that  he 
knew  not  how  Leonard  had  yielded  all  hope  when  he 
learned  to  whom  she  was  affianced.  For  Leonard's  sake 
she  conquered  her  bashfulness,  and  sought  to  explain.  But 
at  her  first  hesitating,  faltered  words,  Harley,  who  with 
great  effort  suppressed  the  emotions  which  swelled  within 
him,  abruptly  left  her  side,  and  plunged  into  the  recesses  of 
thick  far-spreading  groves,  that  soon  rapt  him  from  her  eye. 


ioo6  MY  NOVEL;    OR, 

While  this  conversation  occurred  between  Lord  L'Es- 
trange  and  his  ward,  the  soi-disant  Riccabocca  and  Violante 
were  walking  slowly  through  the  gardens.  The  philosopher, 
unchanged  by  his  brightening  prospects — so  far  as  the  outer 
man  was  concerned — still  characterized  by  the  red  umbrella 
and  the  accustomed  pipe — took  the  way  mechanically  to- 
ward the  sunniest  quarter  of  the  grounds,  now  and  then 
glancing  tenderly  at  Violante's  downcast  melancholy  face, 
but  not  speaking  ;  only,  at  each  glance,  there  came  a  brisker 
cloud  from  the  pipe,  as  if  obedient  to  a  fuller  heave  of  the 
heart. 

At  length,  in  a  spot  which  lay  open  toward  the  south, 
and  seemed  to  collect  all  the  gentlest  beams  of  the  Novem- 
ber sun,  screened  from  the  piercing  east  by  dense  ever- 
greens, and  flanked  from  the  bleak  north  by  lofty  walls, 
Riccabocca  paused  and  seated  himself.  Flowers  still 
bloomed  on  the  sward  in  front,  over  which  still  fluttered  the 
wings  of  those  later  and  more  brilliant  butterflies  that,  un- 
seen in  the  genial  days  of  our  English  summer,  come  with 
autumnal  skies,  and  sport  round  the  mournful  steps  of  the 
coming  winter — types  of  those  thoughts  which  visit  and 
delight  the  contemplation  of  age,  while  the  current  yet 
glides  free  from  the  iron  ice,  and  the  leaves  yet  linger  on 
the  boughs  ;  thoughts  that  associate  the  memories  of  the 
departed  summer  with  messages  from  suns  that  shall  succeed 
the  winter,  and  expand  colors  the  most  steeped  in  light  and 
glory,  just  as  the  skies  through  which  they  gleam  are  dark- 
ening, and  the  flowers  on  which  they  hover  fade  from  the 
surface  of  the  earth — dropping  still  seeds,  that  sink  deep 
out  of  sight  below. 

"  Daughter,"  said  Riccabocca,  drawing  Violante  to  his 
side,  with  caressing  arm — "  Daughter  !  Mark,  how  they 
who  turn  toward  the  south  can  still  find  the  sunny  side  of 
the  landscape  !  In  all  the  seasons  of  life,  how  much  of  chill 
or  of  warmth  depends  on  our  choice  of  the  aspect !  Sit 
down — let  us  reason." 

Violante  sat  down  passively,  clasping  her  father's  hand 
in  both  her  own.  Reason  ! — harsh  word  to  the  ears  of 
Feeling  ! 

"You  shrink,"  resumed  Riccabocca,  "from  even  the 
courtship,  even  the  presence  of  the  suitor  in  whom  my  honor 
binds  me  to  recognize  your  future  bridegroom." 

Violante  drew  away  her  hands,  and  placed  them  before 
her  eyes,  shudderingly. 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  1007 

"But,"  continued  Riccabocca,  rather  peevishly,  "this  is 
not  listening  to  reason.  I  may  object  to  Mr.  Leslie,  because 
he  has  not  an  adequate  rank  or  fortune  to  pretend  to  a 
daughter  of  my  house  ;  that  would  be  what  every  one  would 
allow  to  be  reasonable  in  a  father;  except,  indeed,"  added 
the  poor  sage,  trying  hard  to  be  sprightly,  and  catching 
hold  of  a  proverb  to  help  him — "except,  indeed,  those  wise 
enough  to  recollect  that  admonitory  saying,  '  Casa  il  figlio 
quando  vuoi,  e  la  figlia  quando  puoi ' — (Marry  your  son 
when  you  will,  your  daughter  when  you  can).  Seriously,  if 
I  overlook  those  objections  to  Mr.  Leslie,  it  is  not  natural 
for  a  young  girl  to  enforce  them.  What  is  reason  in  you  is 
quite  another  thing  from  reason  in  me.  Mr.  Leslie  is  young, 
not  ill-looking,  has  the  air  of  a  gentleman,  is  passionately 
enamoured  of  you,  and  has  proved  his  affection  by  riskhig 
his  life  against  that  villanous  Peschiera — that  is,  he  would 
have  risked  it  had  Peschiera  not  been  shipped  out  of  the 
way.  If,  then,  you  will  listen  to  reason,  pray  what  can 
reason  say  against  Mr.  Leslie  ?" 

"Father,  I  detest  him!" 

Cospetto /"  persisted  Riccabocca,  testily,  "you  have  no 
reason  to  detest  him.  If  you  had  any  reason,  child,  I  am 
sure  that  I  should  be  the  last  person  to  dispute  it.  How 
can  you  know  your  own  mind  in  such  a  matter  ?  It  is  not 
as  if  you  had  seen  any  one  else  you  could  prefer.  Not 
another  man  of  your  own  years  do  you  even  know — except, 
indeed,  Leonard  Fairfield,  whom,  though  I  grant  he  is 
handsomer,  and  with  more  imagination  and  genius  than  Mr. 
Leslie,  you  still  must  remember  as  the  boy  who  worked  in 
my  garden.  Ah  !  to  be  sure,  there  is  Frank  Hazeldean — 
fine  lad — but  his  affections  are  pre-engaged.  In  short,"  con- 
tinued the  sage,  dogmatically,  "  there  is  no  one  else  you  can, 
by  any  possible  caprice,  prefer  to  Mr.  Leslie  ;  and  for  a 
girl,  who  has  no  one  else  in  her  head,  to  talk  of  detesting  a 
well-looking,  well-dressed,  clever  young  man,  is  a  nonsense. 
'  Chi  lascia  il  poco  per  haver  1'assai,  ne  1'uno  ne  1'altro  avera. 
mai  ; ' — which  may  be  thus  paraphrased — The  young  lady 
who  refuses  a  mortal  in  the  hope  of  obtaining  an  angel, 
loses  the  one,  and  will  never  fall  in  with  the  other.  So 
now,  having  thus  shown  that  the  darkest  side  of  the  ques- 
tion is  contrary  to  reason — let  us  look  to  the  brighter.  In 
the  first  place " 

"  Oh,  father,  father  ! "  cried  Violante,  passionately,  "  you 
to  whom  I  once  came  for  comfort  in  every  childish  sorrow ! 


ioo8  MY  NOVEL;    OH, 

Do  not  talk  to  me  with  this  cutting  levity.  See,  I  lay  my 
head  upon  your  breast — I  put  my  arms  .around  you — and 
now,  can  you  reason  me  into  misery  ?  " 

"  Child,  child,  do  not  be  so  wayward.  Strive,  at  least, 
against  a  prejudice  that  you  cannot  defend.  My  Violante, 
my  darling,  this  is  no  trifle.  Here  I  must  cease  to  be  the 
fond  foolish  father  whom  you  can  do  what  you  will  with. 
Here  I  am  Alphonso,  Duke  di  Serrano  ;  for  here  my  honor 
as  noble,  and  my  word  as  man,  are  involved.  I,  then  but  a 
helpless  exile — no  hope  of  fairer  prospects  before  me — 
trembling  like  a  coward  at  the  wiles  of  my  unscrupulous 
kinsman — grasping  at  all  chances  to  save  you  from  his 
snares — I  myself  offered  your  hand  to  Randal  Leslie — of- 
fered, promised,  pledged  it  ; — and  now  that  my  fortunes 
seem  assured,  my  rank  in  all  likelihood  restored,  my  foe 
crushed,  my  fears  at  rest — now,  does  it  become  me  to  re- 
tract what  I  myself  had  urged  ?  It  is  not  the  noble,  it  is  the 
parvenu,  who  had  only  to  grow  rich,  in  order  to  forget 
those  whom  in  poverty  he  hailed  as  his  friends.  *  Is  it  for 
me  to  make  the  poor  excuse,  never  heard  on  the  lips  of  an 
Italian  prince,  '  that  I  cannot  command  the  obedience  of 
my  child,' — subject  myself  to  the  galling  answer — '  Duke  of 
Serrano,  you  could  once  command  that  obedience,  when,  in 
exile,  penury,  and  terror,  you  offered  me  a  bride  without  a 
dower.'  Child — Violante — daughter  of  ancestors  on  whose 
honor  never  slander  set  a  stain,  I  call  on  you  to  redeem 
your  father's  plighted  word." 

"  Father,  must  it  be  so  ?  Is  not  even  the  convent  open 
to  me  ?  Nay,  look  not  so  coldly  on  me.  If  you  could  but 
read  my  heart !  And,  oh  !  I  feel  so  assured  of  your  own 
repentance  hereafter — so  assured  that  this  man  is  not  what 
you  believe  him.  I  so  suspect  that  he  has  been  playing 
throughout  some  secret  and  perfidious  part." 

"  Ha  !  "  interrupted  Riccabocca,  "  Harley  has  perhaps 
infected  you  with  that  notion." 

"  No — no.  But  is  not  Harley — is  not  Lord  L'Estrange 
one  whose  opinion  you  have  cause  to  esteem  ?  And  if  he 
distrust  Mr.  Leslie " 

"  Let  him  make  good  his  distrust  by  such  proof  as  will 
absolve  my  word,  and  I  shall  share  your  own  joy.  I  have 
told  him  this.  I  have  invited  him  to  make  good  his  sus- 

*  "  Quando  '1  villano  i  divcnuto  ricco, 

Kon  ha  (>,  e.,  ricooosce)  parent'  ni  atnico." 

Italian  Provert. 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  1009 

picions — he  puts  me  off.  He  cannot  do  so,"  added  Ricca- 
bocca,  in  a  dejected  tone  ;  "  Randal  has  already  so  well  ex- 
plained all  that  Harley  deemed  equivocal.  Violante,  my 
name  and  my  honor  rest  in  your  hands.  Cast  them  away 
if  you  will  ;  I  cannot  constrain  you,  and  I  cannot  stoop  to 
implore.  Noblesse  oblige — With  your  birth  you  took  its 
duties.  Let  them  decide  between  your  vain  caprice  and 
your  father's  solemn  remonstrance." 

Assuming  a  sternness  that  he  was  far  from  feeling,  and 
putting  aside  his  daughter's  arms,  the  exile  walked  away. 

Violante  paused  a  moment,  shivered,  looked  round,  as  if 
taking  a  last  farewell  of  joy,  and  peace,  and  hope  on  earth, 
and  then  approaching  her  father  with  a  firm  step,  she  said, 
— "  I  never  rebelled,  father  ;  I  did  but  entreat  What  you 
say  is  my  law  now,  as  it  has  ever  been  ;  and  come  what  may, 
never  shall  you  hear  complaint  or  murmur  from  me.  Poor 
father,  you  will  suffer  more  than  I  shall.  Kiss  me  !  " 

About  an  hour  afterward,  as  the  short  day  closed  in, 
Harley,  returning  from  his  solitary  wanderings,  after  he  had 
parted  from  Helen,  encountered  on  the  terrace,  before  the 
house,  Lady  Lansmere  and  Audley  Egerton  arm  in  arm. 

Harley  had  drawn  his  hat  over  his  brows,  and  his  eyes 
were  fixed  on  the  ground,  so  that  he  did  not  see  the  group 
upon  which  he  came  unawares,  until  Audley's  voice  started 
him  from  his  reverie. 

"  My  dear  Harley,"  said  the  ex-minister,  with  a  faint 
smile,  "  you  must  not  pass  us  by,  now  that  you  have  a 
moment  of  leisure  from  the  cares  of  the  election.  And, 
Harley,  though  we  are  under  the  same  roof,  I  see  you  so 
little."  Lord  L'Estrange  darted  a  quick  glance  toward  his 
mother — a  glance  that  seemed  to  say,  "You-leaning  on  Aud- 
ley's arm!  Have  you  kept  your  promise?"  And  the 
eye  that  met  his  own  reassured  him. 

"  It  is  true,"  said  Harley,  "  but  you,  who  know  that,  once 
engaged  in  public  affairs,  one  has  no  heart  left  for  the  ties 
of  private  life,  will  excuse  me.  And  this  election  is  so  im- 
portant ! " 

"And  you,  Mr.  Egerton,"  said  Lady  Lansmere,  "whom 
the  election  most  concerns,  seem  privileged  to  be  the  only 
one  who  appears  indifferent  to  success." 

«Ay — but  you  are  not  indifferent  ?"  said  Lord  L'Es- 
trange, abruptly. 

"No.     How  can  I  be  so,  when  my  whole  future  career 
may  depend  on  it." 
43 


roro  MY  NOVEL;   OR, 

Harley  drew  Egerton  aside.  "  There  is  one  voter  you 
ought  at  least  to  call  upon  and  thank.  He  cannot  be  made 
to  comprehend  that,  for  the  sake  of  any  relation,  even  for  the 
sake  of  his  own  son,  he  is  to  vote  against  the  Blues — against 
you  ;  I  mean,  of  course,  Nora's  father,  John  Avenel.  His 
vote  and  his  son-in-law's  gained  your  majority  at  your  first 
election." 

EGF.RTON. — Call  on  John  Avenel !     Have  you  called  ? 

HARLEY  (calmly). — Yes.  Poor  old  man,  his  mind  has 
been  affected  ever  since  Nora's  death.  But  your  name  as 
the  candidate  for  the  borough  at  that  time — the  successful 
candidate  for  whose  triumph  the  joy-bells  chimed  with  her 
funeral  knell — your  name  brings  up  her  memory  ;  and  he 
talks  in  a  breath  of  her  and  of  you.  Come,  let  us  walk  to- 
gether to  his  house  ;  it  is  close  by  the  Park  Lodge. 

The  drops  stood  on  Audley's  brow  !  He  fixed  his  dark 
handsome  eyes,  in  mournful  amaze,  upon  Harley's  tranquil 
face. 

"  Harley,  at  last,  then,  you  have  forgotten  the  Past." 

"  No  ;  but  the  Present  is  more  imperious.  All  my  ef- 
forts are  needed  to  requite  your  friendship.  You  stand 
against  her  brother — yet  her  father  votes  for  you.  And  her 
mother  says  to  her  son,  '  Let  the  old  man  alone.  Con- 
science is  all  that  is  well  alive  in  him  ;  and  he  thinks  if  he 
were  to  vote  against  the  Blues,  he  would  sin  against  honor.' 
'An  electioneering  prejudice,'  some  sceptics  would  say. 
But  you  must  be  touched  by  this  trait  of  human  nature — in 
her  father,  too — you,  Audley  Egerton,  who  are  the  soul  of 
honor.  What  ails  you  ?  " 

EGERTON. — Nothing — a  spasm  at  the  heart — my  old 
complaint.  Well,  I  will  call  on  the  poor  man  later,  but  not 
now — not  with  you.  Nay,  nay,  I  will  not — I  cannot.  Har- 
ley, just  as  you  joined  us,  I  was  talking  to  your  mother. 

HARLEY. — Ay,  and  what  of  ? 

EGERTON. — Yourself.  I  saw  you  from  my  windows 
walking  with  your  betrothed.  Afterward,  I  observed  her 
coming  home  alone  ;  and  by  the  glimpse  I  caught  of  her 
gentle  countenance,  it  seemed  sad.  Harley,  do  you  deceive 
us  ? 

HARLEY. — Deceive — I  ! — How  ! 

EGERTON. — Do  you  really  feel  that  your  intended  mar- 
riage will  bestow  on  you  the  happiness,  which  is  my  prayer, 
as  it  must  be  your  mother's? 

HARLEY. — Happiness — I  hoped  so.     But  perhaps 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  ion 

EGERTON. — Perhaps  what  ? 

HARLEY.— Perhaps  the  marriage  may  not  take  place. 
Perhaps  I  have  a  rival— not  an  open  one — a  secret,  stealthy 
wooer— in  one,  too,  whom  I  have  loved,  served,  trusted. 
Question  me  not  now.  Such  instances  of  treachery  make 
one  learn  more  how  to  prize  a  friendship  honest,  devoted, 
faithful,  as  your  own,  Audley  Egerton.  But  here  comes 
your  protege,  released  awhile  from  his  canvass,  and  your 
confidential  adviser,  Baron  Levy.  He  accompanied  Ran- 
dal through  the  town  to-day.  So  anxious  is  he  to  see  that 
that  young  man  does  not  play  false,  and  regard  his  own  in- 
terest before  yours.  Would  that  surprise  you  ? 

EGERTON. — You  are  too  severe  upon  Randal  Leslie.  He 
is  ambitious,  worldly — has  no  surplus  of  affection  at  the 
command  of  his  heart 

HARLEY. — Is  it  Randal  Leslie  you  describe  ? 

EGERTON  (with  a  languid  smile). — Yes,  you  see  I  do  not 
flatter.  But  he  is  born  and  reared  a  gentleman  ;  as  such 
he  would  scarcely  do  anything  mean.  And,  after  all,  it  is 
with  me  that  he  must  rise  or  fall.  His  very  intellect  must 
tell  him  that.  But  again  I  ask,  do  not  strive  to  prepossess 
me  against  him.  I  am  a  man  who  could  have  loved  a  son. 
I  have  none.  Randal,  such  as  he  is,  is  a  sort  of  son.  He 
carries  on  my  projects  and  my  interests  in  the  world  of 
men  beyond  the  goal  of  the  tomb." 

Audley  turned  kindly  to  Randal. 

"Well,  Leslie,  what  report  of  the  canvass  ?" 

"  Levy  has  the  book,  sir.  I  think  we  have  gained  ten 
fresh  votes  for  you,  and  perhaps  seven  for  me." 

"Let  me  rid  you  of  your  book,  Baron  Levy,"  said 
Harley. 

Just  at  this  time  Riccabocca  and  Violante  approached 
the  house,  both  silent.  The  Italian  caught  sight  of  Ran- 
dal, and  made  him  a  sign  to  join  them.  The  young  lover 
glanced  fearfully  toward  Harley,  and  then  with  alacrity 
bounded  forward,  and  was  soon  at  Violante's  side.  But 
scarce  had  Harley,  surprised  by  Leslie's  sudden  disappear- 
ance, remarked  the  cause,  than  with  equal  abruptness  he 
abandoned  the  whispered  conference  he  had  commenced 
with  Levy,  and  hastening  to  Randal,  laid  hand  on  the 
young  man's  shoulder,  exclaiming,  "Ten  thousand  pardons 
to  all  three  !  You  have  yet  an  hour  before  it  grows  dark. 
There  are  three  out-voters  six  miles  off,  influential  farmers, 
whom  you  must  canvass  in  person  with  my  father's  stew- 


ion  MY  NOVEL;   OR, 

ard.  Hasten  to  the  stables  ;  choose  your  own  horse.  To 
saddle — to  saddle !  Baron  Levy,  go  and  order  my  lord's 
steward,  Mr.  Smart,  to  join  Mr.  Leslie  at  the  stables ;  then 
come  back  to  me — quick.  What  ? — loitering  still,  Mr. 
Leslie  !  You  will  make  me  throw  up  your  whole  cause  in 
disgust  at  your  indolence  and  apathy." 

Alarmed  at  this  threat,  Randal  lifted  his  accusing  eyes 
to  Heaven,  and  withdrew. 

Meanwhile  Audley  had  drawn  close  to  Lady  Lansmere, 
who  was  leaning  in  thought  over  the  balustrade  of  the 
terrace. 

"  Did  you  note,"  said  Audley,  whispering,  "how  Harley 
sprang  forward  when  the  fair  Italian  came  in  sight  ?  Trust 
me,  I  was  right.  I  know  little  of  the  young  lady,  but  I  have 
conversed  with  her.  I  have  gazed  on  the  changes  in  her 
face.  If  Harley  ever  love  again,  and  if  ever  love  influence 
and  exalt  his  mind,  wish  with  me  that  his  choice  may  yet 
fall  where  I  believe  that  his  heart  inclines  it." 

LADY  LANSMERE. — Ah !  that  it  were  so.  Helen,  I  own, 
is  charming  ;  but — but — Violante  is  equal  in  birth  !  Are 
you  not  aware  that  she  is  engaged  to  your  young  friend, 
Mr.  Leslie? 

AUDLEY. — Randal  told  me  so  ;  but  I  cannot  believe  it. 
In  fact,  I  have  taken  occasion  to  sound  that  fair  creature's 
inclinations,  and  if  I  know  aught  of  women,  her  heart  is  not 
with  Randal.  I  cannot  believe  her  to  be  one  whose  affec- 
tions are  so  weak  as  to  be  easily  constrained  ;  nor  can  I 
suppose  that  her  father  could  desire  to  enforce  a  marriage 
that  is  almost  a  mesalliance.  Randal  must  deceive  himself  ; 
and  from  something  Harley  just  let  fall,  in  our  painful,  but 
brief  conversation,  I  suspect  that  his  engagement  with  Miss 
Digby  is  broken  off.  He  promises  to  tell  me  more,  later. 
Yes  (continued  Audley,  mournfully),  observe  Violante's 
countenance,  with  its  ever- varying  play;  listen  to  her  voice, 
to  which  feeling  seems  to  give  the  expressive  music,  and 
tell  me  whether  you  are  not  sometimes  reminded  of — of — 
in  one  word,  there  is  one  who,  even  without  rank  or  for- 
tune, would  be  worthy  to  replace  the  image  of  Leonora, 
and  be  to  Harley — what  Leonora  could  not ;  for  sure  I  am 
that  Violante  loves  him. 

Harley,  meanwhile,  had  lingered  with  Riccabocca  and 
Violante,  speaking  but  on  indifferent  subjects,  obtaining 
short  answers  from  the  first  and  none  from  the  last,  when 
the  sage  drew  him  a  little  aside,  and  whispered,  "  She  has 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  1013 

consented  to  sacrifice  herself  to  my  sense  of  honor.  But,  O 
Harley !  if  she  be  unhappy,  it  will  break  my  heart.  Either 
you  must  give  me  sufficient  proof  of  Randal's  unworthiness, 
to  absolve  me  from  my  promise,  or  I  must  again  entreat 
you  to  try  and  conciliate  the  poor  child  in  his  favor.  All 
you  say  has  weight  with  her ;  she  respects  you  as — a  second 
father." 

Harley  did  not  seem  peculiarly  flattered  by  that  last  as- 
surance, but  he  was  relieved  from  an  immediate  answer  by 
the  appearance  of  a  man  who  came  from  the  direction  of  the 
stables,  and  whose  dress,  covered  with  dust,  and  travel- 
stained,  seemed  like  that  of  a  foreign  courier.  No  sooner 
did  Harley  catch  sight  of  this  person,  than  he  sprang  for- 
ward, and  accosted  him  briefly  and  rapidly. 

"  You  have  been  quick  ;  I  did  not  expect  you  so  soon. 
You  discovered  the  trace  ?  You  gave  my  letter?" 

"  And  have  brought  back  the  answer,  my  lord,"  replied 
the  man,  taking  the  letter  from  a  leathern  pouch  at  his  side. 
Harley  hastily  broke  open  the  seal,  and  glanced  over  the 
contents,  which  were  comprised  in  a  few  lines. 

"Good.  Say  not  whence  you  came.  Do  not  wait  here  ; 
return  at  once  to  London." 

Harley's  face  seemed  so  unusuallly  cheerful,  as  he  re- 
joined the  Italians,  that  the  Duke  exclaimed, — 

"  A  despatch  from  Vienna  !     My  recall !  " 

"  From  Vienna,  my  dear  friend  ?  Not  possible  yet.  I 
cannot  calculate  on  hearing  from  the  Prince  till  a  day  or 
two  before  the  close  of  this  election.  But  you  wish  me  to 
speak  to  Violante.  Join  my  mother  yonder.  What  can  she 
be  saying  to  Mr.  Egerton  ?  I  will  address  a  few  words 
apart  to  your  fair  daughter,  that  may  at  least  prove  the 
interest  in  her  fate  taken  by — her  second  father." 

"  Kindest  of  friends,"  said  the  unsuspecting  pupil  of 
Machiavelli  ;  and  he  walked  toward  the  terrace.  Violante 
was  about  to  follow.  Harley  detained  her. 

"  Do  not  go  till  you  have  thanked  me  ;  for  you  are  not 
the  noble  Violante  for  whom  I  take  you,  unless  you  ac- 
knowledge gratitude  to  any  one  who  delivers  you  from  the 
presence  of  an  admirer  in  Mr.  Randal  Leslie." 

VIOLANTE. — Ought  I  to  hear  this  of  one  whom— whom 

HARLEY. — One  whom  your  father  obstinately  persists  in 
obtruding  on  your  repugnance.  Yet,  O  dear  child,  you 
who,  when  almost  an  infant,  ere  yet  you  knew  what  snares 


ioi4  MY  NOVEL;    OR, 

and  pit-falls,  for  all  who  trust  to  another,  lie  under  the  sward 
at  our  feet,  even  when  decked  the  fairest  with  the  flowers 
of  spring, — you  who  put  your  small  hands  around  my  neck, 
and  murmured  in  your  musical  voice,  "  Save  us — save  my 
father  ;  "  you,  at  least,  I  will  not  forsake,  in  a  peril  worse 
than  that  which  menaced  you  then, — a  peril  which  affrights 
you  more  than  that  which  threatened  you  in  the  snares  of 
Peschiera.  Randal  Leslie  may  thrive  in  his  meaner  objects 
of  ambition — those  I  fling  to  him  in  scorn, — but  you  ! — the 
presuming  varlet !  (Harley  paused  a  moment,  half-stifled 
with  indignation.  He  then  resumed,  calmly) — Trust  to  me, 
and  fear  not.  I  will  rescue  this  hand  from  the  profanation 
of  Randal  Leslie's  touch  ;  and  then  farewell,  for  life,  to 
every  soft  emotion.  Before  me  expands  the  welcome  soli- 
tude. The  innocent  saved,  the  honest  righted,  the  perfidi- 
ous stricken  by  just  retribution — and  then — what  then  ? 
Why,  at  least  I  shall  have  studied  Machiavelli  with  more 
effect  than  your  wise  father  ;  and  I  shall  lay  him  aside, 
needing  no  philosophy  to  teach  me  never  again  to  be  de- 
ceived. (His  brow  darkened  ;  he  turned  abruptly  away, 
leaving  Violante  lost  in  amaze,  fear — and  a  delight,  vague, 
yet  more  vividly  felt  than  all.) 


CHAPTER  XXI. 

THAT  night,  after  the  labors  of  the  day,  Randal  had 
gained  the  sanctuary  of  his  own  room,  and  seated  himself 
at  his  table,  to  prepare  the  heads  of  the  critical  speech  he 
would  have  now  very  soon  to  deliver  on  the  day  of  nomina- 
tion— critical  speech,  when,  in  the  presence  of  foes  and 
friends,  reporters  from  London,  and  amidst  all  the  jarring 
interests  that  he  sought  to  weave  into  the  sole  self-interest 
of  Randal  Leslie,  he  would  be  called  upon  to  make  the  for- 
mal exposition  of  his  political  opinions.  Randal  Leslie, 
indeed,  was  not  one  of  those  speakers  whom  either  modesty, 
fastidiousness,  or  conscientious  desire  of  truth,  predisposes 
toward  the  labor  of  written  composition.  He  had  too  much 
cleverness  to  be  in  want  of  fluent  period,  or  ready  common- 
place— the  ordinary  materials  of  oratorical  impromptu, — 
too  little  taste  for  the  Beautiful,  to  study  what  graces  of  dic- 
tion will  best  adorn  a  noble  sentiment, — too  obtuse  a  con- 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  1015 

science,  to  care  if  the  popular  argument  were  purified  from 
the  dross  which  the  careless  flow  of  a  speech  wholly  ex- 
temporaneous rarely  fails  to  leave  around  it.  But  this  was 
no  ordinary  occasion.  Elaborate  study  here  was  requisite, 
not  for  the  orator,  but  the  hypocrite.  Hard  task,  to  please 
the  Blues,  and  not  offend  the  Yellows, — appear  to  side  with 
Audley  Egerton,  yet  insinuate  sympathy  with  Dick  Avenel, 
— confront,  with  polite  smile,  the  younger  opponent,  whose 
words  had  lodged  arrows  in  his  vanity,  which  rankled  the 
more  gallingly  because  they  had  raised  the  skin  of  his  con- 
science. 

He  had  dipped  his  pen  into  the  ink,  and  smoothed  the 
paper  before  him,  when  a  knock  was  heard  at  the  door. 

"  Come  in,"  said  he,  impatiently.  Levy  entered,  saun- 
teringly. 

"  I  am  come  to  talk  over  matters  with  you,  mon  chcr" 
said  the  Baron,  throwing  himself  on  the  sofa.  "  And,  first, 
I  wish  you  joy  of  your  prospects  of  success." 

Randal  postponed  his  meditated  composition  with  a 
quick  sigh,  drew  his  chair  toward  the  sofa,  and  lowered  his 
voice  into  a  whisper.  "  You  think  with  me,  that  the  chance 
of  my  success-is— good  ?" 

"  Chance  ! — Why,  it  is  a  rubber  of  whist,  in  which  your 
partner  gives  you  all  the  winnings,  and  in  which  the  adver- 
sary is  almost  sure  to  revoke.  Either  Avenel  or  his  ne- 
phew, it  is  true,  must  come  in  ;  but  not  both.  Two  parvenus 
aspiring  to  make  a  family-seat  of  an  Earl's  borough  !  Bah  ! 
too  absurd." 

"  I  hear  from  Riccabocca  (or  rather  the  Duke  di  Ser- 
rano) that  this  same  young  Fairfield  is  greatly  indebted  to 
the  kindness  of  Lord  L'Estrange.  Very  odd  that  he  should 
stand  against  the  Lansmere  interest." 

"  Ambition,  mon  cher.  'You  yourself  are  under  some 
obligation  to  Mr.  Egerton.  Yet,  in  reality,  he  has  more 
to  apprehend  from  you  than  from  Mr.  Fairfield." 

"  I  disown  obligations  to  Mr.  Egerton.  And  if  the 
electors  prefer  me  to  him  (whom,  by  the  bye,  they  once 
burned  in  effigy),  it  is  no  fault  of  mine  ;  the  fault,  if  any, 
will  rest  with  his  own  dearest  friend,  L'Estrange.  I  do  not 
understand  how  a  man  of  such  clear  sense  as  L'Estrange 
undoubtedly  possesses,  should  be  risking  Egerton's  election 
in  his  zeal  for  mine.  Nor  do  his  formal  courtesies  to 
myself  deceive  me.  He  has  even  implied  that  he  suspects 
me  of  connivance  with  Peschiera's  schemes  on  Violante. 


ioi6  MY  NOVEL;    OR, 

But  those  suspicions  he  cannot  support.  For  of  course, 
Levy,  you  would  not  betray  me  ? " 

"  I !     What  possible  interest  could  I  serve  in  that  ? " 

"None  that  I  can  discover,  certainly,"  said  Randal, 
relaxing  into  a  smile.  "And  when  I  get  into  Parliament, 
aided  by  the  social  position  which  my  marriage  will  give  me, 
I  shall  have  so  many  ways  to  serve  you.  No,  it  is  certainly 
your  interest  not  to  betray  me.  I  shall  count  on  you  as  a 
witness,  if  a  witness  can  be  required." 

"Count  on  me,  certainly,  my  dear  fellow,"  said  the 
Baron.  "And  I  suppose  there  will  be  no  witness  the  other 
way.  Done  for  eternally  is  my  poor  friend  Peschiera, 
whose  cigars,  by  the  bye,  were  matchless  ; — I  wonder  if 
there  will  be  any  for  sale.  And  if  he  were  not  so  done  for, 
it  is  not  you,  it  is  L'Estrange,  that  he  would  be  tempted  to 
do  for." 

"We  may  blot  Peschiera  out  of  the  map  of  the  future," 
rejoined  Randal.  "  Men  from  whom  henceforth  we  have 
nothing  to  hope  or  to  fear,  are  to  us  as  the  races  before  the 
deluge." 

"  Fine  remark,"  quoth  the  Baron,  admiringly.  "  Pes- 
chiera, though  not  without  brains,  was  a  complete  failure. 
And  when  the  failure  of  one  I  have  tried  to  serve  is  com- 
plete, the  rule  I  have  adopted  through  life  is  to  give  him  up 
altogether." 

"  Of  course,"  said  Randal. 

"  Of  course,"  echoed  the  Baron.  "  On  the  other  hand, 
you  know  that  I  like  pushing  forward  young  men  of  mark 
and  promise.  You  really  are  amazingly  clever  ;  and  how 
comes  it  you  don't  speak  better  ?  Do  you  know  I  doubt 
whether  you  will  do  in  the  House  of  Commons  all  that  I 
expected  from  your  address  and,  readiness  in  private  life." 

"  Because  I  cannot  talk  trash  vulgar  enough  for  a  mob  ? 
Pooh  !  I  shall  succeed  wherever  knowledge  is  really  power. 
Besides,  you  must  allow  for  my  infernal  position.  You  know, 
after  all,  that  Avenel,  if  he  can  only  return  himself  or  his 
nephew,  still  holds  in  his  hands  the  choice  of  the  candidate 
upon  our  side.  I  cannot  attack  him — I  cannot  attack  his 
insolent  nephew." 

"  Insolent ! — not  that,  but  bitterly  eloquent.  He  hits 
you  hard.  You  are  no  match  for  him,  Randal,  before  a 
popular  audience  ;  though  en  petit  comite",  the  devil  himself 
were  hardly  a  match  for  you.  But  now  to  a  somewhat  more 
serious  point.  Your  election  you  will  win — your  bride  is 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  101? 

promised  to  you  ;  but  the  old  Leslie  lands,  in  the  present 
possession  of  Squire  Thornhill,  you  have  not  gained — and 
your  chance  of  gaining  them  is  in  great  jeopardy.  I  did 
not  like  to  tell  you  this  morning — it  would  have  spoiled 
your  temper  for  canvassing ;  but  I  have  received  a- letter 
from  Thornhill  himself.  He  has  had  an  offer  for  the  prop- 
erty, which  is  only  ^"1,000  short  of  what  he  asks.  A  city 
alderman,  called  Jobson,  is  the  bidder ;  a  man,  it  seems,  of 
large  means  and  few  words.  The  alderman  has  fixed  the 
date  on  which  he  must  have  a  definite  answer ;  and  that 
date  falls  on  the  — th,  two  days  after  that  fixed  for  the  poll 
at  Lansmere.  The  brute  declares  he  will  close  with  another 
investment,  if  Thornhill  does  not  then  come  into  his  terms. 
Now,  as  Thornhill  will  accept  these  terms  unless  1  can 
positively  promise  him  better,  and  as  those  funds  on  which 
you  calculated  (had  the  marriage  of  Peschiera  with  Violante, 
and  Frank  Hazeldean  with  Madame  di  Negra,  taken  place) 
fail  you,  I  see  no  hope  for  your  being  in  time  with  the 
money — and  the  old  lands  of  the  Leslies  must  yield  their 
rents  to  a  Jobson." 

"  I  care  for  nothing  on  earth  like  those  old  lands  of  my 
forefathers,"  said  Randal,  with  unusual  vehemence — "  I 
reverence  so  little  amongst  the  living — and  I  do  reverence 
the  dead.  And  my  marriage  will  take  place  so  soon  ;  and 
the  dower  would  so  amply  cover  the  paltry  advance  re- 
quired." 

"  Yes ;  but  the  mere  prospect  of  a  marriage  to  the 
daughter  of  a  man  whose  lands  are  still  sequestered,  would 
be  no  security  to  a  money-lender." 

"Surely,"  said  Randal,  "you,  who  once  offered  to  assist 
me  when  my  fortunes  were  more  precarious,  might  now  ac- 
commodate me  with  this  loan,  as  a  friend,  and  keep  the 
title-deeds  of  the  estate  as 

"As  a  money-lender,"  added  the  Baron,  laughing  pleas- 
antly. "  No,  mon  cher,  I  will  still  lend  you  half  the  sum 
required  in  advance,  but  the  other  half  is  more  than  I  can 
afford  as  friend,  or  hazard  as  money-lender ;  and  it  would 
damage  my  character — be  out  of  all  rule — if,  the  estates 
falling,  by  your  default  of  payment,  into  my  own  hands,  I 
should  appear  to  be  the  real  purchaser  of  the  property  of 
my  own  distressed  client.  But,  now  I  think  of  it,  did  not 
Squire  Hazeldean  promise  you  his  assistance  in  this  matter  ?" 

"  He  did  so," answered  Randal,  "as soon  as  the  marriage 
between  Frank  and  Madame  di  Negra  was  off  his  mind.  I 

43* 


ioi8  MT  NOVEL;    OR, 

meant  to  cross  over  to  Hazeldean  immediately  after  the 
election.  How  can  I  leave  the  place  till  then  ?" 

"  If  you  do,  your  election  is  lost.  But  why  not  write  to 
the  Squire  ? " 

"  It  is  against  my  maxim  to  write  where  I  can  speak. 
However,  there  is  no  option  ;  I  will  write  at  once.  Mean- 
while, communicate  with  Thomhill ;  keep  up  his  hopes  ; 
and  be  sure,  at  least,  that  he  does  not  close  with  this 
greedy  alderman  before  the  day  fixed  for  decision." 

"  I  have  done  all  that  already,  and  my  letter  is  gone. 
Now,  do  your  part :  and  if  you  write  as  cleverly  as  you 
talk,  you  would  coax  the  money  out  from  a  stonier  heart 
than  poor  Mr.  Hazeldean's.  I  leave  you  now — Good  night." 

Levy  took  up  his  candlestick,  nodded,  yawned,  and 
went. 

Randal  still  suspended  the  completion  of  his  speech, 
and  indited  the  following  epistle  : — 

"My  DEAR  MR.  HAZELDEAN, — I  wrote  to  you  a  few  hasty 
lines  on  leaving  town,  to  inform  you  that  the  match  you  so 
dreaded  was  broken  off,  and  proposing  to  defer  particulars 
till  I  could  visit  your  kind  and  hospitable  roof,  which  I 
trusted  to  do  for  a  few  hours  during  my  stay  at  Lansmere, 
since  it  is  not  a  day's  journey  hence  to  Hazeldean.  But  I 
did  not  calculate  on  finding  so  sharp  a  contest.  In  no 
election  throughout  the  kingdom  do  I  believe  that  a  more 
notable  triumph,  or  a  more  stunning  defeat,  for  the  great 
landed  interest  can  occur.  For  in  this  town — so  dependent 
on  agriculture — we  are  opposed  by  a  low  and  sordid  manu- 
facturer, of  the  most  revolutionary  notions,  who  has,  more- 
over, the  audacity  to  force  his  own  nephew — that  very  boy 
whom  I.  chastised  for  impertinence  on  your  village  green — 
son  of  a  common  carpenter — actually  the  audacity,  I  say, 
to  attempt  to  force  this  peasant  of  a  nephew,  as  well  as 
himself,  into  the  representation  of  Lansmere.  against  the 
Earl's  interest,  against  your  distinguished  brother — of  my- 
self I  say  nothing.  You  should  hear  the  language  in  which 
these  two  men  indulge  against  all  your  family  !  If  we  are 
beaten  by  such  persons  in  a  borough  supposed  to  be  so 
loyal  as  Lansmere,  every  one  with  a  stake  in  the  country 
may  tremble  at  such  a  prognostic  of  the  ruin  that  must 
await  not  only  our  old  English  Constitution,  but  the  exist- 
ence of  property  itself.  I  need  not  say  that  on  such  an  oc- 
casion I  cannot  spare  myself.  Mr.  Egerton  is  ill  too.  All 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  1019 

the  fatigue  of  the  canvass  devolves  on  me.  -I  feel,  my  dear 
and  revered  friend,  that  I  am  a  genuine  Hazeldean,  fighting 
your  battle  ;  and  that  thought  carries  me  through  all.  I 
cannot,  therefore,  come  to  you  till  the  election  is  over ;  and 
meanwhile  you,  and  my  dear  Mrs.  Hazeldean,  must  be 
anxious  to  know  more  about  the  affair  that  so  preyed  on 
both  your  hearts,  than  I  have  yet  informed  you,  or  can 
well  trust  to  a  letter.  Be  assured,  however,  that  the  worst 
is  over ;  the  lady  has  gone  abroad.  I  earnestly  entreated 
Frank  (who  showed  me  Mrs.  Hazeldean's  most  pathetic  let- 
ter to  him)  to  hasten  at  once  to  the  Hall  and  relieve  your 
minds.  Unfortunately  he  would  not  be  ruled  by  me,  but 
talked  of  going  abroad  too — not,  I  trust  (nay,  I  feel  assured), 
in  pursuit  of  Madame  di  Negra;  but  still — in  short,  I  should 
be  so  glad  to  see  you,  and  talk  over  the  whole.  Could  you 
not  come  hither  ? — pray  do.  And  now,  at  the  risk  of  your 
thinking  that  in  this  I  am  only  consulting  my  own  interest 
(but  no — your  noble  English  heart  will  never  so  misjudge 
me !),  I  will  add  with  homely  frankness,  that  if  you  could 
accommodate  me  immediately  with  the  loan  you  not 
long  since  so  generously  offered,  you  would  save  those 
lands  once  in  my  family  from  passing  away  from  us  for 
ever.  A  city  alderman — one  Jobson — is  meanly  taking  ad- 
vantage of  Thornhill's  necessities,  and  driving  a  hard  bar- 
gain for  those  lands.  He  has  fixed  the  — th  inst.  for  Thorn- 
hill's  answer,  and  Levy  (who  is  here  assisting  Mr.  Egerton's 
election)  informs  me  that  Thornhill  will  accept  his  offer, 
unless  I  am  provided  with  ;£  1 0,000  beforehand  ;  the  other 
^£10,000,  to  complete  the  advance  required,  Levy  will  lend 
me.  Do  not  be  surprised  at  the  usurer's  liberality ;  he 
knows  that  I  am  about  shortly  to  marry  a  very  great  heir- 
ess (you  will  be  pleased  when  you  learn  whom,  and  will 
then  be  able  to  account  for  my  indifference  to  Miss  Stickto- 
rights),  and  her  dower  will  amply  serve  to  repay  his  loan 
and  your  own,  if  I  may  trust  to  your  generous  affection  for 
the  grandson  of  a  Hazeldean  !  I  have  the  less  scruple  in 
this  appeal  to  you,  for  I  know  how  it  would  grieve  you  that 
a  Jobson,  who  perhaps  never  knew  a  grandmother,  should 
foist  your  own  kinsman  from  the  lands  of  his  fathers.  Of 
one  thing  I  am  convinced — we  squires,  and  sons  of  squires, 
must  make  common  cause  against  those  great  moneyed 
capitalists,  or. they  will  buy  us  all  out  in  a  few  generations. 
The  old  race  of  country  gentlemen  is  already  much  dimin- 
ished by  the  grasping  cupidity  of  such  leviathans ;  and  if 


1020  My  NOVEL;    OR, 

the  race  be  once  extinct,  what  will  become  of  the  boast  and 
strength  of  England  ! 

"  Yours,  my  dear  Mr.  Hazeldean,  with  most  affectionate 
and  grateful  respect, 

"  RANDAL  LESLIE." 


CHAPTER  XXII. 

NOTHING  to  Leonard  could  as  yet  be  more  distasteful  or 
oppressive  than  his  share  in  this  memorable  election.  In 
the  first  place,  it  chafed  the  secret  sores  of  his  heart  to  be 
compelled  to  resume  the  name  of  Fairfield,  which  was  a 
tacit  disavowal  of  his  birth.  It  had  been  such  delight  to 
him  that  the  same  letters  which  formed  the  name  of  Nora 
should  weave  also  that  name  of  Oran,  to  which  he  had 
given  distinction,  which  he  had  associated  with  all  his 
nobler  toils,  and  all  his  hopes  of  enduring  fame — a  mystic 
link  between  his  own  career  and  his  mother's  obscurer 
genius.  It  seemed  to  him  as  if  it  were  rendering  to  her  the 
honors  accorded  to  himself — subtle  and  delicate  fancy  of 
the  affections,  of  which  only  poets  would  be  capable,  but 
which  others  than  poets  may  perhaps  comprehend  !  That 
earlier  name  of  Fairfield  was  connected  in  his  memory  with 
all  the  ruder  employments,  the  meaner  trials  of  his  boy- 
hood ; — the  name  of  Oran,  with  poetry  and  fame.  It  was 
his  title  in  the  ideal  world,  amongst  all  fair  shapes  and 
spirits.  In  reviving  the  old  appellation,  the  practical 
world,  with  its  bitterness  and  strife,  returned  to  him  as  at 
the  utterance  of  a  spell.  But  in  coming  to  Lansmere  he 
had  no  choice.  To  say  nothing  of  Dick,  and  Dick's  par- 
ents, with  whom  his  secret  would  not  be  safe,  Randal  Leslie 
knew  that  he  had  gone  by  the  name  of  Fairfield — knew  his 
supposed  parentage,  and  would  be  sure  to  proclaim  them. 
How  account  for  the  later  name  without  setting  curiosity 
to  decipher  the  anagram  it  involved,  and  perhaps  guiding 
suspicions  to  his  birth  from  Nora,  to  the  injury  of  her 
memory,  yet  preserved  from  stain  ? 

His  feelings  as  connected  with  Nora — sharpened  and 
deepened  as  they  all  had  been  by  has  discovery  of  her  pain- 
ful narrative — were  embittered  still  more  by  coming  in  con- 
tact with  her  parents.  Old  John  was  in  the  same  helpless 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  1021 

state  of  mind  and  body  as  before — neither  worse  nor  better  ; 
but  waking  up  at  intervals  with  vivid  gleams  of  interest  in 
the  election  at  the  wave  of  a  blue  banner — at  the  cry  of  "  Blue 
forever!"  It  was  the  old  broken-down  charger,  who,  doz- 
ing in  the  meadows,  starts  at  the  roll  of  the  drum.  No  per- 
suasion Dick  could  employ  would  induce  his  father  to  pro- 
mise to  vote  even  one  Yellow.  You  might  as  well  have 
expected  the  old  Roman,  with  his  monomaniac  cry  against 
Carthage,  to  'have  voted  for  choosing  Carthaginians  for 
consuls.  But  poor  John,  nevertheless,  was  not  only  very 
civil,  but  very  humble  to  Dick — "  very  happy  to  oblige  the 
gentleman." 

"  Your  own  son  !  "  bawled  Dick  ;  "  and  here  is  your  own 
grandson." 

"  Very  happy  to  serve  you  both  ;  but  you  see  you  are  the 
wrong  color." 

Then  as  he  gazed  at  Leonard,  the  old  man  approached 
him  with  trembling  knees,  stroked  his  hair,  looked  into  his 
face  piteously.  "Be  thee  my  grandson?"  he  faltered. 
"Wife,  wife,  Nora  had  no  son,  had  she?  My  memory  be- 
gins to  fail  me,  sir  ;  pray  excuse  it ;  but  you  have  a  look 

about  the  eyes  that "  Old  John  began  to  weep,  and 

his  wife  led  him  away. 

"  Don't  come  again,"  she  said  to  Leonard,  harshly,  when 
she  returned.  "  He'll  not  sleep  all  night  now."  And,  then, 
observing  that  the  tears  stood  in  Leonard's  eyes,  she  added, 
in  softened  tones — "  I  am  glad  to  see  you  well  and  thriving, 
and  to  hear  that  you  have  been  of  great  service  to  my  son 
Richard,  who  is  a  credit  and  an  honor  to  the  family,  though 
poor  John  cannot  vote  for  him  or  for  you  against  his  con- 
science ;  and  he  should  not  be  asked,"  she  added,  firing  up ; 
"and  it  is  a  sin  to  ask  it,  and  he  is  so  old,  and  no  one  to 
defend  him  but  me.  But  defend  him  I  will  while  I  have 
life!" 

The  poet  recognized  woman's  brave,  loving,  wife-like 
heart  here,  and  would  have  embraced  the  stern  grandmother, 
if  she  had  not  drawn  back  from  him ;  and,  as  she  turned 
toward  the  room  to  which  she  had  led  her  husband,  she 
said  over  her  shoulder — 

"I'm  not  so  unkind  as  I  seem,  boy  ;  but  it  is  better  for 
you,  and  for  all,  that  you  should  not  come  to  this  house 
again — better  that  you  had  not  come  into  the  town." 

"  Fie,  mother ! "  said  Dick,  seeing  that  Leonard,  bend- 


1022  MY  NOVEL;    OR, 

ing  his  head,  silently  walked  from  the  room.  "  You  should 
be  prouder  of  your  grandson  than  you  are  of  me." 

"  Prouder  of  him  who  may  shame  us  all  yet  ?" 

"What  do  you  mean  ?  " 

But  Mrs.  Avenel  shook  her  head  and  vanished. 

"  Never  mind  her,  poor  old  soul,"  said  Dick,  as  lie 
joined  Leonard  at  the  threshold ;  she  always  had  her  tem- 
pers. And  since  there  is  no  vote  to  be  got  in  this  house, 
and  one  can't  set  a  caucus  on  one's  own  father — at  least  in 
this  extraordinary  rotten  and  prejudiced  old  country,  which 
is  quite  in  its  dotage— we'll  not  come  here  to  be  snubbed  any 
more.  Bless  their  old  hearts,  nevertheless  !  " 

Leonard's  acute  sensibility  in  all  that  concerned  his 
birth,  deeply  wounded  by  Mrs.  Avenel's  allusions,  which 
he  comprehended  better  than  his  uncle  did,  was  also  kept 
on  the  edge  by  the  suspense  to  which  he  was  condemned 
by  Harley's  continued  silence  as  to  the  papers  confided  to 
that  nobleman.  It  seemed  to  Leonard  almost  unaccount- 
able that  Harley  should  have  read  those  papers — be  in  the 
same  town  with  himself — and  yet  volunteer  no  communica- 
tion. At  length  he  wrote  a  few  lines  to  Lord  L'Estrange, 
bringing  the  matter  that  concerned  him  so  deeply  before 
Harley's  recollection,  and  suggesting  his  own  interest  in 
any  information  that  could  supply  the  gaps  and  omissions 
of  the  desultory  fragments.  Harley,  in  replying  to  this 
note,  said,  with  apparent  reason,  "  that  it  would  require  a 
long  personal  interview  to  discuss  the  subject  referred  to,  and 
that  such  an  interview,  in  the  thick  of  the  contest  between 
himself  and  a  candidate  opposed  to  the  Lansmere  party, 
would  be  sure  to  get  wind,  be  ascribed  to  political  intrigues, 
be  impossible  otherwise  to  explain — and  embarrass  all  the 
interests  confided  to  their  respective  charge.  That  for  the 
rest  he  had  not  been  unmindful  of  Leonard's  anxiety,  which 
must  now  mainly  be  to  see  justice  done  to  the  dead  parent, 
and  learn  the  name,  station,  and  character  of  the  parent  yet 
surviving.  And  in  this  Harley  trusted  to  assist  him  as  soon 
as  the  close  of  the  poll  would  present  a  suitable  occasion." 
The  letter  was  unlike  Harley's  former  cordial  tone  ;  it  was 
hard  and  dry.  Leonard  respected  L'Estrange  too  much  to 
own  to  himself  that  it  was  unfeeling.  With  all  his  rich 
generosity  of  nature,  he  sought  excuses  for  what  he  de- 
clined to  blame.  Perhaps  something  in  Helen's  manner  or 
words  had  led  Harley  to  suspect  that  she  still  cherished  too 
tender  an  interest  in  the  companion  of  her  childhood  ;  per- 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  1023 

haps  under  this  coldness  of  expression  there  lurked  the 
burning  anguish  of  jealousy.  And,  oh  Leonard  so  well  un- 
derstood, and  could  so  nobly  compassionate,  even  in.  his 
prosperous  rival,  that  torture  of  the  most  agonizing  of 
human  passions,  in  which  all  our  reasonings  follow  the  dis- 
torted writhings  of  our  pain. 

And  Leonard  himself,  amidst  his  other  causes  of  dis- 
quiet, was  at  once  so  gnawed  and  so  humbled  by  his  own 
jealousy.  Helen,  he  knew,  was  still  under  the  same  roof 
as  Harley.  They,  the  betrothed,  could  see  each  other 
daily,  hourly.  He  would  soon  hear  of  their  marriage.  She 
would  be  borne  afar  from  the  very  sphere  of  his  existence — 
carried  into  a  loftier  region — accessible  only  to  his  dreams. 
And  yet  to  be  jealous  of  one  to  whom  both  Helen  and  him- 
self were  under  such  obligations,  debased  him  in  his  own 
esteem — jealousy  here  was  so  like  ingratitude.  But  for 
Harley,  what  could  have  become  of  Helen,  left  to  his  boy- 
ish charge  ? — he  who  had  himself  been  compelled,  in  de- 
spair, to  think  of  sending  her  from  his  side,  to  be  reared 
into  smileless  youth  in  his  mother's  humble  cottage,  while 
he  faced  famine  alone,  gazing  on  the  terrible  river,  from 
the  bridge  by  which  he  had  once  begged  for  very  alms-1— 
begged  of  that  Audley  Egerton,  to  whom  he  was  now  op- 
posed as  an  equal  ; — or  Hying  from  the  fiend  that  glared  at 
him  under  the  lids  of  the  haunting  Chatterton.  No,  jeal- 
ousy here  was  more  than  agony — it  was  degradation — it 
was  crime  !  But,  ah  !  if  Helen  were  happy  in  these  splen- 
did nuptials !  Was  he  sure  even  of  that  consolation  ?  Bitter 
was  the  thought  either  way — that  she  should  wholly  forget 
him,  in  happiness  from  which  he  stood  excluded  as  a  thing 
of  sin — or  sinfully  herself  remember,  and  be  wretched  ! 

With  that  healthful  strength  of  will  which  is  more  often 
proportioned  to  the  susceptibility  of  feeling  than  the  world 
supposes,  the  young  man  at  last  wrenched  himself  for  a 
while  from  the  iron  that  had  entered  into  his  soul,  and 
forced  his  thoughts  to  seek  relief  in  the  very  objects  from 
which  they  otherwise  would  have  the  most  loathingly  re- 
coiled. He  aroused  his  imagination  to  befriend  his  reason  ; 
he  strove  to  divine  some  motive  not  explained  by  Harley, 
not  to  be  referred  to  the  mere  defeat,  by  counter-scheme, 
of  the  scheming  Randal — nor  even  to  be  solved,  by  any 
service  to  Audley  Egerton,  which  Harley  might  evolve  from 
the  complicated  meshes  of  the  election  ; — some  motive  that 
could  more  interest  his  own  heart  in  the  contest,  and  con- 


1024  MY  NOVEL;    OR, 

nect  itself  with  Harley's  promised  aid  in  clearing  up  the 
mystery  of  his  parentage.  Nora's  memoir  had  clearly 
hinted  that  his  father  was  of  rank  and  station  far  beyond 
her  own.  She  had  thrown  the  glow  of  her  glorious  fancies 
over  the  ambition  and  the  destined  career  of  the  lover  in 
whom  she  had  merged  her  ambition  as  poetess,  and  her^ 
career  as  woman.  Possibly  the  father  might  be  more  dis- 
posed to  own  and  to  welcome  the  son,  if  the  son  could 
achieve  an  opening,  and  give  promise  of  worth,  in  that 
grand  world  of  public  life  in  which  alone  reputation  takes 
precedence  of  rank.  Possibly,  too,  if  the  son  thus  suc- 
ceeded, and  became  one  whom  a  proud  father  could  with 
pride  acknowledge,  possibly  he  might  not  only  secure  a 
father's  welcome,  but  vindicate  a  mother's  name.  This 
marriage,  which  Nora  darkly  hinted  she  had  been  led  to 
believe  was  fraudulent,  might,  after  all,  have  been  legal — 
the  ceremony  concealed,  even  till  now,  by  worldly  shame 
at  disparity  of  rank.  But  if  the  son  could  make  good  his 
own  footing — there  where  rank  itself  owned  its  chiefs  in 
in  talent — that  shame  might  vanish.  These  suppositions 
were  not  improbable  ;  nor  were  they  uncongenial  to  Leon- 
ard's experience  of  Harley's  delicate  benignity  of  purpose. 
Here,  too,  the  image  of  Helen  allied  itself  with  those  of  his 
parents,  to  support  his  courage  and  influence  his  new  am- 
bition. True,  that  she  was  lost  to  him  for  ever.  No  worldly 
success,  no  political  honors,  could  now  restore  her  to  his 
side.  But  she  might  hear  him  named  with  respect  in  those 
circles  in  which  alone  she  would  hereafter  move,  and  in 
which  parliamentary  reputation  ranks  higher  than  literary 
fame.  And  perhaps  in  future  years,  when  love,  retaining 
its  tenderness,  was  purified  from  its  passion,  they  might 
thus  meet  as  friends.  He  might,  without  a  pang,  take  her 
children  on  his  knees,  and  say,  perhaps  in  their  old  age, 
when  he  had  climbed  to  a  social  equality  even  with  her 
high-born  lord,  "It  was  the  hope  to  re'gain  the  privilege 
bestowed  on  her  childhood,  that  strengthened  me  to  seek 
distinction  when  you  and  happiness  forsook  my  youth. 
Thus  regarded,  the  election,  which  had  before  seemed  to 
him  so  poor  and  vulgar  an  exhibition  of  vehement  passions 
for  petty  objects,  with  its  trumpery  of  banners,  and  its  dis- 
cord of  trumpets,  suddenly  grew  into  vivid  interest,  and 
assumed  dignity  and  importance.  It  is  ever  thus  with  all 
mortal  strife.  In  proportion  as  it  possesses,  or  is  void  of, 
the  diviner  something  that  quickens  the  pulse  of  the  heart, 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  1025 

and  elevates  the  wing  of  the  imagination,  it  presents  a 
mockery  to  the  philosopher,  or  an  inspiration  to  the  bard. 
Feel  that  something,  and  no  contest  is  mean  !  Feel  it  not, 
and,  like  Byron,  you  may  class  with  the  slaughter  of  Cannae 
that  field  which,  at  Waterloo,  restored  the  landmarks  of 
nations  ;  or  may  jeer  with  Juvenal  at  the  dust  of  Hannibal, 
because  he  sought  to  deliver  Carthage  from  ruin,  and  free 
a  world  from  Rome. 


CHAPTER  XXIII. 

ONCE  then,  grappling  manfully  with  the  task  he  had  un- 
dertaken, and  constraining  himself  to  look  on  what  Ricca- 
bocca  would  have  called  "the  southern  side  of  things," 
whatever  there  was  really  great  in  principle  or  honorable 
to  human  nature,  deep  below  the  sordid  details  and  pitiful 
interests  apparent  on  the  face  of  the  agitated  current,  came 
clear  to  his  vision.  The  ardor  of  those  around  him  began 
to  be  contagious  ;  the  generous  devotion  to  some  cause, 
apart  from  self,  which  pervades  an  election,  and  to  which 
the  poorest  voter  will  often  render  sacrifices  that  may  be 
called  sublime — the  warm  personal  affection  which  com- 
munity of  zeal  creates  for  the  defender  of  beloved  opinions 
— all  concurred  to  dispel  that  indifference  to  party  politics, 
and  counteract  that  disgust  of  their  baser  leaven,  which  the 
young  poet  had  first  conceived.  He  even  began  to  look 
with  complacency,  for  itself,  on  a  career  of  toil  and  honors 
strange  to  his  habitual  labors  and  intellectual  ambition. 
He  threw  the  poetry  of  idea  within  him  (as  poets  ever  do) 
into  the  prose  of  action  to  which  he  was  hurried  forward. 
H^  no  longer  opposed  Dick  Avenel  when  that  gentleman 
represented  how  detrimental  it  would  be  to  his  business  at 
Screwstovvn  if  he  devoted  to  his  country  the  time  and  the 
acumen  required  by  his  mill  and  its  steam-engine  ;  and 
how  desirable  it  would  be,  on  all  accounts,  that  Leonard 
Fairfield  should  become  the  parliamentary  representative  of 
tho  Avenels.  "  If,  therefore,"  said  Dick,  "  two  of  us  can- 
not come  in,  and  one  must  retire,  leave  it  to  me  to  arrange 
with  the  committee  that  you  shall  be  the  one  to  persist. 
Oil,  never  fear  but  what  all  scruples  of  honor  shall  be  satis- 
fied. I  would  not,  for  the  sake  of  the  Avenels,  have  a  word 
said  against  their  representative." 


1026  MY  NOVEL;    OR, 

"  But,"  answered  Leonard,  "  if  I  grant  this,  I  fear  that 
you  have  some  intention  of  suffering  the  votes  that  your 
resignation  would  release,  to  favor  Leslie  at  the  expense  of 
Egerton." 

"  What  the  deuce  is  Egerton  to  you  ?  " 

"  Nothing,  except  through  my  gratitude  to  his  friend, 
Lord  L'Estrange." 

"  Pooh  !  I  will  tell  you  a  secret.  Levy  informs  me 
privately  that  L'Estrange  will  be  well  satisfied  if  the  choice 
of  Lansmere  fall  upon  Leslie  instead  of  Egerton  ;  and  I 
think  I  convinced  my  Lord — for  I  saw  him  in  London — 
that  Egerton  would  have  no  chance,  though  Leslie  might." 

"  I  must  think  that  Lord  L'Estrange  would  resist  to  the 
utmost  any  attempt  to  prefer  Leslie — whom  he  despises — to 
Egerton,  whom  he  honors.  And,  so  thinking,  I  too  would 
resist  it,  as  you  may  judge  by  the  speeches  which  have  so 
provoked  your  displeasure." 

"  Let  us  cut  short  a  yarn  of  talk  which,  when  it  comes 
to  likings  and  dislikings,  might  last  to  almighty  crack  ;  I'll 
ask  you  to  do  nothing  that  Lord  L'Estrange  does  not  sanc- 
tion. Will  that  satisfy  you  ? " 

"  Certainly,  provided  I  am  assured  of  the  sanction." 

And  now,  the  important  day  preceding  the  poll,  the 
day  in  which  the  candidates  were  to  be  formally  nominated, 
and  meet  each  other  in  all  the  ceremony  of  declared  rival- 
ship,  dawned  at  last.  The  town-hall  was  the  place  selected 
for  the  occasion  ;  and  before  sunrise,  all  the  streets  were 
resonant  with  music,  and  gay  with  banners. 

Audley  Egerton  felt  that  he  could  not — without  incur- 
ring some  just  sarcasm  on  his  dread  to  face  the  consti- 
tuency he  had  formerly  represented,  and  by  the  malcontents 
of  which  he  had  been  burned  in  effigy — absent  himself  from 
the  town-hall,  as  he  had  done  from  balcony  and  hostel. 
Painful  as  it  was  to  confront  Nora's  brother,  and  wrestle  in 
public  against  all  the  secret  memories  that  knit  the  strife 
of  the  present  contest  with  the  anguish  that  recalled  the 
first — still  the  thing  must  be  done  ;  and  it  was  the  English 
habit  of  his  life  to  face  with  courage  whatever  he  had 
to  do. 


VARIETIES  IN   ENGLISH  LIFE.  1027 


CHAPTER   XXIV. 

THE  chiefs  of  the  Blue  party  went  in  state  from  Lans- 
mere  Park  ;  the  two  candidates  in  open  carriages,  each 
attended  with  his  proposer  and  seconder.  Other  carriages 
were  devoted  to  Harley  and  Levy,  and  the  principal  mem- 
bers of  the  committee.  Riccabocca  was  seized  with  a  fit  of 
melancholy  or  cynicism,  and  declined  to  join  the  proces- 
sion. But  just  before  they  started,  as  all  were  assembling 
without  the  front  door,  the  postman  arrived  with  his. wel- 
come bag.  There  were  letters  for  Harley,  some  for  Levy, 
many  for  Egerton,  one  for  Randal  Leslie. 

Levy,  soon  hurrying  over  his  own  correspondence, 
looked,  in  the  familiar  freedom  wherewith  he  usually 
treated  his  particular  friends,  over  Randal's  shoulder. 

"From  the  Squire?  "said  he.  "Ah,  he  has  written 
at  last !  What  made  him  delay  so  long  ?  Hope' he  relieves 
your  mind  ?  " 

"Yes,"  cried  Randal,  giving  way  to  a  joy  that  rarely 
lighted  up  his  close  and  secret  countenance — "yes,  he  does 
not  write  from  Hazeldean — not  there  when  my  letter  arrived 
— in  London — could  not  rest  at  the  Hall — the  place  re- 
minded him  too  much  of  Frank- — went  again  to  town,  on 
the  receipt  of  my  first  letter  concerning  the  rupture  of  the 
marriage,  to  see  after  his  son,  and  take  up  some  money  to 
pay  off  his  post-obit.  Read  what  he  says  :— '  So,  while  I  was 
about  a  mortgage — (never  did  I  guess  that  I  should  be  the 
man  to  encumber  the  Hazeldean  estate) — I  thought  I  might 
as  well  add  ^20,000  as  ^£10,000  to  the  total.  Why  should 
you  be  indebted  at  all  to  that  Baron  Levy  ?  Don't  have  deal- 
ings with  money-lenders.  Your  grandmother  was  a  Hazel- 
dean  !  and  from  a  Hazeldean  you  shall  have  the  whole  sum 
required  in  advance  for  those  Rood  lands — good  light  soil 
some  of  them.  As  to  repayment,  we'll  talk  of  that  later. 
If  Frank  and  I  come  together  again,  as  we  did  of  old,  why, 
my  estates  will  be  his  some  day  ;  and  he'll  not  grudge  the 
mortgage,  so  fond  as  he  always  was  of  you  ;  and  if  we  don't 
come  together,  what  do  I  care  for  hundreds  or  thousands, 
either  more  or  less  ?  So  I  shall  be  down  at  Lansmere  the  day 
after  to-morrow,  just  in  the  thick  of  your  polling.  Beat 


1028  MY  NOVEL;    OR, 

the  manufacturer,  my  boy,  and  stick  up  for  the  land.  Tell 
Levy  to  have  all  ready.  I  shall  bring  the  money  down  in 
good  bank-notes,  and  a  brace  of  pistols  in  my  coat-pocket 
to  take  care  of  them,  in  case  robbers  get  scent  of  the  notes 
and  attack  me  on  the  road,  as  they  did  my  grandfather 
sixty  years  ago  come  next  Michaelmas.  A  Lansmere  elec- 
tion puts  one  in  mind  of  pistols.  I  once  fought  a  duel  with 
an  officer  in  his  Majesty's  service,.  R.N.,  and  had  a  ball 
lodged  in  my  right  shoulder,  on  account  of  an  election  at 
Lansmere  ;  but  I  have  forgiven  Audley  his  share  in  that 
transaction.  Remember  me  to  him  kindly.  Don't  get  into 
a  duel  yourself  ;  but  I  suppose  manufacturers  don't  fight ; 
— not  that  I  blame  them  for  that — far  from  it.'" 

The  letter  then  ran  on  to  express  surprise,  and  hazard 
conjecture,  as  to  the  wealthy  marriage  which  Randal  had 
announced  as  a  pleasing  surprise  to  the  Squire. 

"Well,"  said  Levy,  returning  the  letter,  you  must  have 
written  as  cleverly  as  you  talk,  or  the  Squire  is  a  booby  ni- 
deed." 

Randal  smiled,  pocketed  the  letter,  and  responding  to 
the  impatient  call  of  his  proposer,  sprang  lightly  into  the 
carriage. 

Harley,  too,  seemed  pleased  with  the  letters  delivered 
to  himself,  and  now  joined  Levy,  as  the  candidates  drove 
slowly  off. 

"  Has  not  Mr.  Leslie  received  from  the  Squire  an  answer 
to  that  letter  of  which  you  informed  me  ?" 

"Yes,  my  lord  ;  the  Squire  will  be  here  to-morrow." 

"  To-morrow  ?  Thank  you  for  apprising  me  ;  his  rooms 
shall  be  prepared." 

"  I  suppose  he  will  only  stay  to  see  Leslie  and  myself, 
and  pay  the  money." 

"  Aha  !     Pay  the  money.     Is  it  so,  then  ? " 

"Twice  the  sum,  and,  it  seems,  as  a  gift,  which  Leslie 
only  asked  as  a  loan.  Really,  my  lord,  Mr.  Leslie  is  a  very 
clever  man  ;  and  though  I  am  at  your  commands,  I  should 
not  like  to  injure  him.  With  such  matrimonial  prospects, 
he  could  be  a  very  powerful  enemy  ;  and  if  he  succeeded  in 
Parliament,  still  more  so." 

"  Baron,  these  gentlemen  are  waiting  for  you.  I  will 
follow  by  myself." 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  1029 


CHAPTER  XXV. 

IN  the  centre  of  the  raised  platform  in  the  town-hall  sat 
the  Mayor.  On  either  hand  of  that  dignitary  now  appeared 
the  candidates  of  the  respective  parties.  To  his  right,  Aud- 
ley  Egerton  and  Leslie  ;  to  his  left,  Dick  Avenel  and  Leon- 
ard. The  place  was  as  full  as  it  could  hold.  Rows  of  grimy 
faces  peeped  in,  even  from  the  upper  windows  outside  the 
building.  The  contest  was  one  that  created  intense  interest, 
not  only  from  public  principles,  but  local  passions.  Dick 
Avenel,  the  son  of  a  small  tradesman,  standing  against  the 
Right  Honorable  Audley  Egerton,  the  choice  of  the  power- 
ful Lansmere  aristocratic  party — standing  too,  with  his 
nephew  by  his  side — taking,  as  he  himself  was  wont  to  say, 
'•  the  tarnation  Blue  Bull  by  both  its  oligarchical  horns  !  " 
There  was  a  pluck  and  gallantry  in  the  very  impudence  of 
the  attempt  to  convert  the  important  borough — for  one 
member  of  which  a  great  Earl  had  hitherto  striven,  "  with 
labor  dire  and  weary  woe," — into  two  family  seats  for  the 
house  of  Avenel  and  the  triumph  of  the  Capelocracy. 

This  alone  would  have  excited  all  the  spare  passions  of 
a  country  borough  ;  but,  besides  this,  there  was  the  curios- 
ity that  attached  to  the  long-deferred  public  appearance  of 
a  candidate  so  renowned  as  the  ex-minister — a  man  whose 
career  had  commenced  with  his  success  at  Lansmere,  and 
who  now,  amid  the  popular  tempest  that  scattered  his  col- 
leagues, sought  to  refit  his  vessel  in  the  same  harbor  from 
which  it  had  first  put  forth.  New  generations  had  grown 
up  since  the  name  of  Audley  Egerton  had  first  fluttered  the 
dovecots  in  that  Corioli.  The  questions  that  had  then  seemed 
so  important,  were,  for  the  most  part,  settled  and  at  rest. 
But  those  present  who  remembered  Egerton  in  the  former 
days,  were  struck  to  see  how  the  same  characteristics  of 
bearing  and  aspect  which  had  distinguished  his  early  youth 
revived  their  interest  in  the  mature  and  celebrated  man. 
As  he  stood  up  for  a  few  moments,  before  he  took  his  seat 
beside  the  Mayor,  glancing  over  the  assembly,  with  its  up- 
roar of  cheers  and  hisses,  there  was  the  same  stately  erect- 
ness  of  form  and  steadfastness  of  look — the  same  indefina- 
ble arid  mysterious  dignity  of  externals  that  imposed  respect, 


I03o  MY  NOVEL;    OR, 

confirmed  esteem,  or  stilled  dislike.  The  hisses  involuntarily 
ceased. 

The  preliminary  proceedings  over,  the  proposers  and 
seconders  commenced  their  office. 

Audley  was  proposed,  of  course,  by  the  crack  man  of  the 
party — a  gentleman  who  lived  on  his  means  in  a  white  house 
in  the  High  Street — had  received  a  University  education,  and 
was  a  cadet  of  a  u  County  Family."  This  gentleman  spoke 
much  about  the  Constitution,  something  about  Greece  and 
Rome — compared  Egerton  with  William  Pitt,  also  with 
Aristides  ;  and  sat  down,  after  an  oration  esteemed  classical 
by  the  few,  and  pronounced  prosy  by  the  many.  Audley's 
seconder,  a  burly  and  important  maltster,  struck  a  bolder 
key.  He  dwelt  largely  upon  the  necessity  of  being  repre- 
sented by  gentlemen  of  wealth  and  rank,  and  not  by  "  up- 
starts and  adventurers  (cheers  and  groans).  Looking  at 
the  candidates  on  the  other  side,  it  was  an  insult  to  the  re- 
spectability of  Lansmere  to  suppose  its  constituents  could 
elect  a  man  who  had  no  pretensions  whatever  to  their  no- 
tice, except  that  he  had  once  been  a  little  boy  in  the  town, 
in  which  his  father  kept  a  shop — and  a  very  noisy,  turbu- 
lent, dirty  little  boy  he  was  !  "  Dick  smoothed  his  spotless 
shirt-front,  and  looked  daggers,  while  the  Blues  laughed 
heartily,  and  the  Yellows  cried  "Shame!"  " As  for  the 
other  candidate  on  the  same  side,  he  (the  maltster)  had  noth- 
ing to  say  against  him.  He  was,  no  doubtj  seduced  into 
presumption  by  his  uncle  and  his  own  inexperience.  It 
was  said  that  that  candidate,  Mr.  Fairfield,  was  an  author 
and  a  poet ;  if  so,  he  was  unknown  to  fame,  for  no  book- 
seller in  the  town  had  ever  even  heard  of  Mr.  Fairfield's 
works.  Then  it  was  replied,  Mr.  Fairfield  had  written  un- 
der another  name.  What  would  that  prove  ?  Either  that 
he  was  ashamed  of  his  name,  or  that  the  works  did  him  no 
credit.  For  his  part,  he  (the  maltster)  was  an  Englishman  ; 
he  did  not  like  anonymous  scribblers ;  there  was  something 
not  right  in  whatever  was  concealed.  A  man  should  never 
be  afraid  to  put  his  name  to  what  he  wrote.  But, grant  that 
Mr.  Fairfield  was  a  great  author  and  a  great  poet,  what  the 
borough  of  Lansmere  wanted  was,  not  a  member  who  would 
pass  his  time  in  writing  spnnets  to  Peggy  or  Moggy,  but  a 
practical  man  of  business — a  statesman — such  a  man  as  Mr. 
Audley  Egerton — a  gentleman  of  ancient  birth,  high  stand- 
ing, and  princely  fortune.  The  member  for  such  a  place  as 
Lansmere  should  have  a  proper  degree  of  wealth."  ("  Hear, 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  1031 

hear!"  from  the  Hundred  and  Fifty  Hcsitators,  who  all 
stood  in  a  row  at  the  bottom  of  the  hall ;  and  "  Gammon  ! " 
"  Stuff  !  "  from  some  revolutionary,  but  incorruptible  Yel- 
lows.) Still  the  allusion  to  Egerton's  private  fortune  had 
considerable  effect  with  the  bulk  of  the  audience,  and  the 
maltster  was  much  cheered  on  concluding.  Mr.  Avenel's 
proposer  and  seconder — the  one  a  large  grocer,  the  other 
the  proprietor  of  a  new  shop  for  ticketed  prints,  shawls, 
blankets,  and  counterpanes  (a  man  who,  as  he  boasted,  dealt 
with  the  People  for  ready  money,  and  no  mistake — at  least 
none  that  he  ever  rectified),  next  followed.  Both  said 
much  the  same  thing.  Mr.  Avenel  had  made  his  fortune  by 
honest  industry — was  a  fellow-townsman — must  know  the 
interests  of  the  town  better  than  strangers — upright  pub* 
lie  principles — never  fawn  on  governments — would  see 
that  the  people  had  their  rights,  and  cut  down  army,  navy, 
and  all  other  jobs  of  a  corrupt  aristocracy,  etc.,  etc.,  etc. 
Randal  Leslie's  proposer,  a  captain  on  half-pay,  undertook 
a  long  defence  of  the  army  and  navy,  from  the  unpatriotic 
aspersions  of  the  preceding  speakers  ;  which  defence  di- 
verted him  from  the  due  praise  of  Randal,  until  cries  of 
"  Cut  it  short  "  recalled  him  to  that  subject  ;  and  then  the 
topics  he  selected  for  eulogium  were  "amiability  of  char- 
acter, so  conspicuous  in  the  urbane  manners  of  his  young 
friend;" — "coincidence  in  the  opinions  of  that  illustrious 
statesman  with  whom  he  was  conjoined  :" — "early  tuition 
in  the  best  principles — only  fault,  youth — and  that  was  a 
fault  which  would  diminish  every  day."  Randal's  seconder 
was  a  bluff  yeoman,  an  out-voter  of  weight  with  the  agri- 
cultural electors.  He  was  too  straightforward  by  half- 
adverted  to  Audley  Egerton's  early  desertion  of  questions 
espoused  by  the  landed  interest — "  hoped  he  had  had 
enough  of  large  towns  ;  and  he  (the  yeoman)  was  ready  to 
forgive  and  forget,  but  trusted  that  there  would  be  no  chance 
of  burning  their  member  again  in  effigy.  As  to  the  young 
gentleman,  whose  nomination  he  had  the  pleasure  to  second 
—did  not  know  much  about  him  ;  but  the  Leslies  were  an 
old  family  in  the  neighboring  county,  and  Mr.  Leslie  said 
he  was  nearly  related  to  Squire  Hazeldean — as  good  a  man 
as  ever  stood  upon  shoe  leather.  He  (the  yeoman)  liked  a 
good  breed  in  sheep  and  bullocks  ;  and  a  good  breed  in 
men  he  supposed  was  the  same  thing.  He  (the  yeoman) 
was  not  for  abuses — he  was  for  King  and  Constitution.  He 
should  have  no  objection,  for  instance,  to  have  tithes  low- 


1033  M?  NOVEL;   OR^ 

ered,  and  the  malt-tax  repealed — not  the  least  objection. 
Mr.  Leslie  seemed  to  him  a  likely  young  chap,  and  uncom- 
mon well-spoken  ;  and,  on  the  whole,  for  aught  he  (the  yeo- 
man) could  see,  would  do  quite  as  well  in  Parliament  as 
nine-tenths  of  the  gentlemen  sent  there."  The  yeoman  sat 
down,  little  cheered  by  the  Blues — much  by  the  Yellows — 
and  with  a  dim  consciousness  that  somehow  or  other  he  had 
rather  damaged  than  not  the  cause  of  the  party  he  had 
been  chosen  to  advocate.  Leonard  was  not  particularly 
fortunate  in  his  proposer — a  youngish  gentleman — who, 
having  tried  various  callings,  with  signal  unsuccess,  had 
come  into  a  small  independence,  and  set  up  for  a  literary  char- 
acter. This  gentleman  undertook  the  defence  of  poets,  as 
the  half-pay  captain  had  undertaken  that  of  the  army  and 
navy;  and  after  a  dozen  sentences,  spoken  through  the  nose, 
about  the  "  moonlight  of  existence,"  and  "the  oasis  in  the 
desert,"  suddenly  broke  down,  to  the  satisfaction  of  his  im- 
patient listeners.  This  failure  was,  however,  redeemed  by 
Leonard's  seconder — a  master  tailor — a  practised  speaker 
and  an  earnest  thinking  man — sincerely  liking,  and  warmly 
admiring,  Leonard  Fairfield.  His  opinions  were  delivered 
with  brief  simplicity  and  accompanied  by  expressions  of 
trust  in  Leonard's  talents  and  honesty,  that  were  effective, 
because  expressed  with  feeling. 

These  preparatory  orations  over,  a  dead  silence  suc- 
ceeded, and  Audley  Egerton  arose. 

At  the  first  few  sentences,  all  felt  they  were  in  the  pres- 
ence of  one  accustomed  to  command  attention,  and  to  give 
to  opinions  the  weight  of  recognized  authority.  The  slow- 
ness of  the  measured  accents,  the  composure  of  the  manly 
aspect,  the  decorum  of  the  simple  gestures — all  bespoke  and 
all  became  the  Minister  of  a  great  empire,  who  had  less 
agitated  assemblies  by  impassioned  eloquence,  than  com- 
pelled their  silent  respect  to  the  views  of  sagacity  and 
experience.  But  what  might  have  been  formal  and  didactic 
in  another,  was  relieved  in  Egerton  by  that  air,  tone,  bear- 
ing of  a  gentleman,  which  have  a  charm  for  the  most  plebeian 
audience.  He  had  eminently  these  attributes  in  private 
life  ;  but  they  became  far  more  conspicuous  whenever  he 
had  to  appear  in  public.  The  " setiatorius  decor'"  seemed  a 
phrase  coined  for  him. 

Audley  commenced  with  notice  of  his  adversaries  in  that 
language  of  high  courtesy  which  is  so  becoming  to  superior 
station,  and  which  augurs  better  for  victory  than  the  most 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  1033 

pointed  diatribes  of  hostile  declamation.  Inclining  his 
head  toward  Avenel,  he  expressed  regret  that  he  should  be 
opposed  by  a  gentleman  whose  birth  naturally  endeared  him 
to  the  town,  of  which  he  was  a  distinguished  native,  and 
whose  honorable  ambition  was  in  itself  a  proof  of  the  admir- 
able nature  of  that  Constitution,  which  admitted  the  lowliest 
to  rise  to  its  distinctions,  while  it  compelled  the  loftiest  to 
labor  and  compete  for  those  honors  which  were  the  most 
coveted,  because  they  were  derived  from  the  trust  of  their 
countrymen,  and  dignified  by  the  duties  which  the  sense  of 
responsibility  entailed.  He  paid  a  passing  but  generous 
compliment  to  the  reputed  abilities  of  Leonard  Fairfield  ; 
and,  alluding  with  appropriate  grace  to  the  interest  he  had 
ever  taken  in  the  success  of  youth  striving  for  place  in  the 
van  of  the  new  generation  that  marched  on  to  replace  the 
old,  he  implied  that  he  did  not  consider  Leonard  as  opposed 
to  himself,  but  rather  as  an  emulous  competitor  for  a  worthy 
prize  with  his  "own  young  and  valued  friend,  Mr.  Randal 
Leslie."  "They  are  happy  at  their  years  !  "  said  the  states- 
man, with  a  certain  pathos.  "  In  the  future  they  see  noth- 
ing to  fear,  in  the  past  they  have  nothing  to  defend.  It  is 
not  so  with  me."  And  then,  passing  on  to  the  vague  insinu- 
ations or  bolder  charges  against  himself  and  his  policy 
proffered  by  the  preceding  speakers,  Audley  gathered  him- 
self up,  and  paused  ;  for  his  eye  here  rested  on  the  Reporters 
seated  round  the  table  just  below  him  ;  and  he  recognized 
faces  not  unfamiliar  to  his  recollection  when  metropolitan 
assemblies  had  hung  on  the  words  which  fell  from  lips  then 
privileged  to  advise  a  king.  And  involuntarily  it  occurred 
to  the  ex-minister  to  escape  altogether  from  this  contracted 
audience — this  election,  with  all  its  associations  of  pain — 
and  address  himself  wholly  to  that  vast  and  invisible  Public, 
to  which  those  "Reporters  would  transmit  his  ideas.  At  this 
thought  his  whole  manner  gradually  changed.  His  eye 
became  fixed  on  the  farthest  verge  of  the  crowd  ;  his  tones 
grew  more  solemn  in  their  deep  and  sonorous  swell.  He 
began  to  review  and  to  vindicate  his  whole  political  life. 
He  spoke  of  the  measures  he  had  aided  to  pass — of  his  part 
in  the  laws  which  now  ruled  the  land.  He  touched  lightly, 
but  with  pride,  on  the  services  he  had  rendered  to  the  opin- 
ions he  had  represented.  He  alluded  to  his  neglect  of  his 
own  private  fortunes  ;  but  in  what  detail,  however  minute, 
in  the  public  business  committed  to  his  charge,  could  even 
an  enemy  accuse  him  of  neglect  ?  The  allusion  was  no 

44 


1034  MY  NOVEL;    OR, 

doubt  intended  to  prepare  the  public  for  the  news,  that  the 
wealth  of  Audley  Egerton  was  gone.  Finally,  he  came  to 
the  questions  that  then  agitated  the  day  ;  and  made  a  gen- 
eral but  masterly  exposition  of  the  policy  which,  under  the 
changes  he  foresaw,  he  should  recommend  his  party  to 
adopt. 

Spoken  to  the  motley  assembly  in  that  town-hall, 
Audley's  speech  extended  to  a  circle  of  interests  too  wide 
for  their  sympathy.  But  that  assembly  he  heeded  not — 
he  forgot  it.  The  reporters  understood  him,  as  their 
flying  pens  followed  words  which  they  presumed  neither 
to  correct  nor  to  abridge.  Audley's  speech  was  addressed 
to  the  nation  ;  the  speech  of  a  man  in  whom  the  nation  yet 
recognized  a  chief — desiring  to  clear  all  misrepresentation 
from  his  past  career — calculating,  if  life  were  spared  to  him, 
on  destinies  higher  than  he  had  yet  fulfilled — issuing  a 
manifesto  of  principles  to  be  carried  later  into  power,  and 
planting  a  banner  round  which  the  divided  sections  of  a 
broken  host  might  yet  rally  for  battle  and  for  conquest. 
Or  perhaps,  in  the  deeps  of  his  heart  (not  even  compre- 
hended by  reporters,  nor  to  be  divined  by  the  public),  the 
uncertainty  of  life  was  more  felt  than  the  hope  of  ambition  ; 
and  the  statesman  desired  to  leave  behind  him  one  full 
vindication  of  that  public  integrity  and  honor,  on  which,  at 
least,  his  conscience  acknowledged  not  a  stain.  "  For  more 
than  twenty  years,"  said  Audley,  in  conclusion,  "I  have 
known  no  day  in  which  I  have  not  lived  for  my  country. 
I  may  at  times  have  opposed  the  wish  of  the  People — I 
may  oppose  it  now — but,  so  far  as  I  can  form  a  judgment, 
only  because  I  prefer  their  welfare  to  their  wish.  And  if — 
as  I  believe — there  have  been  occasions  on  which,  as  one 
amongst  men  more  renowned,  I  have  amended  the  laws  of 
England — confirmed  her  safety,  extended  her  commerce, 
upheld  her  honor — I  leave  the  rest  to  the  censure  of  my 
enemies,  and  (his  voice  trembled)  to  the  charity  of  my 
friends." 

Before  the  cheers  that  greeted  the  close  of  this  speech 
were  over,  Richard  Avenel  arose.  What  is  called  "  the 
more  respectable  part "  of  an  audience — viz.,  the  better 
educated  and  better  clad,  even  on  the  Yellow  side  of  the 
question — winced  a  little  for  the  credit  of  their  native 
borough,  when  they  contemplated  the  candidate  pitted 
against  the  Great  Commoner,  whose  lofty  presence  still 
filled  the  eye,  and  whose  majestic  tones  yet  sounded  in  the 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  1035 

ear.  But  the  vast  majority  on  both  sides,  Blue  and  Yellow, 
hailed  the  rise  of  Dick  Avenel  as  a  relief  to  what,  while  it 
had  awed  their  attention,  had  rather  strained  their  faculties. 
The  Yellows  cheered,  and  the  Blues  groaned  ;  there  was  a 
tumultuous  din  of  voices,  and  a  reel  to  and  fro  of  the  whole 
excited  mass  of  unwashed  faces  and  brawny  shoulders. 
But  Dick  had  as  much  pluck  as  Audley  himself  ;  and,  by 
degrees,  his  pluck  and  his  handsome  features,  and  the  curi- 
osity to  hear  what  he  had  to  say,  obtained  him  a  hearing  ; 
and  that  hearing,  Dick  having  once  got,  he  contrived  to 
keep.  His  self-confidence  was  backed  by  a  grudge  against 
Egerton,  that  attained  to  the  elevation  of  malignity.  He 
had  armed  himself  for  this  occasion  with  an  arsenal  of 
quotations  from  Audley's  speeches,  taken  out  of  Hansard's 
Debates  ;  and,  garbling  these  texts  in,  the  unfairest  and 
most  ingenious  manner,  he  contrived  to  split  consistency 
into  such  fragments  of  inconsistency — to  cut  so  many 
harmless  sentences  into  such  unpopular,  arbitrary,  tyran- 
nical segments  of  doctrine — -that  he  made  a  very  pretty 
case  against  the  enlightened  and  incorruptible  Egerton,  as 
shuffler  and  trimmer,  defender  of  jobs,  and  eulogist  of 
Manchester  massacres,  etc.,  etc.  And  all  told  the  more 
because  it  seemed  courted  and  provoked  by  the  ex- 
minister's  elaborate  vindication  of  himself.  Having  thus, 
as  he  declared,  "  triumphantly  convicted  the  Right  Honora- 
able  Gentleman  out  of  his  own  mouth,"  Dick  considered 
himself  at  liberty  to  diverge  into  what  he  termed  "  the  just 
indignation  of  a  free-born  Briton  ; "  in  other  words,  into 
every  variety  of  abuse  which  bad  taste  could  supply  to 
acrimonious  feeling.  But  he  did  it  so  roundly  and  daunt- 
lessly,  in  such  true  hustings  style,  that  for  the  moment  at 
least,  he  carried  the  bulk  of  the  crowd  along  with  him 
sufficiently  to  bear  down  all  the  resentful  murmurs  of  the 
Blue  Committeemen,  and  the  abashed  shakes  of  the  head 
with  which  the  more  aristocratic  and  well-bred  among  the 
Yellows  signified  to  each  other  that  they  were  heartily 
ashamed  of  their  candidate.  Dick  concluded  with  an 
emphatic  declaration  that  the  Right  Honorable  Gentle- 
man's day  was  gone  by  ;  that  the  people  had  been  pillaged 
and  plundered  enough  by  pompous  red-tapists,  who 
only  thought  of  their  salaries,  and  never  went  to  their 
offices  except  to  waste  the  pen,  ink,  and  paper  which  they 
did  not  pay  for  ;  that  the  Right  Honorable  Gentleman  had 
boasted  that  he  had  served  his  country  for  twenty  years. 


1036  MY  NOVEL;    OR, 

Served  his  country  ! — he  should  have  said,  served  her  ouf  f 
(Much  laughter.)  Pretty  mess  his  country  was  in  now.  In 
short,  for  twenty  years  the  Right  Honorable  Gentleman  had 
put  his  hands  into  his  country's  pockets. — "  And  I  ask 
you,"  bawled  Dick,  "  whether  any  of  you  are  a  bit  the 
better  for  all  that  he  has  taken  out  of  them  ! "  The 
Hundred  and  Fifty  Hesitators  shook  their  heads.  "  Noa, 
that  we  ben't !  "  cried  the  Hundred  and  Fifty  dolorously. 
"  You  hear  THE  PEOPLE  !  "  said  Dick,  turning  majestically 
to  Egerton,  who,  with  his  arms  folded  on  his  breast,  and  his 
upper  lip  slightly  curved,  sat  like  "  Atlas  unremoved  " — 
"You  hear  THE  PEOPLE!  They  condemn  you  and  the 
whole  set  of  you.  I  repeat  here  what  I  once  vowed  on 
a  less  public  occasion — '  As  sure  as  my  name  is  Richard 
Avenel,  you  shall  smart  for ' — (Dick  hesitated) — smart  for 
your  contempt  of  the  just  rights,  honest  claims,  and  en- 
lightened aspirations  of  your  indignant  countrymen.  The 
schoolmaster  is  abroad,  and  the  British  Lion  is  aroused  !  " 

Dick  sat  down.  The  curve  of  contempt  had  passed 
from  Egerton's  lip  ; — at  the  name  of  Avenel,  thus  harshly 
spoken,  he  had  suddenly  shaded  his  face  with  his  hand. 

But  Randal  Leslie  next  arose,  and  Audley  slowly  raised 
his  eyes,  and  looked  toward  his  protege  with  an  expression 
of  kindly  interest.  What  better  debut  could  there  be  for 
a  young  man  warmly  attached  to  an  eminent  patron,  who 
had  been  coarsely  assailed — fora  political  aspirant  vindicat- 
ing the  principles  which  that  patron  represented  ?  The 
Blues,  palpitating  with  indignant  excitement,  all  prepared 
to  cheer  every  sentence  that  could  embody  their  sense  of 
outrage  ;  even  the  meanest  amongst  the  Yellows,  now  that 
Dick  had  concluded,  dimly  aware  that  their  orator  had  laid 
himself  terribly  open,  and  richly  deserved  (more  especially 
from  the  friend  of  Audley  Egerton)  whatever  punishing  re- 
tort could  vibrate  from  the  heart  of  a  man  to  the  tongue 
of  an  orator.  A  better  opportunity  for  an  honest  young 
d  'bittant  could  not  exist; — a  more  disagreeable,  annoying, 
perplexing,  unmanageable  opportunity  for  Randal  Leslie, 
the  malice  of  the  Fates  could  not  have  contrived.  How 
could  he  attack  Dick  Avenel  ? — he  who  counted  upon 
Dick  Avenel  to  win  his  election  ?  How  could  he  exasperate 
the  Yellows,  when  Dick's  solemn  injunction  had  been — 
"  Say  nothing  to  make  the  Yellows  not  vote  for  you  !  " 
How  could  he  identify  himself  with  Egerton's  policy,  when 
it  was  his  own  policy  to  make  his  opponents  believe  him 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  1037 

an  unprejudiced  sensible  youth,  who  would  come  all  right 
and  all  Yellow  one  of  these  days  ?  Demosthenes  him- 
self would  have  had  a  sore  throat,  worse  than  when  he 
swallowed  the  golden  cup  of  Harpalus,  had  Demosthenes 
been  placed  in  so  cursed  a  fix.  Therefore  Randal  Leslie 
may  well  be  excused  if  he  stammered  and  boggled — if  he 
was  appalled  by  a  cheer  when  he  said  a  word  in  vindication 
of  Egerton — and  looked  cringing  and  pitiful  when  he 
sneaked  out  a  counter  civility  to  Dick.  The  Bines  were 
sadly  disappointed — damped  ;  the  Yellows  smirked  and 
took  heart.  Audley  Egerton's  brows  darkened.  Harley, 
who  was  on  the  platform,  half  seen  behind  the  front  row, 
a  quiet  listener,  bent  over  and  whispered  dryly  to  Audley 
— "  You  should  have  given  a  lesson  beforehand  to  your 
clever  young  friend.  His  affection  for  you  overpowers 
him  ! " 

Audley  made  no  rejoinder,  but  tore  a  leaf  out  of  his 
pocket-book,  and  wrote,  in  pencil,  these  words — "Say  that 
you  may  well  feel  embarrassed  how  to  reply  to  Mr.  Avenel, 
because  I  had  especially  requested  you  not  to  be  provoked 
to  one  angry  expression  against  a  gentleman  whose  father 
and  brother-in-law  gave  the  majority  of  two  by  which  I 
gained  my  first  seat  in  Parliament ; — then  plunge  at  once 
into  general  politics."  He  placed  this  paper  in  Randal's 
hand,  just  as  that  unhappy  young  man  was  on  the  point  of 
a  thorough  break-down.  Randal  paused,  took  breath,  read 
the  words  attentively,  and  amidst  a  general  titter  ;  his  pre- 
sence of  mind  returned  to  him — he  saw  a  way  out  of  the 
scrape — collected  himself — suddenly  raised  his  head — and 
in  tones  unexpectedly  firm  and  fluent,  enlarged  on  the  text 
afforded  to  him — enlarged  so  well  that  he  took  the  audience 
by  surprise — pleased  the  Blues  by  an  evidence  of  Audley's 
generosity — and  touched  the  Yellows  by  so  affectionate  a 
deference  te  the  family  of  their  two  candidates.  Then  the 
speaker  was  enabled  to  come  at  once  to  the  topics  on  which 
he  had  elaborately  prepared  himself,  and  delivered  a  set 
harangue — very  artfully  put  together — temporizing,  it  is 
true,  and  trimming,  but  full  of  what  would  have  been  called 
admirable  tact  and  discretion  in  an  old  stager  who  did  not 
want  to  commit  himself  to  anybody  or  to  anything.  On 
the  whole,  the  display  became  creditable,  at  least  as  an 
evidence  of  thoughtful  reserve,  rare  in  a  man  so  young — 
too  refining  and  scholastic  for  oratory,  but  a  very  good 
essay — upon  both  sides  of  the  question.  Randal  wiped  his 


1038  MY  NOVEL;    OK, 

pale  forehead,  and  sat  down,  cheered,  especially  by  the 
lawyers  present,  and  self-contented.  It  was  now  Leonard's 
turn  to  speak.  Keenly  nervous,  as  men  of  the  literary 
temperament  are — constitutionally  shy,  his  voice  trembled 
as  he  began.  But  he  trusted,  unconsciously,  less  to  his 
intellect  than  his  warm  heart  and  noble  temper — and  the 
warm  heart  prompted  his  words,  and  the  noble  temper 
gradually  dignified  his  manner.  He  took  advantage  of  the 
sentences  which  Audley  had  put  into  Randal's  mouth,  in 
order  to  efface  the  impression  made  by  his  uncle's  rude 
assault.  "Would  that  the  Right  Honorable  gentleman  had 
himself  made  that  generous  and  affecting  allusion  to  the 
services  which  he  had  deigned  to  remember,  for,  in  that 
case,  he  (Leonard)  was  confident  that  Mr.  Avenel  would 
have  lost  all  the  bitterness  which  political  contest  was  apt 
to  engender  in  proportion  to  the  earnestness  with  which 
political  opinions  were  entertained.  Happy  it  was  when 
some  such  milder  sentiment  as  that  which  Mr.  Egerton  had 
instructed  Mr.  Leslie  to  convey,  preceded  the  sharp  en- 
counter, and  reminded  antagonists,  as  Mr.  Leslie  had  so 
emphatically  done,  that  every  shield  had  two  sides,  and 
that  it  was  possible  to  maintain  the  one  side  to  be  golden, 
without  denying  the  truth  of  the  champion  who  asserted 
the  other  side  to  be  silver."  Then,  without  appearing  to 
throw  over  his  uncle,  the  young  speaker  contrived  to  in- 
sinuate an  apology  on  his  uncle's  behalf,  with  such  exqui- 
site grace  and  good  feeling,  that  he  was  loudly  cheered  by 
both  parties  ;  and  even  Dick  did  not  venture  to  utter  the 
dissent  which  struggled  to  his  lips. 

But  if  Leonard  dealt  thus  respectfully  with  Egerton,  he 
had  no  such  inducements  to  spare  Randal  Leslie.  With  the 
intuitive  penetration  of  minds  accustomed  to  analyze  char- 
acter and  investigate  human  nature,  he  detected  the  var- 
nished insincerity  of  Randal's  artful  address.  His  color  rose 
— his  voice  swelled — his  fancy  began  to  play,  and  his  wit 
to  sparkle — when  he  came  to  take  to  pieces  his  younger 
antagonist's  rhetorical  mosaic.  He  exposed  the  falsehood 
of  its  affected  moderation — he  tore  into  shreds  the  veil  of 
words,  with  their  motley  woof  of  yellow  and  blue — and 
showed  that  not  a  single  conviction  could  be  discovered  be- 
hind it.  "Mr.  Leslie's  speech,"  said  he,  "puts  me  in  mind 
of  a  ferry-boat ;  it  seems  made  for  no  purpose  but  to  go 
from  one  side  to  the  other."  The  simile  hit  the  truth  so 
exactly,  that  it  was  received  with  a  roar  of  laughter  ;  even 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE,  1039 

Egerton  smiled.  "  For  myself,"  concluded  Leonard,  as  he 
summed  up  his  unsparing  analysis,  "I  am  new  to  party 
warfare  ;  yet  if  I  were  not  opposing  Mr.  Leslie  as  a  candi- 
date for  your  suffrages,  if  I  were  but  an  elector — belonging, 
as  I  do,  to  the  people  by  my  condition  and  my  labors — I 
should  feel  that  he  is  one  of  those  politicians  in  whom  the 
welfare,  the  honor,  the  moral  elevation  of  the  people,  find 
no  fitting  representative." 

Leonard  sat  down  amidst  great  applause,  and  after  a 
speech  that  raised  the  Yellows  in  their  own  estimation,  and 
materially  damaged  Randal  Leslie  in  the  eyes  of  the  Blues. 
Randal  felt  this  with  a  writhing  of  the  heart,  though  a  sneer 
on  the  lips.  He  glanced  furtively  toward  Dick  Avenel,  on 
whom,  after  all,  his  election,  in  spite  of  the  Blues,  might  de- 
pend. Dick  answered  the  furtive  glance  by  an  encouraging 
wink.  Randal  turned  to  Egerton,  and  whispered  to  him — 
"  How  I  wish  I  had  had  more  practice  in  speaking,  so  that 
I  could  have  done  you  more  justice  ! " 

"  Thank  you,  Leslie ;  Mr.  Fairfield  has  supplied  any 
omission  of  yours,  so  far  as  I  am  concerned.  And  you 
should  excuse  him  for  his  attack  on  yourself,  because  it  may 
serve  to  convince  you  where  your  fault  as  a  speaker  lies." 

"Where  ?"  asked  Leslie,  with  jealous  sullenness. 

"  In  not  believing  a  single  word  that  you  say,"  answered 
Egerton,  very  dryly  ;  and  then  turning  away,  he  said  aloud 
to  his  proposer,  and  with  a  slight  sigh,  "  Mr.  Avenel  may 
be  proud  of  his  nephew  !  I  wish  that  young  man  were  on 
our  side  ;  I  could  train  him  into  a  great  debater." 

And  now  the  proceedings  were  about  to  terminate  with 
a  sho'w  of  hands,  when  a  tall  brawny  elector  in  the  middle 
of  the  hall  suddenly  arose,  and  said  he  had  some  questions 
to  put.  A  thrill  ran  through  the  assembly,  for  this  elector 
was  the  demagogue  of  the  Yellows — a  fellow  whom  it  was 
impossible  to  put  down — a  capital  speaker,  with  lungs  of 
brass.  "  I  shall  be  very  short,"  said  the  demagogue.  And 
therewith,  under  the  shape  of  questions  to  the  two  Blue 
candidates,  he  commenced  a  most  furious  onslaught  on  the 
Earl  of  Lansmere,  and  the  Earl's  son,  Lord  L'Estrange,  ac- 
cusing the  last  of  the  grossest  intimidation  and  corruption, 
and  citing  instances  thereof  as  exhibited  toward  various 
electors  in  Fish  Lane  and  the  Back  Slums,  who  had  been 
turned  from  Yellow  promises  by  the  base  arts  of  Blue  aris- 
tocracy, represented  in  the  person  of  the  noble  lord,  whom 
he  now  dared  to  reply.  The  orator  paused,  and  Harley 


1040  MY  NOVEL;    OR, 

suddenly  passed  into  the  front  of  the  platform,  in  token  that 
he  accepted  the  ungracious  invitation.  Great  as  had  been 
the  curiosity  to  hear  Audley  Egerton,  yet  greater,  if  possi- 
ble, was  the  curiosity  to  hear  Lord  L'Estrange.  Absent 
from  the  place  for  so  many  years — heir  to  such  immense 
possessions — with  a  vague  reputation  for  talents  that  he 
had  never  proved — strange,  indeed,  if  Blue  and  Yellow  had 
not  strained  their  ears  and  hushed  their  breaths  to  listen. 
It  is  said  that  the  poet  is  born,  and  the  orator  made — a  say- 
ing only  partially  true.  Some  men  have  been  made  poets, 
and  some  men  have  been  born  orators.  Most  probably 
Harley  L'Estrange  had  hitherto  never  spoken  in  public, 
and  he  had  not  now  spoken  five  minutes  before  all  the  pas- 
sions and  humors  of  the  assembly  were  as  much  under  his 
command  as  the  keys  of  the  instrument  are  under  the  hands 
of  the  musician.  He  had  taken  from  nature  a  voice  capa- 
ble of  infinite  variety  of  modulation,  a  countenance  of  the 
most  flexile  play  of  expression  ;  and  he  was  keenly  alive 
(as  profound  humorists  are)  equally  to  the  ludicrous  and 
the  graver  side  of  everything  presented  to  his  vigorous  un- 
derstanding. Leonard  had  the  eloquence  of  a  poet — Aud- 
ley Egerton  that  of  a  parliamentary  debater.  But  Harley 
had  the  rarer  gift  of  eloquence  in  itself,  apart  from  the 
matter  it  conveys  or  adorns — that  gift  which  Demosthenes 
meant  by  his  triple  requisite  of  an  orator,  which  has  been 
improperly  translated  "action,"  but  means  in  reality  "the 
acting," — "the  stage-play."  Both  Leonard  and  Audley 
spoke  well,  from  the  good  sense  which  their  speeches  con- 
tained ;  but  Harley  could  have  talked  nonsense,  and  made 
it  mote  effective  than  sense — even  as  Kemble  or  Macready 
could  produce  effects  from  the  trash  talked  by  "The  Stran- 
ger," which  your  merely  accomplished  performer  would 
fail  to  extract  from  the  beauties  of  Hamlet.  The  art  of  ora- 
tory, indeed,  is  allied  more  closely  to  that  of  the  drama  than 
to  any  other  ;  and  throughout  Harley's  whole  nature  there 
ran,  as  the  reader  may  have  noted  (though  quite  uncon- 
sciously to  Harley  himself),  a  tendency  toward  that  concen- 
tration of  thought,  action,  and  circumstance,  on  a  single 
purpose,  which  makes  all  the  world  form  itself  into  a  stage, 
and  gathers  various  and  scattered  agencies  into  the  symme- 
try and  compactness  of  a  drama.  This  tendency,  though  it 
often  produces  effects  that  appear  artificially  theatrical,  is 
not  uncommon  with  persons  the  most  genuine  and  single- 
minded.  It  is,  indeed,  the  natural  inclination  of  quick 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  1041 

energies  springing  from  warm  emotions.  Hence  the  very 
history  of  nations  in  their  fresh,  vigorous,  half-civilized 
youth,  always  shapes  itself  into  dramatic  forms  ;  while,  as 
the  exercise  of  sober  reason  expands  with  civilization,  to 
the  injury  of  the  livelier  faculties  and  more  intuitive  im- 
pulses, people  look  to  the  dramatic  form  of  expression, 
whether  in  thought  or  in  action,  as  if  it  were  the  antidote 
to  truth,  instead  of  being  its  abstract  and  essence. 

But  to  return  from  this  long  and  somewhat  metaphysi- 
cal digression,  whatever  might  be  the  cause  why  Harley 
L'Estrange  spoke  so  wonderfully  well,  there  could  be  no 
doubt  that  wonderfully  well  he  did  speak.  He  turned  the 
demagogue  and  his  attack  into  the  most  felicitous  ridicule, 
and  yet  with  the  most  genial  good-humor  ;  described  that 
virtuous  gentleman's  adventures  in  search  of  corruption 
through  the  pure  regions  of  Fish  Lane  and  the  Black 
Slums  ;  and  then  summed  up  the  evidences  on  which  the 
demagogue  had  founded  his  charge,  with  a  humor  so  caus- 
tic and  original  that  the  audience  were  convulsed  with 
laughter.  From  laughter  Harley  hurried  his  audience  al- 
most to  the  pathos  of  tears — for  he  spoke  of  the  insinua- 
tions against  his  father,  so  that  every  son  and  every  father 
in  the  assembly  felt  moved  as  at  the  voice  of  Nature. 

A  turn  in  a  sentence,  and  a  new  emotion  seized  the  as- 
sembly. Harley  was  identifying  himself  with  the  Lans- 
mere  electors.  He  spoke  of  his  pride  in  being  a  Lansmere 
man,  and  all  the  Lansmere  electors  suddenly  felt  proud  of 
him.  He  talked  with  familiar  kindness  of  old  friends 
remembered  in  his  school-boy  holidays,  rejoicing  to  find  so 
many  alive  and  prospering.  He  had  a  felicitous  word  to 
each. 

"  Dear  old  Lansmere  !  "  said  he,  and  the  simple  excla- 
mation won  him  the  hearts  of  all.  In  fine,  when  he  paused, 
as  if  to  retire,  it  was  amidst  a  storm  of  acclamation.  Aud- 
ley  grasped  his  hand,  and  whispered — "  I  am  the  only  one 
here  not  surprised,  Harley.  Now  you  have  discovered  your 
powers,  never  again  let  them  slumber.  What  a  life  may  be 
yours,  if  you  no  longer  waste  it !  "  Harley  extricated  his 
hand,  and  his  eye  glittered.  He  made  a  sign  that  he  had 
more  to  say,  and  the  applause  was  hushed.  "  My  Right 
Honorable  friend  chides  me  for  the  years  that  I  have  wasted. 
True  ;  my  years  have  been  wasted — no  matter  how  nor 
wherefore  !  But  his  .' — how  have  they  been  spent  ?  in  such 
devotion  to  the  public,  that  those  who  know  him  not  as  I 


1042  MY  NOVEL;    OR, 

do,  have  said  that  he  had  not  one  feeling  left  to  spare  to 
the  obscurer  duties  and  more  limited  affections,  by  which 
men  of  ordinary  talents  and  humble  minds  rivet  the  links 
of  that  social  order  which  it  is  the  august  destiny  of  states- 
men— like  him  who  now  sits  beside  me — to  cherish  and  de- 
fend. But,  for  my  part,  I  think  that  there  is  no  being  so 
dangerous  as  the  solemn  hypocrite,  who,  because  he  drills 
his  cold  nature  into  serving  mechanically  some  convention- 
al abstraction — whether  he  calls  it  '  the  Constitution '  or 
'  the  Public  ' — holds  himself  dispensed  from  whatever,  in 
the  warm  blood  of  private  life,  wins  attachment  to  goodness 
and  confidence  to  truth.  Let  others,  then,  praise  my  Right 
Honorable  friend  as  the  incorruptible  politician.  Pardon 
me  if  I  draw  his  likeness  as  the  local,  sincere  man,  who 
might  say  with  the  honest  priest,  '  that  he  could  not  tell  a 
lie  to  gain  Heaven  by  it ! ' — and  with  so  fine  a  sense  of 
honor,  that  he  would  hold  it  a  lie  merely  to  conceal  the 
truth."  Harley  then  drew  a  brilliant  picture  of  the  type  of 
chivalrous  honesty — of  the  ideal  which  the  English  attach 
to  the  phrase  of  "a  perfect  gentleman,"  applying  each  sen- 
tence to  his  Right  Honorable  friend  with  an  emphasis  that 
seemed  to  burst  from  his  heart.  To  all  of  the  audience, 
save  two,  it  was  an  eulogium  which  the  fervent  sincerity  of 
the  eulogist  alone  saved  from  hyperbole.  But  Levy  rubbed 
his  hands,  and  chuckled  inly  ;  and  Egerton  hung  his  head, 
and  moved  restlessly  on  his  seat.  Every  word  that  Harley 
uttered  lodged  an  arrow  in  Audley's  breast.  Amidst  the 
cheers  that  followed  this  admirable  sketch  of  the  "  loyal 
man,"  Harley  recognized  Leonard's  enthusiastic  voice.  He 
turned  sharply  toward  the  young  man  :  "  Mr.  Fairfield 
cheers  this  description  of  integrity,  and  its  application  ;  let 
him  imitate  the  model  set  before  him,  and  he  may  live  to 
hear  praise  as  genuine  as  mine  from  some  friend  who  has 
tested  his  worth  as  I  have  tested  Mr.  Egerton's.  Mr. 
Fairfield  is  a  poet :  his  claim  to  that  title  was  disputed  by 
one  of  the  speakers  who  preceded  me  ! — unjustly  disputed  ! 
Mr.  Fairfield  is  every  inch  a  poet.  But,  it  has  been  asked, 
'  Are  poets  fit  for  the  business  of  senates  ?  Will  they  not 
be  writing  sonnets  to  Peggy  and  Moggy,  when  you  want 
them  to  concentrate  their  divine  imagination  on  the  de- 
tails of  a  beer  bill  ?'  Do  not  let  Mr.  Fairfield's  friends  be 
alarmed.  At  the  risk  of  injury  to  the  two  candidates  whose 
cause  I  espouse,  truth  compels  me  to  say,  that  poets,  when 
they  stoop  to  action,  are  not  less  prosaic  than  the  dullest 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  1043 

amongst  us :  they  are  swayed  by  the  same  selfish  interests 
— they  are  moved  by  the  same  petty  passions.  It  is  a  mis- 
take to  suppose  that  any  detail  in  common  life,  whether  in 
public  or  private,  can  be  too  mean  to  seduce  the  exquisite 
pliances  of  their  fancy.  Nay,  in  public  life,  we  may  trust 
them  better  than  other  men  ;  for  vanity  is  a  kind  of  second 
conscience,  and,  as  a  poet  himself  said — 

4  Who  fears  not  to  do  ill,  yet  fears  the  name, 
And,  free  from  conscience,  is  a  slave  to  shame.' 

In  private  life  alone  we  do  well  to  be  on  our  guard  against 
these  children  of  fancy,  for  they  so  devote  to  the  Muse  all 
their  treasury  of  sentiment,  that  we  can  no  more  expect 
them  to  waste  a  thought  on  the  plain  duties  of  men,  than 
we  can  expect  the  spendthrift,  who  dazzles  the  town,  '  to 
fritter  away  his  money  in  payiug  his  debts.'  But  all  the 
world  are  agreed  to  be  indulgent  to  the  infirmities  of  those 
who  are  their  own  deceivers  and  their  own  chastisers.  Poets 
have  more  enthusiasm,  more  affection,  more  heart  than 
others  ;  but  only  for  fictions  of  their  own  creating.  It  is  in 
vain  for  us  to  .attach  them  to  ourselves  by  vulgar  merit,  by 
commonplace  obligations — strive  and  sacrifice  as  we  may. 
They  are  ungrateful  to  us,  only  because  gratitude  is  so  very 
unpoetical  a  subject.  We  lose  them  the  moment  we  attempt 
to  bind.  Their  love, 

'  Light  as  air,  at  sight  of  human  ties, 
Spreads  its  light  wings,  and  in  a  moment  tlies.' 

They  follow  their  own  caprices — adore  their  own  delusions 
— and,  deeming  the  forms  of  humanity  too  material  for 
their  fantastic  affections,  conjure  up  a  ghost,  and  are  chilled 
to  death  by  its  embrace  !  " 

Then,  suddenly  aware  that  he  was  passing  beyond  the 
comprehension  of  his  audience,  and  touching  upon  the 
bounds  of  his  bitter  secret  (for  here  he  was  thinking,  not 
of  Leonard,  but  of  Nora),  Harley  gave  a  new  and  more 
homely  direction  to  his  terrible  irony — turned  into  telling 
ridicule  the  most  elevated  sentiments  Leonard's  speech 
had  conveyed  — hastened  on  to  a  rapid  view  of  political 
questions  in  general-— defended  Leslie  with  the  same  appar- 
ent earnestness  and  latent  satire  with  which  he  had  eulo- 
gized Audley — and  concluded  a  speech,  which,  for  pop- 


1044  MY  NOVEL;    OR, 

ular  effect,  had  never  been  equalled  in  that  hall,  amidst  a 
diapason  of  cheers  that  threatened  to  bring  down  the  rafters. 

In  a  few  minutes  more,  the  proceedings  were  closed — 
a  show  of  hands  taken.  The  show  was  declared  by  the 
Mayor,  who  was  a  thorough  Blue,  in  favor  of  the  Right 
Hon.  Audley  Egerton  and  Randal  Leslie,  Esquire. 

Cries  of  ''No,"  "Shame,"  "Partial,"  etc.— a  poll  de- 
manded on  behalf  of  the  other  two  candidates — and  the 
crowd  began  to  pour  out  of  the  hall. 

Harley  was  the  first  who  vanished,  retreating  by  the 
private  entrance.  Egerton  followed  ;  Randal,  lingering, 
Avenel  came  up  and  shook  hands  with  him  openly,  but 
whispered,  privately,  "  Meet  me  to-night  in  Lansmere 
Park,  in  the  oak  copse,  about  three  hundred  yards  from 
the  turnstile,  at  the  town  end  of  the  park.  We  must  see 
how  to  make  all  right.  What  a  confounded  humbug  this 
has  been  ! " 


CHAPTER    XXVI. 

IF  the  vigor  of  Harley's  address  had  taken  by  surprise 
both  friend  and  foe,  not  one  in  that  assembly — not  even 
the  conscience-stricken  Egerton — felt  its  effect  so  deeply 
as  the  assailed  and  startled  Leonard.  He  was  at  first 
perfectly  stunned  by  sarcasms  which  he  so  ill  deserved  ; 
nor  was  it  till  after  the  assembly  had  broken  up  that  Leon- 
ard could  even  conjecture  the  cause  which  had  provoked 
the  taunt  and  barbed  its  dart.  Evidently  Harley  had 
learned  (but  learned  only  in  order  to  misconceive  and  to 
wrong)  Leonard's  confession  of  love  to  Helen  Digby. 
And  now  those  implied  accusations  of  disregard  to  the 
duties  of  common  life  not  only  galled  the  young  man's 
heart,  but  outraged  his  honor.  He  felt  the  generous  in- 
dignation of  manhood.  He  must  see  Lord  L'Estrange  at 
once,  and  vindicate  himself — vindicate  Helen  ;  for  thus  to 
accuse  one,  was  tacitly  to  asperse  the  other. 

Extricating  himself  from  his  own  enthusiastic  partisans. 
Leonard  went  straight  on  foot  toward  Lansmere  Housel 
The  park  palings  touched  close  upon  the  town,  with  a  smal, 
turnstile  for  foot-passengers.  And  as  Leonard,  availing 
himself  of  this  entrance,  had  advanced  some  hundred  yards 
or  so  through  the  park,  suddenly,  in  the  midst  of  that  very 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  1045 

copse  in  which  Avenel  had  appointed  to  meet  Leslie,  he 
found  himself  face  to  face  with  Helen  Digby  herself. 

Helen  started,  with  a  faint  cry.  But  Leonard,  absorbed 
in  his  own  desire  to  justify  both,  hailed  the  sight,  and  did 
not  pause  to  account  for  his  appearance,  nor  to  soothe  her 
agitation. 

"  Miss  Digby  ! "  he  exclaimed,  throwing  into  his  voice 
and  manner  that  respect  which  often  so  cruelly  divides  the 
past  familiarity  from  the  present  alienation — "  Miss  Digby, 
I  rejoice  to  see  you — rejoice  to  ask  your  permission  to 
relieve  myself  from  a  charge,  that  in  truth  wounds  even  you 
while  levelled  but  at  me.  Lord  L' Estrange  has  just  implied, 
in  public,  that  I — I — who  owe  him  so  much — who  have 
honored  him  so  truly,  that  even  the  just  resentment  I  now 
feel,  half  seems  to  me  the  ingratitude  with  which  he  charges 
me — has  implied  that — ah !  Miss  Digby,  I  can  scarcely 
command  words  to  say  what  it  so  humiliates  me  to  have 
heard.  But  you  know  how  false  is  all  accusation  that  either 
of  us  could  deceive  our  common  benefactor.  Suffer  me  to 
repeat  to  your  guardian,  what  I  presumed  to  say  to  you 
when  we  last  met — what  you  answered — and  state  how  I 
left  your  presence." 

"  Oh,  Leonard  !  yes  ;  clear  yourself  in  his  eyes.  Go  ! 
Unjust  that  he  is — ungenerous  Lord  L' Estrange  !  " 

"  Helen  Digby  !  "  cried  a  voice,  close  at  hand,  "  of  whom 
do  you  speak  thus  ?  " 

At  the  sound  of  that  voice,  Helen  and  Leonard  both 
turned,  and  beheld  Violante  standing  before  them,  her 
young  beauty  rendered  almost  sublime  by  the  noble  anger 
that  lit  her  eyes,  glowed  in  her  cheeks,  and  animated  her 
stately  form. 

"  It  is  you  who  thus  speak  of  Lord  L'Estrange  ?  You — 
Helen  Digby — you  !  " 

From  behind  Violante  now  emerged  Mr.  Dale.  "  Softly, 
children,"  he  said  ;  and  placing  one  hand  on  Violante's 
shoulder,  he  extended>  the  other  to  Leonard.  "What  is 
this  ?  Come  hither  to  me,  Leonard,  and  explain." 

Leonard  walked  aside  with  the  Parson,  and  in  a  few 
sentences  gave  vent  to  his  swelling  heart. 

The  Parson  shared  in  Leonard's  resentment ;  and  having 
soon  drawn  from  him  all  that  had  passed  in  his  memorable 
interview  with  Helen,  exclaimed — 

"Enough  !  Do  not  yet  seek  Lord  L'Estrange  yourself; 
I  am  going  to  see  him — I  am  here  at  his  request.  His  sum- 


1046  MY  NOVEL;    OR, 

mons,  indeed,  was  for  to-morrow  ;  but  the  Squire  having 
written  me  a  hurried  line,  requesting  me  to  meet  him  at 
Lansmere  to-morrow,  and  proceed  with  him  afterward  in 
search  of  poor  Frank,  I  thought  I  might  have  little  time 
for  communications  with  Lord  L'Estrange,  unless  I  fore- 
stalled his  invitation  and  came  to-day.  Well  that  I  did  so. 
I  only  arrived  an  hour  since — found  he  was  gone  to  the 
Town  Hall — and  joined  the  young  ladies  in  the  park.  Miss 
Digby,  thinking  it  natural  that  I  might  wish  to  say  some- 
thing in  private  to  my  old  young  friend  Violante,  walked  a 
few  paces  in  advance.  Thus,  fortunately,  I  chanced  to  be 
here,  to  receive  your  account,  and  I  trust  to  remove  mis- 
understanding. Lord  L'Estrange  must  now  be  returned.  I 
will  go  back  to  the  house.  You,  meanwhile,  return  to  the 
town,  I  beseech  you.  I  will  come  to  you  afterward  at  your 
inn.  Your  very  appearance  in  these  grounds — even  the 
brief  words  that  have  passed  between  Helen  and  you — might 
only  widen  the  breach  between  yourself  and  your  benefactor. 
I  cannot  bear  to  anticipate  this.  Go  back,  I  entreat  you. 
1  will  explain  all,  and  Lord  L'Estrange  shall  right  you. 
That  is — that  must  be  his  intention  !  " 

«'/<r — must  be  his  intention — when  he  has  just  so  wronged 
me!" 

"  Yes,  yes,"  faltered  the  poor  Parson,  mindful  of  his  pro- 
mise to  L'Estrange  not  to  reveal  his  own  interview  with  that 
nobleman,  and  yet  not  knowing  otherwise  how  to  explain 
or  to  soothe.  But,  still  believing  Leonard  to  he  Harley's 
son,  and  remembering  all  that  Harley  had  so  pointedly  said 
of  atonemeut,  in  apparent  remorse  for  crime,  Mr.  Dale  was 
wholly  at  a  loss  himself  to  understand  why  Harley  should 
have  thus  prefaced  atonement  by  an  insult.  Anxious,  how- 
ever, to  prevent  a  meeting  between  Harley  and  Leonard, 
while  both  were  under  the  influence  of  such  feelings  toward 
each  other,  he  made  an  effort  over  himself,  and  so  well 
argued  in  favor  of  his  own  diplomacy,  that  Leonard  reluc- 
tantly consented  to  wait  for  Mr.  Dale's  report. 

"  As  to  reparation  or  excuse,"  said  he,  proudly,  "  it  must 
rest  with  Lord  L'Estrange.  "  I  ask  it  not.  Tell  him  only 
this — that  if,  the  instant  I  heard  that  she  whom  I  loved  and 
held  sacred  for  so  many  years  was  affianced  to  him,  I 
resigned  even  the  very  wish  to  call  her  mine — if  that  were 
desertion  of  man's  duties,  I  am  guilty.  If  to  have  prayed 
night  and  day  that  she  who  would  have  blessed  my  lonely 
and  toilsome  life,  may  give  some  charm  to  his,  not  bestowed 


VARIETIES   IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  1047 

by  his  wealth  and  his  greatness — if  that  were  ingratitude,  I 
am  ungrateful  ;  let  him  still  condemn  me.  I  pass  out  of 
his  sphere — a  thing  that  has  crossed  it  a  moment,  and  is 
gone.  But  Helen  he  must  not  blame — suspect — even  by 
a  thought.  One  word  more.  In  this  election — this  strife 
for  objects  wholly  foreign  to  all  my  habits,  unsuited  to  my 
poverty,  at  war  with  aspirations  so  long  devoted  to  fairer 
goals,  though  by  obscurer  paths — I  obeyed  but  his  will  or 
whim  ;  at  a  moment,  too,  when  my  whole  soul  sickened  for 
repose  and  solitude.  I  had  forced  myself  at  last  to  take 
interest  in  what  I  had  before  loathed.  But  in  every  hope 
for  the  future — every  stimulant  to  ambition — Lord  L'Es- 
trange's  esteem  still  stood  before  me.  Now,  what  do  I  here 
longer  ?  All  of  his  conduct,  save  his  contempt  for  myself, 
is  an  enigma.  And  unless  he  repeat  a  wish,  which  I  would 
fain  still  regard  as  a  law,  I  retire  from  the  contest  he  has 
embittered — I  renounce  the  ambition  he  has  poisoned  ; 
and,  mindful  of  those  humble  duties  which  he  implies  that 
I  disdain,  I  return  to  my  own  home." 

The  Parson  nodded  assent  to  each  of  these  sentences, 
and  Leonard,  passing  by  Violante  and  Helen,  with  a  salu- 
tation equally  distant  to  both,  retraced  his  steps  toward  the 
town. 

Meanwhile  Violante  and  Helen  had  also  been  in  close 
conference,  and  that  conference  had  suddenly  endeared  each 
to  the  other  ;  for  Helen,  taken  by  surprise,  agitated,  over- 
powered, had  revealed  to  Violante  that  confession  of  an- 
other attachment,  which  she  had  made  to  Lord  L'Estrange 
— the  rupture  of  her  engagement  with  the  latter.  Violante 
saw  that  Harley  was  free.  Harley,  too,  had  promised  to 
free  herself.  By  a  sudden  flash  of  conviction,  recalling  his 
words,  looks,  she  felt  that  she  was  beloved — -deemed  that 
honor  alone  (while  either  was  yet  shackled)  had  forbidden 
him  to  own  that  love.  Violante  stood  a  being  transformed, 
"  blushing  celestial  rosy  red" — Heaven  at  her  heart,  joy  in 
her  eyes  ; — she  loved  so  well,  and  she  trusted  so  implicitly  ! 
Then  from  out  the  overflow  of  her  own  hope  and  bliss  she 
poured  forth  such  sweet  comfort  to  Helen,  that  Helen's  arm 
stole  around  her — cheek  touched  cheek — they  were  as  sis- 
ters. 

At  another  moment,  Mr.  Dale  might  have  felt  some 
amazement  at  the  sudden  affection  which  had  sprung  up 
between  these  young  persons  ;  for  in  his  previous  conver- 
sation with  Violante,  he  had,  as  he  thought,  very  artfully, 


1048  MY  NOVEL;    OR, 

and  in  a  pleasant  vein,  sounded  the  young  Italian  as  to  her 
opinion  of  her  fair  friend's  various  good  qualities — and 
Violante  had  rather  shrunk  from  the  title  of  "  friend  ;  "  and 
though  she  had  the  magnanimity  to  speak  with  great  praise 
of  Helen,  the  praise  did  not  sound  cordial.  But  the  good 
man  was  at  this  moment  occupied  in  preparing  his  thoughts 
for  his  interview  with  Harley, — he  joined  the  two  girls  in 
silence,  and  linking  an  arm  of  each  within  his  own,  walked 
slowly  toward  the  house.  As  he  approached  the  terrace, 
he  observed  Riccabocca  and  Randal  pacing  the  gravel 
walk  side  by  side. 

Violante,  pressing  his  arm,  whispered,  "  Let  us  go 
round  the  other  way  ;  I  would  speak  with  you  a  few  min- 
utes undisturbed." 

Mr.  Dale,  supposing  that  Violante  wished  to  dispense 
with  the  presence  of  Helen,  said  to  the  latter,  "  My  dear 
young  lady,  perhaps  you  will  excuse  me  to  Dr.  Riccabocca 
— who  is  beckoning  to  me,  and  no  doubt  very  much  sur- 
prised to  see  me  here — while  I  finish  what  I  was  saying  to 
Violante  when  we  were  interrupted." 

Helen  left  them,  and  Violante  led  the  Parson  round 
through  the  shrubbery,  toward  a  side-door  in  another  wing 
of  the  house. 

"  What  have  you  to  say  to  me  ? "  asked  Mr.  Dale,  sur- 
prised that  she  remained  silent. 

"  You  will  see  Lord  L'Estrange.  Be  sure  that  you  con- 
vince him  of  Leonard's  honor.  A  doubt  of  treachery  so 
grieves  his  noble  heart,  that  perhaps  it  may  disturb  his 
judgment." 

"  You  seem  to  think  very  highly  of  the  heart  of  this 
Lord  L'Estrange,  child  !  "  said  the  Parson,  in  some  sur- 
prise. 

Violante  blushed,  but  went  on  firmly,  and  with  seri- 
ous earnestness.  "  Some  words  which  he — that  is,  Lord 
L'Estrange — said  to  me  very  lately,  make  me  so  glad  that 
you  are  here — that  you  will  see  him  ;  for  I  know  how  good 
you  are,  and  how  wise — dear,  dear  Mr.  Dale.  He  spoke  as 
one  who  had  received  some  grievous  wrong,  which  had  ap- 
ruptly  soured  all  his  views  of  life.  He  spoke  of  retirement 
— solitude  !  he  on  whom  his  country  has  so  many  claims.  I 
know  not  what  he  can  mean — unless  it  be  that  his — his  mar- 
riage with  Helen  Digby  is  broken  off." 

"  Broken  off  !     Is  that  so  ? " 

"  I  have  it  from  herself.     You  may  well  be  astonished 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  1049 

that  she  could  even  think  of  another  after  having  known 
him  !  " 

The  Parson  fixed  his  eyes  very  gravely  on  the  young 
enthusiast.  But  though  her  cheek  glowed,  there  was  in  her 
expression  of  face  so  much  artless,  open  innocence,  that 
Mr.  Dale  contented  himself  with  a  slight  shake  of  the  head, 
and  a  dry  remark  : — 

"  I  think  it  quite  natural  that  Helen  Digby  should  prefer 
Leonard  Fairfield.  A  good  girl,  not  misled  by  vanity  and 
ambition  ;  temptations  of  which  it  behoves  us  all  to  beware 
— nor  least,  perhaps,  young  ladies  suddenly  brought  in  con- 
tact with  wealth  and  rank.  As  to  this  nobleman's  merits,  I 
know  not  yet  whether  to  allow  or  to  deny  them  ;  I  reserve 
my  judgment  till  after  our  interview.  This  is  all  you  have 
to  say  to  me  ?  " 

Violante  paused  a  moment.  "  I  cannot  think,"  she  said, 
half-smiling — "  I  cannot  think  that  the  change  that  has  oc- 
curred in  him — for  changed  he  is — that  his  obscure  hints  as 
to  injury  received,  and  justice  to  be  done,  are  caused  merely 
by  his  disappointment  with  regard  to  Helen.  But  you  can 
learn  that  ;  learn  if  he  be  so  very  much  disappointed.  Nay, 
I  think  not !  " 

She  slipped  her  slight  hand  from  the  Parson's  arm,  and 
darted  away  through  the  evergreens.  Half-concealed  amidst 
the  laurels,  she  turned  back,  and  Mr.  Dale  caught  her  eye — 
half  arch — half  melancholy  ;  its  light  came  soft  through  a 
tear. 

"  I  don't  half  like  this,"  muttered  the  Parson  ;  "  I  shall 
give  Dr.  Riccabocca  a  caution."  So  muttering,  he  pushed 
open  the  side-door,  and  finding  a  servant,  begged  admittance 
to  Lord  L' Estrange. 

Harley  at  that  moment  was  closeted  with  Levy,  and  his 
countenance  was  composed  and  fearfully  stern.  "  So,  so, 
by  this  time  to-morrow,"  said  he,  "  Mr.  Egerton  will  be 
tricked  out  of  his  election  by  Mr.  Randal  Leslie — good  ! 
By  this  time  to-morrow  his  ambition  will  be  blasted  by  the 
treachery  of  his  friends — good  !  By  this  time  to-morrow  the 
bailiffs  will  seize  his  person — ruined,  beggared,  pauper,  and 
captive — all  because  he  has  trusted  and  been  deceived — good ! 
And  if  he  blame  you,  prudent  Baron  Levy — if  he  accuse 
smooth  Mr.  Randal  Leslie — forget  not  to  say,  '  We  were 
both  but  the  blind  agents  of  your  friend  Harley  L'Estrange. 
Ask  him  why  you  are  so  miserable  a  dupe.'  " 


MY  NOVEL;    OR, 

"  And  might  I  now  ask  your  lordship  for  one  word  of 
explanation  ? " 

"No,  sir! — it  is  enough  that  I  have  spared  ^w/.  But  you 
were  never  my  friend  ;  I  have  no  revenge  against  a  man 
whose  hand  I  never  even  touched." 

The  Baron  scowled,  but  there  was  a  power  about  his  ty- 
rant that  cowed  him  into  actual  terror.  He  resumed,  after 
a  pause — 

"  And  though  Mr.  Leslie  is  to  be  member  for  Lansmere 
— thanks  to  you — you  still  desire  that  I  should 

"  Do  exactly  as  I  have  said.  My  plans  now  never  vary 
a  hair's  breadth." 

The  groom  of  the  chambers  entered. 

"My  lord,  the  Reverend  Mr.  Dale  wishes  to  know  if  you 
can  receive  him." 

"  Mr.  Dale  ! — he  should  have  come  to-morrow.  Say 
that  I  did  not  expect  him  to-day  ;  that  I  am  unfortunately 
engaged  till  dinner,  which  will  be  earlier  than  usual.  Show 
him  into  his  room  ;  he  will  have  but  little  time  to  change 
his  dress.  By  the  way,  Mr.  Egerton  dines  in  his  own  apart- 
ment." 


CHAPTER  XXVII. 

THE  leading  members  of  the  Blue  Committee  were  in- 
vited to  dine  at  the  Park,  and  the  hour  for  the  entertain- 
ment was  indeed  early,  as  there  might  be  much  need  yet  of 
active  exertion  on  the  eve  of  a  poll  in  a  contest  expected  to 
be  so  close,  and  in  which  the  inflexible  Hundred  and  Fifty 
"  Waiters  upon  Providence  "  still  reserved  their  very  valu- 
able votes. 

The  party  was  gay  and  animated,  despite  the  absence  of 
Audley  Egerton,  who,  on  the  plea  of  increased  indispo- 
sition, had  shut  himself  up  in  his  rooms  the  instant  that  he 
had  returned  from  the  Town  Hall,  and  sent  word  to  Harley 
that  he  was  too  unwell  to  join  the  party  at  dinner. 

Randal  was  really  in  high  spirits,  despite  the  very  equivo- 
cal success  of  his  speech.  What  did  it  signify  if  a  speech 
failed,  provided  the  election  was  secure  ?  He  was  longing 
for  the  appointment  with  Dick  Avenel,  which  was  to  make 
"  all  right !  "  The  Squire  was  to  bring  the  money  for  the 
purchase  of  the  coveted  lands  the  next  morning.  Riccabocca 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  1051 

had  assured  him,  again  and  again,  of  Violante's  hand.  If 
ever  Randal  Leslie  could  be  called  a  happy  man,  it  was  as 
he  sat  at  that  dinner  taking  wine  with  Mr.  Mayor  and  Mr. 
Alderman,  and  looking,  across  the  gleaming  silver  plateau, 
down  the  long  vista  into  wealth  and  power. 

The  dinner  was  scarcely  over,  when  Lord  L'Estrange, 
in  a  brief  speech,  reminded  his  guests  of  the  work  still  be- 
fore them  ;  and  after  a  toast  to  the  health  of  the  future  mem- 
bers for  Lansmere,  dismissed  the  Committee  to  their  labors. 

Levy  made  a  sign  to  Randal,  who  followed  the  Baron  to 
his  own  room. 

"  Leslie,  your  election  is  in  some  jeopardy.  I  find  from 
the  conversation  of  those  near  me  at  dinner,  that  Egerton 
has  made  such  way  amongst  the  Blues  by  his  speech,  and 
they  are  so  afraid  of  losing  a  man  who  does  them  so  much 
credit,  that  the  Committeemen  not  only  talk  of  withholding 
from  you  their  second  votes  and  of  plumping  Egerton,  but 
of  subscribing  privately  amongst  themselves  to  win  over 
that  coy  body  of  a  Hundred  and  Fifty,  upon  whom  I  know 
that  Avenel  counts  in  whatever  votes  he  may  be  able  to 
transfer  to  you." 

"  It  would  be  very  unhandsome  in  the  Committee,  which 
pretends  to  act  for  both  of  us,  to  plump  Egerton,"  said  Ran- 
dal, with  consistent  anger.  "  But  I  don't  think  they  can  get 
those  Hundred  and  Fifty  without  the  most  open  and  exor- 
bitant bribery — an  expense  which  Egerton  will  not  pay,  and 
which  it  would  be  very  discreditable  to  Lord  L'Estrange  or 
his  father  to  countenance." 

"  I  told  them  flatly,"  returned  Levy,  "  that,  as  Mr.  Eger- 
ton's  agent,  I  would  allow  no  proceedings  that  might  vitiate 
the  election ;  but  that  I  would  undertake  the  management 
of  these  men  myself ;  and  I  am  going  into  the  town  in  order 
to  do  so.  I  have  also  persuaded  the  leading  Committee- 
men  to  reconsider  their  determination  to  plump  Egerton  ; 
they  have  decided  to  do  as  L'Estrange  directs ;  and  I  know 
what  he  will  say.  You  may  rely  on  me,"  continued  the 
Baron,  who  spoke  with  a  dogged  seriousness,  unusual  to  his 
cynical  temper,  "  to  obtain  for  you  the  preference  over  Aud- 
ley,  if  it  be  in  my  power  to  do  so.  Meanwhile,  you  should 
really  see  Avenel  this  very  night." 

"  I  have  an  appointment  with  him  at  ten  o'clock  ;  and, 
judging  by  his  speech  against  Egerton,  I  cannot  doubt  of 
his  aid  to  me,  if  convinced  by  his  poll-books  that  he  is  not 
able  to  return  both  himself  and  his  impertinent  nephew. 


105*  MY  NOVEL;    OR, 

My  speech,  however  sarcastically  treated  by  Mr.  Fairfield, 
must  at  least  have  disposed  the  Yellow  party  to  vote  rather 
for  me  than  for  a  determined  opponent  like  Egerton." 

"  I  hope  so ;  for  your  speech  and  Fairfield's  answer 
have  damaged  you  terribly  with  the  Blues.  However,  your 
main  hope  rests  on  my  power  to  keep  those  Hundred  and 
Fifty  rascals  from  splitting  their  votes  on  Egerton,  and  to 
induce  them,  by  all  means,  short  of  bringing  myself  before 
a  Committee  of  the  House  of  Commons  for  positive  bribery 
— which  would  hurt  most  seriously  my  present  social  posi- 
tion,— to  give  one  vote  to  you.  I  shall  tell  them,  as  I  have 
told  the  Committee,  that  Egerton  is  safe,  and  will  pay  noth- 
ing ;  but  that  you  want  the  votes,  and  that  I — in  short,  if 
they  can  be  bought  upon  tick,  I  will  buy  them.  Avenel, 
however,  can  serve  you  best  here  ;  for,  as  they  are  all  Yel- 
lows at  heart,  they  make  no  scruple  of  hinting  that  they 
want  twice  as  much  for  voting  Blue  as  they  will  take  for 
voting  Yellow.  And  Avenel  being  a  townsman,  and  know- 
ing their  ways,  could  contrive  to  gain  them,  and  yet  not 
bribe." 

RANDAL  (shaking  his  head  incredulously). — Not  bribe  ! 

LEVY. — Pooh  !     Not  bribe  so  as  to  be  found  out. 

There  was  a  knock  at  the  door.  A  servant  entered  and 
presented  Mr.  Egerton's  compliments  to  Baron  Levy,  with 
a  request  that  the  Baron  would  immediately  come  to  his 
rooms  for  a  few  minutes. 

"Well,"  said  Levy,  when  the  servant  had  withdrawn, 
"  I  must  go  to  Egerton,  and  the  instant  I  leave  him  I  shall 
repair  to  the  town.  Perhaps  I  may  pass  the  night  there." 
So  saying,  he  left  Randal,  and  took  his  way  to  Audley's 
apartment. 

"  Levy,"  said  the  statesman,  abruptly,  upon  the  entrance 
of  the  Baron,  "  have  you  betrayed  my  secret — my  first  mar- 
riage— to  Lord  L'Estrange?" 

"  No,  Egerton  ;  on  my  honor,  I  have  not  betrayed  it." 

"You  heard  his  speech!  Did  you  not  detect  a  fearful 
irony  under  his  praises  ? — or  is  it  but — but — my  conscience  ?" 
added  the  proud  man,  through  his  set  teeth. 

"Really,"  said  Levy,  "Lord  L'Estrange  seemed  to  me 
to  select  for  his  praise  precisely  those  points  in  your  char- 
acter which  any  other  of  your  friends  would  select  for 
panegyric." 

"  Ay,  any  other  of  my  friends  ! — What  friends  ?"  mut- 
tered Egerton,  gloomily.  Then,  rousing  himself,  he  added 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  1053 

in  a  voice  that  had  none  of  its  accustomed  clear  firmness 
of  tone,  "  Your  presence  here  in  this  house,  Levy,  sur- 
prised me,  as  I  told  you  at  the  first  ;  I  could  not  conceive 
its  necessity.  Harley  urged  you  to  come  ? — he  with  whom 
you  are  no  favorite  !  You  and  he  both  said  that  your 
acquaintance  with  Richard  Avenel  would  enable  you  to 
conciliate  his  opposition.  I  cannot  congratulate  you  on 
your  success." 

"  My  success  remains  to  be  proved.  The  vehemence  of 
his  attack  to-day  may  be  but  a  feint  to  cover  his  alliance  to- 
morrow." 

Audley  went  on  without  notice  of  the  interruption. 
"  There  is  a  change  in  Harley — to  me  and  to  all ;  a  change, 
perhaps,  not  perceptible  to  others — but  I  have  known  him 
from  a  boy." 

"  He  is  occupied  for  the  first  time  with  the  practical 
business  of  life. — That  would  account  for  a  much  greater 
change  than  you  remark." 

"  Do  you  see  him  familiarly  ? — converse  with  him  often  ?" 

"  No,  and  only  on  matters  connected  with  the  election. 
Occasionally,  indeed,  he  consults  me  as  to  Randal  Leslie, 
in  whom,  as  your  special  protege,  he  takes  considerable  in- 
terest." 

"  That,  too,  surprises  me.  Welf,  I  am  weary  of  per- 
plexing myself. — This  place  is  hateful  ;  after  to-morrow  I 
shall  leave  it,  and  breathe  in  peace.  You  have  seen  the 
reports  of  the  canvass  ;  I  have  had  no  heart  to  inspect 
them.  Is  the  election  as  safe  as  they  say  ? " 

"  If  Avenel  withdraws  his  nephew,  and  the  votes  thus 
released  split  off  to  you,  you  are  secure." 

"And  you  think  his  nephew  will  be  withdrawn  ?  Poor 
young  man  ! — defeat  at  his  age,  and  with  such  talents,  is 
hard  to  bear."  Audley  sighed. 

"  I  must  leave  you  now,  if  you  have  nothing  important 
to  say,"  said  the  Baron,  rising.  "  I  have  much  to  do,  as 
the  election  is  yet  to  be  won,  and — to  you  the  loss  of  it 
would  be " 

"  Ruin,  I  know.  Well,  Levy,  it  is,  on  the  whole,  to 
your  advantage  that  I  should  not  lose.  There  may  be  more 
to  get  from  me  yet.  And,  judging  by  the  letters  I  received 
this  morning,  my  position  is  rendered  so  safe  by  the  abso- 
lute necessity  of  my  party  to  keep  me  up,  that  the  news  of 
my  pecuniary  difficulties  will  not  affect  me  so  much  as  I 
once  feared.  Never  was  my  career  so  free  from  obstacle — 


1054  MY  NOVEL;    OR, 

so  clear  toward  the  highest  summit  of  ambition — never,  in 
my  day  of  ostentatious  magnificence,  as  it  is  now,  when  I 
am  prepared  to  shrink  into  a  lodging,  with  a  single  servant." 

"  I  am  glad  to  hear  it,  and  I  am  the  more  anxious  to  se- 
cure your  election,  upon  which  this  career  must  depend, 
because — nay,  I  hardly  like  to  tell  you " 

"  Speak  on." 

"I  have  been  obliged,  by  a  sudden  rush  on  all  my  re- 
sources, to  consign  some  of  your  bills  and  promissory  notes 
to  another,  who,  if  your  person  should  not  be  protected 
from  arrest  by  parliamentary  privilege,  might  be  harsh, 
and " 

"Traitor!"  interrupted  Egerton,  fiercely,  all  the  com- 
posed contempt  with  which  he  usually  treated  the  usurer, 
giving  way,  "say  no  more. — How  could  I  ever  expect 
otherwise  !  You  have  foreseen  my  defeat,  and  have  planned 
my  destruction.  Presume  no  reply.  Sir,  begone  from  my 
presence ! " 

"You  will  find  that  you  have  worse  friends  than  myself," 
said  the  Baron,  moving  to  the  door  ;  "  and  if  you  are  de- 
feated— if  your  prospects  for  life  are  destroyed — I  am  the 
last  man  you  will  think  of  blaming.  But  I  forgive  your 
anger,  and  trust  that  to-morrow  you  will  receive  those  ex- 
planations of  my  conduct  which  you  are  now  in  no  temper 
to  bear.  I  go  to  take  care  of  the  election." 

Left  alone,  Audley's  sudden  passion  seemed  to  forsake 
him.  He  gathered  together,  in  that  prompt  and  logical 
precision  which  the  habit  of  transacting  public  business 
bestows,  all  his  thoughts,  and  sounded  all  his  fears  ;  and 
most  vivid  of  every  thought,  and  most  intolerable  of  every 
fear,  was  the  belief  that  the  Baron  had  betrayed  him  to 
L'Estrange. 

"  I  cannot  bear  this  suspense,"  he  cried  aloud  and 
abruptly.  "I  will  see  Harley  myself.  Open  as  he  is,  the 
very  sound  of  his  voice  will  tell  me  at  once  if  I  am  a  bank- 
rupt even  of  human  friendship.  If  that  friendship  be  se- 
cure— if  Harley  yet  clasp  my  hand  with  the  same  cordial 
warmth — all  other  loss  shall  not  wring  from  my  fortitude  one 
complaint." 

He  rang  the  bell :  his  valet,  who  was  waiting  in  the  ante- 
room, appeared. 

"  Go  and  see  if  Lord  L'Estrange  is  engaged  ;  I  would 
speak  with  him." 

The  servant  came  back  in  less  than  two  minutes. 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  1055 

"  I  find  that  my  lord  is  now  particularly  engaged,  since 
he  has  given  strict  orders  that  he  is  not  to  be  disturbed." 

"  Engaged  ! — on  what  ? — whom  with  ? " 

"  He  is  in  his  own  room,  sir,  with  a  clergyman,  who  ar- 
rived, and  dined  here  to-day.  I  am  told  that  he  was  for- 
merly curate  of  Lansmere." 

"  Lansmere — curate  !    His  name — his  name  !  Not  Dale  ?" 

"Yes,  sir,  that  is  the  name — the  Reverend  Mr.  Dale." 

"  Leave  me,"  said  Audley,  in  a  faint  voice.  "  Dale  !  the 
man  who  suspected  Harley,  who  called  on  me  in  London, 
spoke  of  a  child — my  child— and  sent  me  to  find  but  another 
grave  !  He  closeted  with  Harley— he  ?" 

Audley  sank  back  on  his  chair,  and  literally  gasped  for 
breath.  Few  men  in  the  world  had  a  more  established  rep- 
utation for  the  courage  that  dignifies  mankind,  whether  the 
physical  courage  or  the  moral.  But  at  that  moment  it  was 
not  grief,  not  remorse,  that  paralyzed  Audley — it  was 
fear.  The  brave  man  saw  before  him,  as  a  thing  visible  and 
menacing,  the  aspect  of  his  own  treachery — that  crime  of  a 
coward  ;  and  into  cowardice  he  was  stricken.  What  had  he 
to  dread  ?  Nothing  save  the  accusing  face  of  an  injured 
friend — nothing  but  that.  And  what  more  terrible  ?  The 
only  being,  amidst  all  his  pomp  of  partisans,  who  survived 
to  love  him — the  only  being  for  whom  the  cold  statesman 
felt  the  happy,  living,  human  tenderness  of  private  affection, 
lost  to  him  forever.  He  covered  his  face  with  both  hands, 
and  sat  in  suspense  of  something  awful,  as  a  child  sits  in  the 
dark — the  drops  on  his  brow,  and  his  frame  trembling. 


CHAPTER   XXVIII. 

MEANWHILE,  Harley  had  listened  to  Mr.  Dale's  vindi- 
cation of  Leonard  with  cold  attention. 

"  Enough,"  said  he,  at  the  close.  "  Mr.  Fairfield  (for  so 
we  will  yet  call  him)  shall  see  me  to-night  ;  and  if  apology 
be  due  to  him,  I  will  make  it.  At  the  same  time,  it  shall  be 
decided  whether  he  continue  this  contest  or  retire.  And 
now,  Mr.  Dale,  it  was  not  to  hear  how  this  young  man 
wooed,  or  shrunk  from  wooing,  my  affianced  bride,  that  I 
availed  myself  of  your  promise  to  visit  me  at  this  house. 
We  agreed  that  the  seducer  of  Nora  Avenel  deserved 


1056  MY  NOVEL;    OR, 

chastisement,  and  I  promised  that  Nora  Avenel's  son  should 
find  a  father.  Both  these  assurances  shall  be  fulfilled  to- 
morrow. And  you,  sir,"  continued  Harley,  rising,  his  whole 
form  gradually  enlarged  by  the  dignity  of  passion,  "  who 
wear  the  garb  appropriated  to  the  holiest  office  of  Chris- 
tian charity — you  have  presumed  to  think  that,  before  the 
beard  had  darkened  my  cheek,  I  could  first  betray  the 
girl  who  had  been  reared  under  this  roof,  then  abandon  her 
—sneak  like  a  dastard  from  the  place  in  which  my  victim 
came  to  die — leave  my  own  son,  by  the  woman  thus 
wronged,  without  thought  or  care,  through  the  perilous 
years  of  tempted  youth,  till  I  found  him,  by  chance,  an  out- 
cast in  a  desert  more  dread  than  Hagar's — you,  sir,  who 
have  for  long  years  thus  judged  of  me,  shall  have  the  occa- 
sion to  direct  your  holy  anger  toward  the  rightful  head  ; 
and  in  me,  you  who  have  condemned  the  culprit,  shall  re- 
spect the  judge  ! " 

Mr.  Dale  was  at  first  startled,  and  almost  awed,  by  this 
tmexpected  burst.  But,  accustomed  to  deal  with  the 
sternest  and  the  darkest  passions,  his  calm  sense,  and  his 
habit  of  authority  over  those  whose  souls  were  bared  to 
him,  nobly  recovered  from  his  surprise.  "  My  lord,"  said 
he,  "  first,  with  humility,  I  bow  to  your  rebuke,  and  entreat 
your  pardon  for  my  erring,  and,  as  you  say,  my  uncharit- 
able opinions.  We,  dwellers  in  a  village,  and  obscure 
pastors  of  a  humble  flock — we,  mercifully  removed  from 
temptation,  are  too  apt,  perhaps,  to  exaggerate  its  power 
over  those  whose  lots  are  cast  in  that  great  world  which 
has  so  many  gates  ever  open  to  evil.  This  is  my  sole 
excuse,  if  I  was  misled  by  what  appeared  to  me  strong  cir- 
cumstantial evidence.  But  forgive  me  again  if  I  warn  you 
not  to  fall  into  an  error  perhaps  little  lighter  than  my  own. 
Your  passion,  when  you  cleared  yourself  from  reproach, 
became  you.  But  ah  !  my  lord,  when  with  that  stern  brow 
and  those  flashing  eyes,  you  launched  your  menace  upon 
another  over  whom  you  would  constitute  yourself  the  judge, 
forgetful  of  the  divine  precept,  'Judge  not,'  I  felt  that  I 
was  listening  no  longer  to  honest  self-vindication — I  felt 
that  I  was  listening  to  fierce  revenge." 

"  Call  it  revenge,  or  what  you  will,"  said  Harley,  with 
sullen  firmness.  "  But  I  have  been  stung  too  deeply  not 
to  sting.  Frank  with  all,  till  the  last  few  days,  I  have  ever 
been.  Frank  to  you,  at  least,  even  now,  this  much  I  tell 
you  ;  I  pretend  to  no  virtue  in  what  I  still  hold  to  be 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  1057 

justice  ;  but  no  declamations  nor  homilies  tending  to  prove 
that  justice  is  sinful,  will  move  my  resolves.  As  man  I 
have  been  outraged,  and  as  man  I  will  retaliate.  The  way 
and  the  mode — the  true  criminal  and  his  fitting  sentence — 
you  will  soon  learn,  sir.  I  have  much  to  do  to-night :  for- 
give me  if  I  adjourn  for  the  present  all  further  conference." 

"  No,  no  ;  do  not  dismiss  me.  There  is  something,  in 
spite  of  your  present  language,  which  so  commands  my 
interest,  I  see  that  there  has  been  so  much  suffering  where 
there  is  now  so  much  wrath,  that  I  would  save  you  from  the 
suffering  worse  than  all — remorse.  O  pause,  my  dear  lord, 
pause  and  answer  me  but  two  questions  ;  then  I  will  leave 
your  after  course  to  yourself." 

"Say  on,  sir,"  said  Lord  L'Estrange,  touched,  and  with 
respect. 

"  First,  then,  analyze  your  own  feelings.  Is  this  anger 
merely  to  punish  an  offender  and  to  right  the  living  ? — 
for  who  can  pretend  to  right  the  dead  ?  Qr  is  there  not 
some  private  hate  that  stirs,  and  animates,  and  confuses 
all  ? " 

Harley  remained  silent.     Mr.  Dale  renewed. 

"  You  'loved  this  poor  girl.  Your  language  even  now 
reveals  it.  You  speak  of  treachery  ;  perhaps  you  had  a  rival 
who  deceived  you  ;  I  know  not — guess  not,  who.  But  if 
you  would  strike  the  rival,  must  you  not  wound  the  inno- 
cent son  ?  And,  in  presenting  Nora's  child  to  his  father,  as 
you  pledge  yourself  to  do,  can  you  mean  some  cruel  mock- 
ery that,  under  seeming  kindness,  implies  some  unnatural 
vengeance  ? " 

"You  read  well  the  heart  of  man,"  said  Harley  ;  "and 
I  have  owned  to  you  that  I  am  but  man.  Pass  on  ;  you 
have  another  question." 

"  And  one  more  solemn  and  important.  In  my  world 
of  a  village,  revenge  is  a  common  passion  ;  it  is  the  sin 
of  the  uninstructed.  The  savage  deems  it  noble  ;  but 
Christ's  religion,  which  is  the  sublime  Civilizer,  emphati- 
cally condemns  it.  Why  ?  Because  religion  ever  seeks  to 
ennoble  man  ;  and  nothing  so  debases  him  as  revenge.  Look 
into  your  own  heart,  and  tell  me  whether,  since  you  have 
cherished  this  passion,  you  have  not  felt  all  sense  of  right 
and  wrong  confused — have  not  felt  that  whatever  would  be- 
fore have  seemed  to  you  mean  and  base,  appears  now  but 
just  means  to  your  heated  end.  Revenge  is  ever  a  hypo- 
crite— rage,  at  least,  strikes  with  the  naked  sword  ;  but 


1058  MY  NOVEL;    OK, 

revenge,  stealthy  and  patient,  conceals  the  weapon  of  the 
assassin.  My  lord,  your  color  changes.  What  is  your 
answer  to  my  question  ? " 

"Oh,"  exclaimed  Harley,  with  a  voice  thrilling  in  its 
mournful  anguish,  "  it  is  not  since  I  have  cherished  the 
revenge  that  I  am  changed — that  right  and  wrong  grow  dark 
to  me — that  hypocrisy  seems  the  atmosphere  fit  for  earth. 
No  ;  it  is  since  the  discovery  that  demands  the  vengeance. 
It  is  useless,  sir,"  he  continued,  impetuously — "useless  to 
argue  with  me.  Were  I  to  sit  down  patient  and  impotent, 
under  the  sense  of  the  wrong  which  I  have  received,  I 
should  feel,  indeed,  that  debasement  which  you  ascribe  to 
the  gratification  of  what  you  term  revenge.  I  should  never 
regain  the  self-esteem  which  the  sentiment  of  power  now 
restores  to  rne  — I  should  feel  as  if  the  whole  world  could 
perceive  and  jeer  at  my  meek  humiliation.  I  know  not  why 
I  have  said  so  much — why  I  have  betrayed  to  you  so  much 
of  my  secret  mind,  and  stooped  to  vindicate  my  purpose. 
I  never  meant  it.  Again  I  say,  we  must  close  this  confer- 
ence." Harley  here  walked  to  the  door,  and  opened  it  sig- 
nificantly. 

"One  word  more,  Lord  L'Estrange — but  one.-  You  will 
not  hear  me.  I  am  a  comparative  stranger,  but  you  have 
a  friend,  a  friend  dear  and  intimate,  now  under  the  same 
roof.  Will  you  consent,  at  least,  to  take  counsel  of  Mr. 
Audley  Egerton  ?  None  can  doubt  his  friendship  for  you  ; 
none  can  doubt,  that  whatever  he  advises  will  be  that  which 
best  becomes  your  honor.  What,  my  lord,  you  hesitate  ? — 
you  feel  ashamed  to  confide  to  your  dearest  friend  a  pur- 
pose which  his  mind  would  condemn?  Then  I  will  seek 
him — I  will  implore  him  to  save  you  from  what  can  but 
entai.1  repentance." 

"  Mr.  Dale,  I  must  forbid  you  to  see  Mr.  Egerton.  What 
has  passed  between  us  ought  to  be  as  sacred  to  you  as  a 
priest  of  Rome  holds  confession.  This  much,  however,  I 
will  say  to  content  you  :  I  promise  that  I  will  do  nothing 
that  shall  render  me  unworthy  of  Mr.  Audley  Egerton's 
friendship,  or  which  his  fine  sense  of  honor  shall  justify  him 
in  blaming.  Let  that  satisfy  you." 

"  Ah,  my  lord,"  cried  Mr.  Dale,  pausing  irresolute  at  the 
doorway,  and  seizing  Harley's  hand,  "  I  should,  indeed,  be 
satisfied  if  you  would  submit  yourself  to  higher  counsel 
than  mine — than  Mr.  Egerton's — than  man's.  Have  you 
never  felt  the  efficacy  of  prayer?" 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  1059 

"  My  life  has  been  wasted,"  replied  Harley,  "  and  I  dare 
not,  therefore,  boast  that  I  have  found  prayer  efficacious. 
But,  so  far  back  as  I  can  remember,  it  has  at  least  been  my 
habit  to  pray  to  Heaven,  night  and  morning,  until,  at  least 
— until —  The  natural  and  obstinate  candor  of  the  man 
forced  out  the  last  words,  which  implied  reservation.  He 
stopped  short. 

"  Until  you  have  cherished  revenge  ?  You  have  not 
dared  to  pray  since  ?  Oh  !  reflect  what  evil  there  is  within 
us,  when  we  dare  not  come  before  Heaven — dare  not  pray 
for  what  we  wish.  You  are  moved — I  leave  you  to  your 
own  thoughts." 

Harley  inclined  his  head,  and  the  Parson  passed  him  by, 
and  left  him  alone — startled  indeed  ;  but  was  he  softened  ? 

As  Mr.  Dale  hurried  along  the  corridor,  much  agitated, 
Violante  stole  from  a  recess  formed  by  a  large  bay-window, 
and,  linking  her  arm  in  his,  said  anxiously,  but  timidly : 
"I  have  been  waiting  for  you,  dear  Mr.  Dale  ;  and  so  long! 
You  have  been  with  Lord  L'Estrange?" 

"Well." 

"  Why  do  you  net  speak  ?  You  have  left  him  comforted 
— happier  ? " 

"  Happier  !     No." 

"  What ! "  said  Violante,  with  a  look  of  surprise,  and  a 
sadness  not  unmixed  with  petulance  in  her  quick  tone. 
':  What  !  does  he  then  so  grieve  that  Helen  prefers  an- 
other ? " 

Despite  the  grave  emotions  that  disturbed  his  mind,  Mr. 
Dale  was  struck  by  Violante's  question,  and  the  voice  in 
which  it  was  said.  He  loved  her  tenderly.  "  Child,  child," 
said  he,  "I  am  glad  that  Helen  has  escaped  Lord  L'Es- 
trange. Beware,  oh  beware !  how  he  excite  any  gentler 
interest  in  yourself.  He  is  a  dangerous  man — more  danger- 
ous for  glimpses  of  a  fine  original  nature.  He  may  well 
move  the  heart  of  the  innocent  and  inexperienced,  for  he 
has  strangely  crept  into  mine.  But  his  heart  is  swollen 
with  pride,  and  ire,  and  malice." 

"You  mistake:  it  is  false!"  cried  Violante,  impetuously. 
"  I  cannot  believe  one  word  that  would  asperse  him  who 
has  saved  my  father  from  a  prison,  or  from  death.  You- 
have  not  treated  him  gently.  He  fancies  he  has  been 
wronged  by  Leonard — received  ingratitude  from  Helen. 
He  has  felt  the  sting  in  proportion  to  his  own  susceptible 
and  generous  heart,  and  you  have  chided  where  you  should1 


1060  MY  NOVEL;   OR, 

have  soothed.     Poor  Lord  L'Estrange  !     And  you  have  left 
him  still  indignant  and  unhappy  !  " 

"  Foolish  girl !  I  have  left  him  meditating  sin  ;  I  have 
left  him  afraid  to  pray  ;  I  have  left  him  on  the  brink  of  some 
design — I  know  not  what — but  which  involves  more  than 
Leonard  in  projects  of  revenge  ;  I  have  left  him  so,  th;it  if 
his  heart  be  really  "susceptible  and  generous,  he  will  wake 
from  wrath  to  be  the  victim  of  long  and  unavailing  remorse. 
If  your  father  has  influence  over  him,  tell  Dr.  Riccabocca 
what  I  say,  and  bid  him  seek,  and  in  his  turn  save,  the  man 
wrho  saved  himself.  He  has  not  listened  to  religion — he 
may  be  more  docile  to  philosophy.  I  cannot  stay  here 
longer — I  must  go  to  Leonard." 

Mr.  Dale  broke  from  Violante,  and  hurried  down  the 
corridor :  Violante  stood  on  the  same  spot,  stunned  and 
breathless.  Harley  on  the  brink  of  some  strange  sin — Har- 
ley  to -wake  the  victim  of  remorse — Harley  to  be  saved,  as 
he  had  saved  her  father !  Her  breast  heaved — her  color 
went  and  came — her  eyes  were  raised — her  lips  murmured. 
She  advanced  with  soft  footsteps  up  the  corridor — she  saw 
the  lights  gleaming  from  Harley's  room^and  suddenly  they 
were  darkened,  as  the  inmate  of  the  room  shut  to  the  door, 
with  angry  and  impatient  hand. 

An  outward  act  often  betrays  the  inward  mind.  As 
Harley  had  thus  closed  the  door,  so  had  he  sought  to  shut 
his  heart  from  the  intrusion  of  softer  and  holier  thoughts. 
He  had  turned  to  his  hearthstone,  and  stood  on  it,  resolved 
and  hardened.  The  man  who  had  loved  with  such  perti- 
nacious fidelity  for  so  many  years,  could  not  at  once  part 
with  hate.  A  passion  once  admitted  to  his  breast,  clung  to 
it  with  such  rooted  force  !  But  woe,  woe  to  thee,  Harley 
L'Estrange,  if  to-morrow  at  this  hour  thou  stand  at  the 
hearthstone,  thy  designs  accomplished,  knowing  that,  in 
the  fulfilment  of  thy  blind  will,  thou  hast  met  falsehood  with 
falsehood,  and  deception  with  deceit !  What  though  those 
designs  now  seem  so  consummate,  so  just,  so  appropriate, 
so  exquisite  a  revenge — seem  to  thee  the  sole  revenge  wit 
can  plan,  and  civilized  life  allow — wilt  thou  ever  wash  from 
thy  memory  the  stain  that  will  sully  thine  honor?  Thou, 
too,  professing  friendship  still,  and  masking  perfidy  under 
smiles  !  Grant  that  the  wrong  be  great  as  thou  deem  it — 
be  ten  times  greater — the  sense  of  thy  meanness,  O  gentle- 
man and  soldier,  will  bring  the  blush  to  thy  cheek  in  the 
depth  of  thy  solitude.  Thou,  who  now  thinkest  others 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  1061 

unworthy  a  trustful  love,  wilt  feel  thyself  forever  unworthy 
theirs.  Thy  seclusion  will  know  not  repose.  The  dignity 
of  man  will  forsake  thee.  Thy  proud  eye  will  quail  from 
the  gaze.  Thy  step  will  no  longer  spurn  the  earth  that  it 
treads  on.  He  who  has  once  done  a  base  thing  is  never 
again  wholly  reconciled  to  honor.  And  woe — thrice  woe,  if 
thou  learn  too  late  that  thou  hast  exaggerated  thy  fancied 
wrong :  that  there  is  excuse,  where  thou  seest  none  ;  that 
thy  friend  may  have  erred,  but  that  his  error  is  venial  coin- 
pared  to  thy  fancied  retribution  ! 

Thus,  however,  in  the  superb  elation  of  conscious  power, 
though  lavished  on  a  miserable  object — a  terrible  example 
of  what  changes  one  evil  and  hateful  thought,  cherished  to 
the  exclusion  of  all  others,  can  make  in  the  noblest  nature 
— stood,  on  the  hearth  of  his  fathers,  and  on  the  abyss  of  a 
sorrow  and  a  shame  from  which  there  could  be  no  recall, 
the  determined  and  scornful  man. 

A  hand  is  on  the  door — he  does  not  hear  it ;  a  form  passes 
the  threshold — he  does  not  see  it ;  a  light  step  pauses — a 
soft  eye  gazes.  Deaf  and  blind  still  to  both. 

Violante  came  on,  gathering  courage,  and  stood  at  the 
hearth,  by  his  side. 


CHAPTER  XXIX. 

"  LORD  L'ESTRANGE — noble  friend  ! " 

"You  ! — and  here — Violante?  Is  it  I  whom  you  seek  ? 
For  what  ?  Good  heavens  !  what  has  happened  ?  Why  are 
you  so  pale  ? — why  tremble  ? " 

"Have  you  forgiven  Helen?"  asked  Violante,  begin- 
ning with  evasive  question,  and  her  cheek  was  pale  no  more. 

"  Helen — the  poor  child  !  I  have  nothing  in  her  to  for- 
give, much  to  thank  her  for.  She  has  been  frank  and 
honest." 

"  And  Leonard — whom  I  remember  in  my  childhood — 
you  have  forgiven  him  ?  " 

"Fair  mediator,"  said  Harley,  smiling,  though  coldly, 
"happy  is  the  man  who  deceives  another  ;  all  plead  for  him. 
And  if  the  man  deceived  cannot  forgive,  no  one  will  sym- 
pathize or  excuse." 


1062  MY  NOVEL;    OR, 

"  But  Leonard  did  not  deceive  you  ?  " 

"Yes,  from  the  first.  It  is  a  long  tale,  and  not  to  be 
told  to  you.  But  I  cannot  forgive  him." 

"  Adieu  !  my  lord.  Helen  must,  then,  still  be  very  dear 
to  you  !  "  Violante  turned  away.  Her  emotion  was  so  art- 
less, her  very  anger  so  charming,  that  the  love,  against 
which,  in  the  prevalence  of  his  later  and  darker  passions,  he 
had  so  sternly  struggled,  rushed  back  upon  Harley's  breast  ; 
but  it  came  only  in  storm. 

"  Stay,  but  talk  not  of  Helen  !  "  he  exclaimed.  "  Ah  ! 
if  Leonard's  sole  offence  had  been  what  you  appear  to  deem 
it,  do  you  think  I  could  feel  resentment  ?  No  ;  I  should 
have  gratefully  hailed  the  hand  that  severed  a  rash  and  un- 
genial  tie.  I  would  have  given  my  ward  to  her  lover  with 
such  a  dower  as  it  suits  my  wealth  to  bestow.  But  his  of- 
fence dates  from  his  very  birth.  To  bless  and  to  enrich  the 
son  of  a  man  who — Violante,  listen  to  me.  We  may  soon 
part,  and  for  ever.  Others  may  misconstrue  my  actions  ; 
you,  at  least,  shall  know  from  what  just  principle  they 
spring.  There  was  a  man  whom  I  singled  out  of  the  world 
as  more  than  a  brother.  In  the  romance  of  my  boyhood  I 
saw  one  who  dazzled  my  fancy,  captivated  my  heart.  It 
was  a  dream  of  Beauty  breathed  into  waking  life.  I  loved 
— I  believed  myself  beloved.  I  confided  all  my  heart  to 
this  friend — this  more  than  brother  ;  he  undertook  to  be- 
friend (and  to  aid  my  suit.  On  that  very  pretext  he  first 
saw  this  ill-fated  girl  ; — saw — betrayed — destroyed  her  ; — 
left  me  ignorant  that  her  love,  which  I  had  thought  mine, 
had  been  lavished  so  wildly  on  another ; — left  rne  to  believe 
that  my  own  suit  she  had  fled,  but  in  generous  self-sacrifice 
— for  she  was  poor  and  humbly  born  ; — that — oh,  vain  idiot 
that  I  was  ! — the  self-sacrifice  had  been  too  strong  for  a 
young  human  heart,  which  had  broken  in  the  struggle  ; — 
left  me  to  corrode  my  spring  of  life  in  remorse  ;— clasped 
my  hand  in  mocking  comfort ; — smiled  at  my  tears  of  agony 
— not  one  tear  himself  for  his  own  poor  victim  !  And,  sud- 
denly, not  long  since,  I  learned  all  this.  And,  in  the  father 
of  Leonard  Fairfield,  you  behold  the  man  who  has  poisoned 
all  the  well-spring  of  joy  to  me.  You  weep  !  O,  Violante  ! 
— the  Past  he  has  blighted  and  embittered — that  I  could  for- 
give ;  but  the  Future  is  blasted  too.  For,  just  ere  this 
treason  was  revealed  to  me,  I  had  begun  to  awake  from  the 
torpor  of  my  dreary  penance,  to  look  with  fortitude  toward 
the  duties  I  had  slighted — to  own  that  the  pilgrimage  be- 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  1063 

fore  me  was  not  barren.  And  then,  oh  then,  I  felt  that  all 
love  was  not  buried  in  a  grave.  I  felt  that  you,  had  fate  so 
granted,  might  have  been  all  to  my  manhood  which  youth 
only  saw  through  the  delusion  of  its  golden  mists.  True,  I 
was  then  bound  to  Helen  ;  true,  that  honor  to  her  might 
forbid  me  all  hope.  But  still,  even  to  know  that  my  heart 
was  not  all  ashes — that  I  could  love  again — that  that  glori- 
ous power  and  privilege  of  our  being  was  still  mine,  seemed 
to  me  so  heavenly  sweet.  But  then  this  revelation  of  false- 
hood burst  on  me,  and  all  truth  seemed  blotted  from  the 
universe.  I  am  freed  from  Helen  ;  ah,  freed,  forsooth— be- 
cause not  even  rank  and  wealth,  and  benefits  and  confiding 
tenderness,  could  bind  to  me  one  human  heart !  Free  fronl 
her  ;  but  between  me  and  your  fresh  nature  stand  Suspi- 
cion as  an  Upas  tree.  Not  a  hope  that  would  pass  through 
the  tainted  air,  and  fly  to  you,  but  falls  dead  under  the  dis- 
mal boughs.  /  love !  Ha,  ha  !  I — /,  whom  the  Past  has 
taught  the  impossibility  to  be  loved  again.  No  ;  if  those 
soft  lips  murmured  '  Yes  '  to  the  burning  prayer  that,  had  I 
been  free  but  two  short  weeks  ago,  would  have  rushed 
from  the  frank  deeps  of  my  heart,  I  should  but  imagine 
that  you  deceived  yourself — a  girl's  first  fleeting  delusive 
fancy — nothing  more  !  Were  you  my  bride,  Violante,  I 
should  but  debase  your  bright  nature  by  my  own  curse  of 
distrust.  At  each  word  of  tenderness,  my  heart  would  say 
'  How  long  will  this  last  ? — when  will  the  deception  come  ? ' 
Your  beauty,  your  gifts,  would  bring  me  but  jealous  terror  ; 
eternally  I  should  fly  from  the  Present  to  the  Future,  and 
say,  '  These  hairs  will  be  gray,  while  flattering  youth  will 
surround  her  in  the  zenith  of  her  charms.'  Why  then  do  I 
hate  and  curse  my  foe  ?  Why  do  I  resolve  upon  revenge  ? 
I  comprehend  it  now.  I  knew  that  there  was  something 
more  imperious  than  the  ghost  of  the  Past  that  urged  me 
on.  Gazing  on  you,  I  felt  that  it  was  the  dim  sense  of  a 
mighty  and  priceless  loss  ;  it  is  not  the  dead  Nora — it  is  the 
living  Violante.  Look  not  at  me  with  those  reproachful 
eyes  ;  they  cannot  reverse  my  purpose  ;  they  cannot  banish 
my  suspicion  from  my  sickened  soul  ;  they  cannot  create  a 
sunshine  in  the  midst  of  this  ghastly  twilight.  Go,  go  ; 
leave  me  to  the  sole  joy  that  bequeaths  no  disappointment 
— the  sole  feeling  that  unites  me  to  social  man  ;  leave  me  to 
my  revenge." 

"  Revenge  !    Oh,  cruel  !  "  exclaimed  Violante,  laying  her 


1064  MY  NOl'EL;   OR, 

hand  on  his  ^rm.     "And  in  revenge,  it  is  your  own  life 
that  you  would  risk  !  " 

"  My  life,  simple  child !  This  is  no  contest  of  life 
against  life.  Could  I  bare  to  all  the  world  my  wrongs  for 
their  ribald  laughter,  I  should  only  give  to  my  foe  the  tri- 
umph to  pity  my  frenzy — to  shun  the  contest  ;  or  grant  it, 
if  I  could  find  a  second — and  then  fire  in  the  air.  And  all 
the  world  would  say  '  Generous  Egerton  ! — soul  of  honor  ! '  " 

"  Egerton,  Mr.  Egerton  !  He  cannot  be  this  foe  !  It  is 
not  on  him  you  can  design  revenge  ? — you  who  spend  all 
your  hours  in  serving  his  cause — you  to  whom  he  trusts  so 
fondly — you  who  leant  yesterday  on  his  shoulder,  and 
smiled  so  cheeringly  in  his  face  ? " 

"  Did  I  ?  Hypocrisy  against  hypocrisy — snare  against 
snare  ;  that  is  my  revenge  !  " 

"  Harley,  Harley  !     Cease,  Cease  ! " 

The  storm  of  passion  rushed  on  unheeding. 

"  I  seem  to  promote  his  ambition,  but  to  crush  it  into 
the  mire.  I  have  delivered  him  from  the  gentler  gripe  of 
an  usurer,  so  that  he  shall  hold  at  my  option  alms  or  a 
prison " 

"  Friend,  friend  !     Hush,  hush  ! " 

"  I  have  made  the  youth  he  has  reared  and  fostered  into 
treachery  like  his  own  (your  father's  precious  choice — Ran- 
dal Leslie),  mine  instument  in  the  galling  lesson  how  in- 
gratitude can  sting.  His  very  son  shall  avenge  the  mother, 
and  be  led  to  his  father's  breast  as  victor,  with  Randal  Les- 
lie, in  the  contest  that  deprives  sire  and  benefactor  of  all 
that  makes  life  dear  to  ambitious  egotism.  And  if,  in  the 
breast  of  Audley  Egerton,  there  can  yet  lurk  one  memory 
of  what  I  was  to  him  and  to  truth,  not  his  least  punishment 
will  be  the  sense  that  his  own  perfidy  had  so  changed  the 
man  whose  very  scorn  of  falsehood  has  taught  him  to  find 
in  fraud  itself  the  power  of  retribution." 

"  If  this  be  not  a  terrible  dream  !  "  murmured  Violante, 
recoiling,  "  it  is  not  your  foe  alone  that  you  will  deprive  of 
all  that  makes  life  dear. — Act  thus — and  what,  in  the  future, 
is  left  to  me  ? " 

"  To  you  ?  Oh,  never  fear.  I  may  give  Randal  Leslie 
a  triumph  over  his  patron,  but  in  the  same  hour  I  will  un- 
mask his  villany,  and  sweep  him  for  ever  from  your  path. 
What  in  the  future  is  left  to  you  ? — your  birth-right  and 
your  native  land  ;  hope,  joy,  love,  felicity.  Could  it  be 
possible  that  in  the  soft  but  sunny  fancy  which  plays  round 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  1065 

the  heart  of  maiden  youth,  but  still  sends  no  warmth  into 
its  deeps — could  it  be  possible  that  you  had  honored  me 
with  a  gentler  thought,  it  will  pass  away,  and  you  will  be 
the 'pride  and  delight  of  one  of  your  own  years,  to  whom 
the  vista  of  Time  is  haunted  by  no  chilling  spectres — one 
who  can  look  upon  that  lovely  face,  and  not  turn  away  to 
mutter — '  Too  fair,  too  fair  for  me  ! ' ' 

"  Oh  agony!"  exclaimed  Violante,  with  sudden  passion. 
"  In  my  turn,  hear  me.  If,  as  you  promise,  I  am  released 
from  the  dreadful  thought  that  he,  at  whose  touch  I  shud- 
der, can  claim  this  hand,  my  choice  is  irrevocably  made. 
The  altars  which  await  me  will  not  be  those  of  a  human 
love.  But  oh,  I  implore  you — by  the  memories  of  your 
own  life,  hitherto,  if  sorrowful,  unsullied — by  the  generous 
interest  you  yet  profess  for  me,  whom  you  will  have  twice 
saved  from  a  danger  to  which  death  were  mercy — leave,  oh 
leave  me  the  right  to  regard  your  image  as  I  have  done 
from  the  first  dawn  of  childhood.  Leave  me  the  right  to 
honor  and  revere  it.  Let  not  an  act  accompanied  with  a 
meanness — oh  that  I  should  say  the  word  ! — a  meanness 
and  a  cruelty  that  give  the  lie  to  your  whole  life — make  even 
a  grateful  remembrance  of  you  an  unworthy  sin.  When  I 
kneel  within  the  walls  that  divide  me  from  the  world,  oh 
let  me  think  that  I  can  pray  for  you  as  the  noblest  being 
that  the  world  contains!  Hear  me  !  hear  me  !" 

"Violante!"  murmured  Harley,  his  whole  frame  heav- 
ing with  emotion,  "bear  with  me.  Do  not  ask  of  me  the 
sacrifice  of  what  seems  to  me  the  cause  of  manhood  itself 
— to  sit  down,  meek  and  patient,  under  a  wrong  that  de- 
bases me,  with  the  consciousness  that  all  my  life  I  have  been 
the  miserable  dupe  to  affections  I  deemed  so  honest — to 
regrets  that  I  believed  so  holy.  Ah  !  I  should  feel  more 
mean  in  my  pardon  than  you  can  think  me  in  revenge ! 
Were  it  an  acknowledged  enemy,  I  could  open  my  arms  to 
him  at  your  bidding  ;  but  the  perfidious  friend  ! — ask  it  not. 
My  cheek  burns  at  the  thought,  as  at  the  stain  of  a  blow. 
Give  me  but  to-morrow — one  day — I  demand  no  more — 
wholly  to  myself  and  to  the  past,  and  mould  me  for  the 
future  as  you  will.  Pardon,  pardon  the  ungenerous  thoughts 
that  extended  distrust  to  you.  I  retract  them  ;  they  are 
gone — dispelled  before  those  touching  words,  those  ingenu- 
ous eyes.  At  your  feet,  Violante,  I  repent  and  I  implore  ! 
Your  father  himself  shall  banish  your  sordid  suitor.  Before 
this  hour  to-morrow  you  will  be  free.  Oh  then,  then  !  will 

45* 


1D56  MY  NOVEL;    OR, 

you  not  give  me  this  hand  to  guide  me  again  into  the  para- 
dise  of  my  youth  ?  Violante,  it  is  in  vain  to  wrestle  with 
myself — to  doubt — to  reason — to  be  wisely  fearful — I  love, 
I  love  you.  I  trust  again  in  virtue  and  faith.  I  place  my 
fate  in  your  keeping." 

If  at  times  Violante  may  appear  to  have  ventured  be- 
yond the  limit  of  strict  maiden  bashfulness,  much  may  be 
ascribed  to  her  habitual  candor,  her  solitary  rearing,  and 
remoteness  from  the  world — the  very  innocence  of  her  soul; 
and  the  warmth  of  heart  which  Italy  gives  its  daughters. 
But  now  that  sublimity  of  thought  and  purpose  which  per- 
vaded her  nature,  and  required  only  circumstances  to  de- 
velop, made  her  superior  to  all  the  promptings  of  love 
itself.  Dreams  realized  which  she  had  scarcely  dared  to 
own — Harley  free — Harley  at  her  feet ; — all  the  woman 
struggling  at  her  heart,  mantling  in  her  blushes, — still 
stronger  than  love — stronger  than  the  joy  of  being  loved 
again — was  the  heroic  will — will  to  save  him — who  in  all 
else  ruled  her  existence — from  the  external  degradation  to 
which  passion  had  blinded  his  own  confused  and  warring 
spirit. 

Leaving  one  hand  in  his  impassioned  clasp,  as  he  still 
knelt  before  her,  she  raised  on  high  the  other  :  "Ah  ! "  she 
said,  scarce  audibly — "ah!  if  Heaven  vouchsafe  me  the 
proud  and  blissful  privilege  to  be  allied  toyourfate,to  minister 
to  your  happiness,  never  should  I  know  one  fear  of  your  dis- 
trust. No  time,  no  change,  no  sorrow — not  even  the  loss  of 
your  affection — could  make  me  forfeit  the  right  to  remember 
that  you  had  once  confided  to  me  a  heart  so  noble.  "  But  " — 
here  her  voice  rose  in  its  tone,  and  the  glow  fled  from  her 
cheek — "  But,  O  Thou  the  Ever  Present,  hear  and  receive 
the  solemn  vow.  If  to  me  he  refuse  to  sacrifice  the  sin  that 
would  debase  him,  that  sin  be  the  barrier  between  us  ever- 
more. And  may  my  life,  devoted  to  Thy  service,  atone  for 
the  hour  in  which  he  belied  the  nature  he  received  from 
Thee.  Harley,  release  me  !  I  have  spoken  ;  firm  as  your- 
self, I  leave  the  choice  to  you." 

"  You  judge  me  harshly,"  said  Harley,  rising,  with  sullen 
anger.  "  But  at  least  I  have  not  the  meanness  to  sell  what 
I  hold  as  justice,  though  the  bribe  may  include  my  last 
hope  of  happiness." 

"  Meanness  !  Oh  unhappy,  beloved  Harley  !  "  exclaimed 
Violante,  with  such  a  gush  of  exquisite  reproachful  tender- 
ness, that  it  thrilled  him  as  the  voice  of  the  parting  guardian 


rARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  1067 

angel.  "  Meanness  !  But  it  is  that  from  which  I  implore 
you  to  save  yourself.  You  cannot  judge,  you  cannot  see. 
You  are  dark,  dark.  Lost  Christian  that  you  are,  what 
worse  than  heathen  darkness  to  feign  the  friendship  the 
better  to  betray — to  punish  falsehood  by  becoming  yourself 
so  false — to  accept  the  confidence  even  of  your  bitterest 
foe,  and  then  to  sink  below  his  own  level  in  deceit  ?  And 
oh — worse,  worse  than  all — to  threaten  that  a  son — son  of 
the  woman  you  professed  to  love — should  swell  your  ven- 
geance against  a  father.  No  !  it  was  not  you  that  said  this 
— it  was  the  Fiend  ! " 

"  Enough  ? "  exclaimed  Harley,  startled,  conscience- 
stricken,  and  rushing  into  resentment  in  order  to  escape 
the  sense  of  shame.  "Enough!  you  insult  the  man  you 
professed  to  honor." 

"  I  honored  the  prototype  of  gentleness  and  valor.  I 
honored  one  who  seemed  to  me  to  clothe  with  life  every 
grand  and  generous  image  that  is  born  from  the  souls  of 
poets.  Destroy  that  ideal,  and  you  destroy  the  Harley 
whom  I  honored.  He  is  dead  to  me  for  ever.  I  will  mourn 
for  him  as  his  widow — faithful  to  his  memory — weeping 
over  the  thought  of  what  he  was."  Sobs  choked  her  voice  ; 
but  as  Harley,  once  more  melted,  sprang  forward  to  regain 
her  side,  she  escaped  with  a  yet  quicker  movement, 
gained  the  door,  and  darting  down  the  corridor,  vanished 
from  his  sight. 

Harley  stood  still  one  moment,  thoroughly  irresolute — 
nay,  almost  subdued.  Then  sternness,  though  less  rigid 
than  before,  gradually  came  to  his  brow.  The  demon  had 
still  its  hold  in  the  stubborn  and  marvellous  pertinacy  with 
which  the  man  clung  to  all  that  once  struck  root  at  his 
heart.  With  a  sudden  impulse,  that  still  withheld  decision, 
yet  spoke  of  sore-shaken  purpose,  he  strode  to  his  desk, 
drew  from  it  Nora's  manuscript,  and  passed  from  his  room. 

Harley  had  meant  never  to  have  revealed  to  Audley  the 
secret  he  had  gained,  until  the  moment  when  revenge  was 
consummated.  He  had  contemplated  no  vain  reproach. 
His  wrath  would  have  spoken  forth  in  deeds,  and  then  a 
word  would  have  sufficed  as  the  key  to  nil.  Willing,  per- 
haps, to  hail  some  extenuation  of  perfidy,  though  the  pos- 
sibility of  such  extenuation  he  had  never  before  admitted, 
he  determined  on  the  interview  which  he  had  hitherto  so 
obstinately  shunned,  and  went  straight  to  the  room  in 
which  Audley  Egerton  still  sat  solitary  and  fearful. 


io68  MY  NOVEL;    OR, 


CHAPTER  XXX. 

EGERTON  heard  the  well-known  step  advancing  near  and 
nearer  up  the  corridor — heard  the  door  open  and  reclose — 
and  he  felt,  by  one  of  those  strange  and  unaccountable 
instincts  which  we  call  forebodings,  that  the  hour  he  had 
dreaded  for  so  many  secret  years  had  come  at  Irst.  He 
nerved  his  courage,  withdrew  his  hands  from  his  face,  and 
rose  in  silence.  No  less  silent,  Harley  stood  before  him. 
The  two  men  gazed  on  each  other  ;  you  might  have  heard 
their  breathing. 

"You  have  seen  Mr.  Dale?"  said  Egerton,  at  length. 
"You  know " 

"  All !  "  said  Harley,  completing   the  arrested  sentence. 

Audley  drew  a  long  sigh.  "  Be  it  so  ;  but  no,  Harley  ; 
you  deceive  yourself  ;  you  cannot  know  all,  from  any  one 
living,  save  myself." 

"My  knowledge  comes  from  the  dead,"  answered  Har- 
ley, and  the  fatal  memoir  dropped  from  his  hand  upon  the 
table.  The  leaves  fell  with  a  dull,  low  sound,  mournful  and 
faint  as  might  be  the  tread  of  a  ghost,  if  the  tread  gave 
sound.  They  fell,  those  still  confessions  of  an  obscure,  un- 
comprehended  life,  amidst  letters  and  documents  eloquent 
of  the  strife  that  was  then  agitating  millions,  the  fleeting, 
turbulent  fears  and  hopes  that  torture  parties  and  perplex 
a  nation  ;  the  stormy  business  of  practical  public  life,  so  re- 
mote from  individual  love  and  individual  sorrow. 

Egerton's  eyes  saw  them  fall.  The  room  was  but  par- 
tially lighted.  At  the  distance  where  he  stood,  he  did  not 
recognize  the  characters,  but  involuntarily  he  shivered,  and 
involuntarily  drew  near. 

"  Hold  yet  awhile,"  said  Harley.  "I  produce  my  charge, 
and  then  I  leave  you  to  dispute  the  'only  witness  that  I 
bring.  Audley  Egerton,  you  took  from  me  the  gravest 
trust  one  man  can  confide  to  another.  You  knew  how  I 
loved  Leonora  Avenel.  I  was  forbiden  to  see  and  urge  my 
suit ;  you  had  the  access  to  her  presence  which  was  denied 
to  myself.  I  prayed  you  to  remove  scruples  that  I  deemed 
too  generous,  and  to  woo  her,  not  to  dishonor,  but  to  be  my 
wife.  Was  it  so?  Answer." 


VARIETIES  IX  ENGLISH  LIFE.  1069 

"  It  is  true,"  said  Audley,  his  hand  clenched  at  his 
heart. 

"You  saw  her  whom  I  thus  loved — her  thus  confided  to 
your  honor.  You  wooed  her  for  yourself.  Is  it  so  ?" 

"  Harley,  I  deny  it  not.  Cease  here.  I  accept  the  pen- 
alty ; — I  resign  your  friendship  ; — I  quit  your  roof  ; — I  sub- 
mit to  your  contempt; — I  dare  not  implore  your  pardon. 
Cease ;  let  rne  go  hence,  and  soon  !  " — The  strong  man 
gasped  for  breath. 

Harley  looked  at  him  steadfastly,  then  turned  away  his 
eyes,  and  went  on.  "Nay,"  said  he,  "is  that  ALL?  You 
wooed  her  for  yourself — you  won  her.  Account  to  me  for 
that  life  which  you  wrenched  from  mine.  You  are  silent. 
I  will  take  on  myself  your  task  ;  you  took  that  life  and  des- 
troyed it." 

"  Spare  me,  spare  me  !  " 

"  What  was  the  fate  of  her  who  seemed  so  fresh  from 
heaven  when  these  eyes  beheld  her  last  ?  A  broken  heart 
— a  dishonored  name — an  early  doom — a  forgotten  grave- 
stone." 

"  No,  no — forgotten — no  !  " 

"  Not  forgotten  !  Scarce  a  year  passed,  and  you  were 
married  to  another.  I  aided  you  to  form  those  nuptials 
which  secured  your  fortunes.  You  have  had  rank,  and 
power,  and  fame.  Peers  call  you  the  type  of  English 
gentlemen.  Priests  hold  you  as  a  model  of  Christian 
honor.  Strip  the  mask,  Audley  Egerton  ;  let  the  world 
know  you  for  what  you  are  !  " 

Egerton  raised  his  head,  and  folded  his  arms  calmly  ; 
but  he  said,  with  a  melancholy  humility — "  I  bear  all  from 
you  ;  it  is  just.  Say  on." 

"You  took  from  me  the  heart  of  Nora  Avenel.  You 
abandoned  her — you  destroyed.  And  her  memory  cast  no 
shadow  over  your  daily  sunshine  ;  while  over  my  thoughts 
• — over  my  life — oh,  Egerton — Audley,  Audley — how  could 
you  have  deceived  me  thus !  "  Here  the  inherent  tender- 
ness under  all  this  hate — the  fount  imbedded  under  the 
hardening  stone — broke  out.  Harley  was  ashamed  of  his 
weakness,  and  hurried  on. 

"  Deceived — not  for  an  hour,  a  day,  but  through  bligh- 
ted youth,  through  listless  manhood — you  suffered  me  to 
nurse  the  remorse  that  should  have  been  your  own ; — 
her  life  slain,  mine  wasted  ;  and  shall  neither  of  us  have  re- 
venge ? " 


io?o  MY  NOVEL;    OR, 

"  Revenge  !     Ah,  Harley,  you  have  had  it !  " 

"  No,  but  I  await  it !  Not  in  vain  from  the  charnel 
have  come  to  me  the  records  I  produce.  And  whom  did 
fate  select  to  discover  the  \vrongs  of  the  mother? — whom 
appoint  as  her  avenger  ?  Your  son — your  own  son  ;  your 
abandoned,  nameless  son  !  " 

"  Son — son  !  " 

"  Whom  I  delivered  from  famine,  or  from  worse  ;  and 
who,  in  return,  has  given  into  my  hands  the  evidence  which 
proclaims  in  you  the  perjured  friend  of  Harley  L'Estrange, 
and  the  fraudulent  seducer,  under  mock  marriage  forms — 
worse  than  all  franker  sin — of  Leonora  Avenel." 

"It  is  false — false!"  exclaimed  Egerton,  all  his  state- 
liness  and  all  his  energy  restored  to  him.  "  I  forbid  you 
to  speak  thus  to  me.  I  forbid  you  by  one  word  to  sully  the 
memory  of  my  lawful  wife." 

"  Ah  !  "  said  Harley,  startled,  "  ah  !  false  !  Prove  that, 
and  revenge  is  over  !  Thank  Heaven  !  " 

Prove  it  !  What  so  easy  ?  And  wherefore  have  I  de- 
layed the  proof — wherefore  concealed,  but  from  tenderness 
to  you — dread,  too— a  selfish  but  human  dread — to  lose  in 
you  the  sole  esteem  that  I  covet ; — the  only  mourner  who 
would  have  shed  one  tear  over  the  stone  inscribed  with 
some  lying  epitaph,  in  which  it  will  suit  a  party  purpose  to 
proclaim  the  gratitude  of  a  nation.  Vain  hope  !  I  resign 
it  !  But  you  spoke  of  a  son.  Alas,  alas  !  you  are  again  de- 
ceived. I  heard  that  I  had  a  son — years,  long  years  ago. 
I  sought  him,  and  found  a  grave.  But  bless  you,  Harley, 
if  you  succored  one  whom  you  even  erringly  suspect  to  be 
Leonora's  child  ! "  He  stretched  forth  his  hands  as  he 
spoke. 

"Of  your  son  we  will  speak  later,"  said  Harley,  strangely 
softened.  "  But  before  I  say  more  of  him,  let  me  ask  you 
to  explain — let  me  hope  that  you  can  extenuate  what  - 

"You  are  right,"  interrupted  Egerton,  with  eager  quick- 
ness. "  You  would  know  from  my  own  lips  at  last  the  plain 
tale  of  my  own  offence  against  you.  It  is  due  to  both. 
Patiently  hear  me  out." 

Then  Egerton  told  all  ;  his  own  love  for  Nora — his 
struggles  against  what  he  felt  as  treason  to  his  friend — his 
sudden  discovery  of  Nora's  love  for  him  ; — on  that  discovery, 
the  overthrow  of  all  his  resolutions  ;  their  secret  marriage 
— their  separation  ;  Nora's  flight,  to  which  Audley  still 
assigned  but  her  groundless  vague  suspicion  that  their  nup- 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  107 1 

tials  had  not  been  legal,  and  her  impatience  of  his  own 
delay  in  acknowledging  the  rite. 

His  listener  interrupted  him  here  with  a  few  questions  ; 
the  clear  and  prompt  replies  to  which  enabled  Harley  to 
detect  Levy's  plausible  perversion  of  the  facts  ;  and  he 
vaguely  guessed  the  cause  of  the  usurer's  falsehood,  in  the 
criminal  passion  which  the  ill-fated  bride  had  inspired. 

"Egerton,"  said  Harley  >  stifling  with  an  effort  his  own 
wrath  against  the  vile  deceiver  both  of  wife  and  husband, 
"if,  on  reading  those  papers,  you  find  that  Leonora  had 
more  excuse  for  her  suspicions  and  flight  than  you  now  deem, 
and  discover  perfidy  in  one  to  whom  you  trusted  your  secret, 
leave  his  punishment  to  Heaven.  All  that  you  say  con- 
vinces me  more  and  more  that  we  cannot  even  see  through 
the  cloud,  much  less  guide  the  thunderbolt.  But  proceed." 

Audley  looked  surprised  and  startled,  and  his  eye  turned 
wistfully  toward  the  papers  ;  but  after  a  short  pause  he  con- 
tinued his  recital.  He  came  to  Nora's  unexpected  return  to 
her  father's  house — her  death — his  conquest  of  his  own  grief, 
that  he  might  spare  Harley  the  abrupt  shock  of  learning  her 
decease.  He  had  torn  himself  from  the  dead,  in  remorseful 
sympathy  with  the  living.  He  spoke  of  Harley's  illness,  so 
nearly  fatal — repeated  Harley's  jealous  words,  "that  he 
would  rather  mourn  Nora's  death,  than  take  comfort  from 
the  thought  that  she  had  loved  another."  He  spoke  of  his 
journey  to  the  village  where  Mr.  Dale  had  told  him  Nora's 
child  was  placed — "  and,  hearing  that  child  and  mother 
were  alike  gone,  whom  now  could  I  right  by  acknowledging 
a  bond  that  I  feared  would  so  wring  your  heart  ? "  Audley 
again  paused  a  moment,  and  resumed  in  short,  nervous, 
impressive  sentences.  This  cold,  austere  man  of  the  world 
for  the  first  time  bared  his  heart — unconscious,  perhaps, 
that  he  did  so — unconscious  that  he  revealed  how  deeply, 
amidst  state  cares  and  public  distinctions,  he  had  felt  the 
absence  of  affections — how  mechanical  was  that  outer  circle 
in  the  folds  of  life  which  is  called  '-a  career" — how  value- 
less wealth  had  grown — none  to  inherit  it.  Of  his  gnawing 
and  progressive  disease  alone  he  did  not  speak  ;  he  was 
too  proud  and  too  masculine  to  appeal  to  pity  for  physical 
ills.  He  reminded  Harley  how  often,  how  eagerly,  year 
after  year,  month  after  month,  he  had  urged  his  friend  to 
rouse  himself  from  mournful  dreams,  devote  his  native 
powers  to  his  country,  or  seek  the  surer  felicity  of  domestic 
ties.  "  Selfish  in  these  attempts  I  might  be,"  said  Egerton  ; 


1072  MY  NOVEL;   OR, 

"it  was  only  if  I  saw  you  restored  to  happiness  that  I  could 
believe  you  could  calmly  hear  my  explanation  of  the  past, 
and  on  the  floor  of  some  happy  home  grant  me  your  for- 
giveness. I  longed  to  confess,  and  I  dared  not.  Often 
have  the  words  rushed  to  my  lips — as  often  some  chance 
sentence  from  you  repelled  me.  In  a  word,  with  you  were 
so  entwined  all  thoughts  and  affections  of  my  youth — even 
those  that  haunted  the  grave  of  Nora — that  I  could  not 
bear  to  resign  your  friendship,  and,  surrounded  by  the 
esteem  and  honor  of  a  world  I  cared  not  for,  to  meet  the 
contempt  of  your  reproachful  eye." 

Amidst  all  that  Audley  said — amidst  all  that  admitted 
of  no  excuse — two  predominant  sentiments  stood  clear,  in 
unmistakable  and  touching  pathos.  Remorseful  regret  for 
the  lost  Nora — and  self-accusing,  earnest,  almost  feminine 
tenderness  for  the  friend  he  had  deceived.  Thus,  as  he  con- 
tinued to  speak,  Harley  more  and  more  forgot  even  the  re- 
membrance of  his  own  guilty  and  terrible  interval  of  hate  ; 
the  gulf  that  had  so  darkly  yawned  between  the  two  closed 
up,  leaving  them  still  standing,  side  by  side,  as  in  their 
school-boy  days.  But  he  remained  silent,  listening — shad- 
ing his  face  from  Audley,  and  as  if  under  some  soft  but  en- 
thralling spell,  till  Egerton  thus  closed — 

"  And  now,  Harley,  all  is  told.     You  spoke  of  revenge  ?  " 

"  Revenge  !  "  muttered  Harley,  starting. 

"  And  believe  me,"  continued  Egerton,  "  were  revenge 
in  your  power,  I  should  rejoice  at  it  as  an  atonement.  To 
receive  an  injury  in  return  for  that  which,  first  from  youth- 
ful passion,  and  afterward  from  the  infirmity  of  purpose 
that  concealed  the  wrong  I  have  inflicted  upon  you — why, 
that  would  soothe  my  conscience,  and  raise  my  lost  self- 
esteem.  The  sole  revenge  you  can  bestow  takes  the  form 
which  most  humiliates  me, — to  revenge,  is  to  pardon." 

Harley  groaned  ;  and  still  hiding  his  face  with  one  hand, 
stretched  forth  the  other,  but  rather  with  the  air  of  one 
who  entreats  than  who  accords  forgiveness.  Audley  took 
and  pressed  the  hand  thus  extended. 

"  And  now,  Harley,  farewell.  With  the  dawn  I  leave  ' 
this  house.  I  cannot  new  accept  your  aid  in  this  election. 
Levy  shall  announce  my  resignation.  Randal  Leslie,  if  you 
please  it,  may  be  returned  in  my  stead.  He  has  abilities 
which,  under  safe  guidance,  may  serve  his  country  ;  and  I 
have  no  right  to  reject,  from  vain  pride,  whatever  will  pro- 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  1073 

mote  the  career  of  one  whom  I  undertook,  and  have  failed, 
to  serve." 

"  Ay,  ay,"  muttered  Harley ;  think  not  of  Randal  Les- 
lie ;  think  but  of  your  son." 

"My  son!  But  are  you  sure  that  he  still  lives?  You 
smile  ;  you — you — oh,  Harley — I  took  from  you  the  mother, 
— give  to  me  the  son  ;  break  my  heart  with  gratitude.  Your 
revenge  is  found  !  " 

Lord  L'Estrange  rose  with  a  sudden  start — gazed  on 
Audley  for  a  moment — irresolute,  not  from  resentment,  but 
from  shame.  At  that  moment  he  was  the  man  humbled  ; 
he  was  the  man  who  feared  reproach,  and  who  needed  par- 
don. Audley,  not  divining  what  was  thus  passing  in  Har- 
ley's  breast,  turned  away. 

"  You  think  that  I  ask  too  much  ;  and  yet  all  that  I  can 
give  to  the  child  of  my  love,  and  the  heir  of  my  name,  is  the 
worthless  blessing  of  a  ruined  man.  Harley,  I  say  no  more. 
I  dare  not  add, '  You  too  loved  his  mother !  and  with  a  deeper 
and  a  nobler  love  than  mine.'  "  He  stopped  short,  and 
Harley  flung  himself  on  his  breast. 

"  Me — me — pardon  me,  Audley  !  Your  offence  has  been 
slight  to  mine.  You  have  told  me  your  offence  ;  never  can 
I  name  to  you  my  own.  Rejoice  that  we  have  both  to  ex- 
change forgiveness,  and  in  that  exchange  we  are  equal  still, 
Audley— brothers  still.  Look  up — look  up  ;  think  that  we 
are  boys  now  as  we  were  once, — boys  who  have  had  their 
wild  quarrel — and  who,  the  moment  it  is  over,  feel  dearer 
to  each  other  than  before." 

"  Oh,  Harley,  this  is  revenge  !  It  strikes  home,"  mur- 
mured Egerton, — and  tears  gushed  fast  from  eyes  that  could 
have  gazed  unwinking  on  the  rack.  The  clock  struck  ; 
Harley  sprang  forward. 

"  I  have  time  yet,"  he  cried  ;  much  to  do  and  to  undo. 
You  are  saved  from  the  grasp  of  Levy, — your  election  will 
be  won, — your  fortunes  in  much  may  be  restored, — you  have 
before  you  honors  not  yet  achieved, — your  career,  as  yet,  is 
scarce  begun, — your  son  will  embrace  you  to-morrow.  Let 
me  go — your  hand  again  \  Ah,  Audley,  we  shall  be  so  happy 
yet ! " 


1074  MY  NOVEL;    OR, 


CHAPTER  XXXI. 

"  THERE  is  a  hitch,"  said  Dick,  pithily,  when  Randal 
joined  him  in  the  oak  copse  at  ten  o'clock.  "  Life  is  full 
of  hitches." 

RANDAL. — The  art  of  life  is  to  smoothe  them  away.  What 
hitch  is  this,  my  dear  Avenel  ? 

DICK. — Leonard  has  taken  huff  at  certain  expressions  of 
Lord  L'Estrange's  at  the  nomination  to-day,  and  talks  of 
retiring  from  the  contest. 

RANDAL  (with  secret  glee). — But  his  resignation  would 
smoothe  a  hitch — not  create  one.  The  votes  promised  to 
him  would  thus  be  freed,  and  go  to 

DICK. — The  Right  Honorable  Red-Tapist. 

RANDAL. — Are  you  serious  ? 

DICK. — As  an  undertaker  !  The  fact  is,  there  are  two 
parties  among  the  Yellows,  as  there  are  in  the  Church — 
High  Yellow  and  Low  Yellow.  Leonard  has  made  great 
way  with  the  High  Yellows,  and  has  more  influence  with 
them  than  I  ;  and  the  High  Yellows  infinitely  preferred 
Egerton  to  yourself.  They  say,  '  Politics  apart,  he  would 
be  an  honor  to  the  borough.'  Leonard  is  of  the  same  opin- 
ion ;  and  if  he  retires,  I  don't  think  I  could  coax  either  him 
or  the  Highflyers  to  make  you  any  the  better  by  his  resig- 
nation. 

RANDAL. — But  surely  your  nephew's  sense  of  gratitude 
to  you  would  induce  him  not  to  go  against  your  wishes  ? 

DICK. — Unluckily,  the  gratitude  is  all  the  other  way. 
It  is  I  who  am  under  obligations  to  him — not  he  to  me. 
As  for  Lord  L'Estrange,  I  can't  make  head  or  tail  of  his 
real  intentions  ;  and  why  he  should  have  attacked  Leonard 
in  that  way,  puzzles  me  more  than  all,  for  he  wished  Leo- 
nard to  stand.  And  Levy  has  privately  informed  me  that, 
in  spite  of  my  lord's  friendship  for  the  Right  Honorable, 
you  are  the  man  he  desires  to  secure. 

RANDAL. — He  has  certainly  shown  that  desire  through- 
out the  whole  canvass. 

DICK. — I  suspect  that  the  borough-mongers  have  got  a 
seat  for  Egerton  elsewhere  ;  or,  perhaps,  should  his  party 
come  in  again,  he  is  to  be  pitchforked  into  the  Upper 
House. 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  1075 

RANDAL  (smiling). — Ah,  Avenel,  you  are  so  shrewd  ;  you 
see  through  everything.  I  will  also  add,  that  Egerton 
wants  some  short  respite  from  public  life  in  order  to  nurse 
his  health  and  attend  to  his  affairs,  otherwise  I  could  not 
even  contemplate  the  chance  of  the  electors  preferring  me 
to  him,  without  a  pang. 

DICK. — Pang  ! — stuff — considerable.  The  oak  trees  don't 
hear  us  !  You  want  to  come  into  Parliament,  and  no  mis- 
take. If  I  am  the  man  to  retire — as  I  always  proposed,  and 
had  got  Leonard  to  agree  to-,  before  this  confounded  speech 
of  L'Estrange's — come  into  Parliament  you  will,  for  the 
Low  Yellows  I  can  twist  round  my  finger,  provided  the 
High  Yellows  will  not  interfere  ;  in  short,  I  could  trans- 
fer to  you  votes  promised  to -me,  but  I  can't  answer  for 
those  promised  to  Leonard.  Levy  tells  me  you  are  to 
marry  a  rich  girl,  and  will  have  lots  of  money  ;  so,  of 
course,  you  will  pay  my  expenses  if  you  come  in  through 
my  votes. 

RANDAL. — My  dear  Avenel,  certainly  I  will. 

DICK. — And  I  have  two  private  bills  I  want  to  smuggle 
through  Parliament. 

RANDAL. — They  shall  be  smuggled,  rely  on  it.  Mr. 
Fairfield  being  on  one  side  of  the  House,  and  I  on  the 
other,  we  two  could  prevent  all  unpleasant  opposition. 
Private  bills  are  easily  managed — with  that  tact  which  I 
flatter  myself  I  possess. 

DICK. — And  when  the  bills  are  through  the  House,  and 
you  have  had  time  to  look  about  you,  I  dare  say  you  will 
see  that  no  man  can  go  against  Public  Opinion,  unless  he 
wants  to  knock  his  own  head  against  a  stone  wall  ;  and 
that  Public  Opinion  is  decidedly  Yellow. 

RANDAL  (with  candor). — I  cannot  deny  that  Public 
Opinion  is  Yellow  ;  and  at  my  age  it  is  natural  that  I 
should  not  commit  myself  to  the  policy  of  a  former  gene- 
ration. Blue  is  fast  wearing  out.  But,  to  return  to  Mr. 
Fairfield — you  do  not  speak  as  if  you  had  no  hope  of  keep- 
ing him  straight  to  what  I  understand  to  be  his  agreement 
with  yourself.  Surely  his  honor  is  engaged  to  it. 

DICK. — I  don't  know  as  to  honor  ;  but  he  has  now 
taken  a  fancy  to  public  life,  at  least  so  he  said  no  later 
than  this  morning  before  we  went  into  the  hall  ;  and  I 
trust  that  matters  will  come  right.  Indeed,  I  left  him  with 
Parson  Dale,  who  promised  me  that  he  would  use  all  his 


1076  MY  NOVEL;   OR, 

best  exertions  to  reconcile  Leonard  and  my  lord,  and  that 
Leonard  should  do  nothing  hastily. 

RANDAL. — But  why  should  Mr.  Fairfield  retire  because 
Lord  L'Estrange  wounds  his  feelings?  I  am  sure  Mr. 
Fairfield  has  wounded  mine,  but  that  does  not  make  me 
think  of  retiring. 

DICK. — Oh,  Leonard  is  a  poet,  and  poets  are  quite  as 
crotchety  as  L'Estrange  said  they  were.  And  Leonard  is 
under  obligations  to  Lord  L'Estrange,  and  thought  that 
Lord  L'Estrange  was  pleased  by  his  standing  ;  whereas,  now 
— in  short,  it  is  all  Greek  to  me,  except  that  Leonard  has 
mounted  his  high  horse,  and  if  that  throws  him,  I  am  afraid 
it  will  throw  you.  But  still  I  have  great  confidence  in 
Parson  Dale — a  good  fellow>  who  has  much  influence  with 
Leonard.  And  though  I  thought  it  right  to  be  above- 
board,  and  let  you  know  where  the  danger  lies,  yet  one 
thing  I  can  promise — if  I  resign,  you  shall  come  in  ;  so 
shake  hands  on  it. 

RANDAL. — My  dear  Avenel !  And  your  wish  is  to  re- 
sign ? 

DICK. — Certainly.  I  should  do  so  a  little  time  after 
noon,  contriving  to  be  below  Leonard  on  the  poll.  You 
know  Emanuel  Trout,  the  captain  of  the  Hundred  and 
Fifty  "  Waiters  on  Providence,"  as  they  are  called  ? 

RANDAL. — To  be  sure  sure  I  do. 

DICK. — When  Emanuel  Trout  comes  into  the  booth, 
you  will  know  how  the  election  turns.  As  he  votes,  all  the 
Hundred  and  Fifty  will  vote.  Now  I  must  go  back.  Good 
night.  You'll  not  forget  that  my  expenses  are  to  be  paid. 
Point  of  honor.  Still,  if  they  are  not  paid,  the  election  can 
be  upset — petition  for  bribery  and  corruption  ;  and  if  they 
are  paid,  why  Lansmere  may  be  your  seat  for  life. 

RANDAL. — Your  expenses  shall  be  paid  the  moment  my 
marriage  gives  me  the  means  to  pay  them — and  that  must 
be  very  soon. 

DICK. — So  Levy  says.  And  my  little  jobs — the  pri- 
vate bills  ? 

RANDAL. — Consider  the  bills  passed  and  the  jobs  done. 

DICK. — And  one  must  not  forget  one's  country.  One 
must  do  the  best  one  can  for  one's  principles.  Egerton  is 
infernally  Blue.  You  allow  Public  Opinion — is 

RANDAL. — Yellow.     Not  a  doubt  of  it. 

DICK. — Good  Night.     Ha — ha — humbug,  eh  ? 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  1077 

RANDAL. — Humbug !  Between  men  like  us — oh  no. 
Good  night,  my  dear  friend — I  rely  on  you. 

DICK. — Yes  ;  but  mind,  I  promise  nothing  if  Leonard 
Fairfield  does  not  stand. 

RANDAL. — He  must  stand  ;  keep  him  to  it.  Your  affairs 
'• — your  business — your  mill 

DICK. — Very  true.  He  must  stand.  I  have  great  faith 
in  Parson  Dale. 

Randal  glided  back  through  the  park.  When  he  came 
on  the  terrace,  he  suddenly  encountered  Lord  L'Estrange. 
"  I  have  just  been  privately  into  the  town,  my  dear  lord, 
and  heard  a  strange  rumor,  that  Mr.  Fairfield  was  so  an- 
noyed by  some  remarks  in  your  lordship's  admirable  speech, 
that  he  talks  of  retiring  from  the  contest.  That  would  give 
a  new  feature  to  the  election,  and  perplex  all  our  calcula- 
tions. And  I  fear,  in  that  case,  there  might  be  some  secret 
coalition  between  Avenel's  friends  and  our  Committee, 
whom,  I  am  told,  I  displeased  by  the  moderate  speech 
which  your  lordship  so  eloquently  defended — a  coalition  by 
which  Avenel  would  come  in  with  Mr.  Egerton  ;  whereas, 
if  we  all  four  stand,  Mr.  Egerton,  I  presume,  will  be  quite 
safe  ;  and  I  certainly  think  I  have  an  excellent  chance." 

LORD  L'ESTRANGE. — So  Mr.  Fairfield  will  retire  in  con- 
sequence of  my  remarks  !  I  am  going  into  the  town,  and  I 
intend  to  apologize  for  those  remarks,  and  retract  them. 

RANDAL  (joyously). — Noble  ! 

Lord  L'Estrange  looked  at  Leslie's  face,  upon  which 
the  stars  gleamed  palely.  "Mr.  Egerton  has  thought  more 
of  your  success  than  of  his  own,"  said  he,  gravely,  and 
hurried  on. 

Randal  continued  on  the  terrace.  Perhaps  Harley's 
last  "words  gave  him  a  twinge  of  compunction.  His  head 
sunk  musingly  on  his  breast,  and  he  paced  to  and  fro  the 
long  gravel  walk,  summoning  up  all  his  intellect  to  resist 
every  temptation  to  what  could  injure  his  self-interest. 

"  Skulking  knave  !  "  muttered  Harley.  "  At  least  there 
will  be  nothing  to  repent,  if  I  can  do  justice  on  him.  That 
is  not  revenge.  Come,  that  must  be  fair  retribution.  Be- 
sides, how  else  can  I  deliver  Violante?" — He  laughed  gaily, 
his  heart  was  so  light ;  and  his  foot  bounded  on  as  fleet  as 
the  deer  that  he  startled  amongst  the  fern. 

A  few  yards  from  the  turnstile  he  overtook  Richard 
Avenel,  disguised  in  a  rough  great-coat  and  spectacles. 
Nevertheless  Harley's  eye  detected  the  Yellow  candidate  at 


1078  MY  NOVEL;    OR, 

the  first  glance.  Me  caught  Dick  familiarly  by  the  arm. 
"  Well  met — I  was  going  to  you.  We  have  the  election  to 
settle." 

"On  the  terms  I  mentioned  to  your  lordship?"  said 
Dick,  startled.  "  I  will  agree  to  return  one  of  your  can- 
didates ;  but  it  must  not  be  Audley  Egerton."  Harley 
whispered  close  to  Avenel's  ear. 

Avenel  uttered  an  exclamation  of  amazement.  The 
two  gentlemen  walked  on  rapidly,  and  conversing  with 
.great  eagerness. 

"  Certainly,"  said  Avenel,  at  length  stopping  short, 
"  one  would  do  a  great  deal  to  serve  a  family  connection 
— and  a  connection  that  does  a  man  so  much  credit  ;  and 
how  can  one  go  against  one's  own  brother-in-law  ? — a 
gentleman  of  such  high  standing — pull  up  the  whole 
family  !  How  pleased  Mrs.  Richard  Avenel  will  be  !  Why 
the  devil  did  not  I  know  it  before  ?  And  poor—  dear — 
dear  Nora.  Ah,  that  she  were  living ! "  Dick's  voice 
trembled. 

"  Her  name  will  be  righted  ;  and  I  will  explain  how  it 
was  my  fault  that  Egerton  did  not  before  acknowledge  his 
marriage,  and  claim  you  as  a  brother.  Come,  then,  it  is  all 
fixed  and  settled." 

"  No,  my  lord  ;  I  am  pledged  the  other  way.  I  don't 
see  how  I  can  get  off  my  word — to  Randal  Leslie.  I'm  not 
over-nice,  nor  what  is  called  Quixotic,  but  still  my  word  is 
given,  that  if  I  retire  from  the  election,  I  will  do  my  best 
to  return  Leslie  instead  of  Egerton." 

"  I  know  that  through  Baron  Levy.  But  if  your  nephew 
retires  ? " 

"  Oh,  that  would  solve  all  difficulties.  But  the  poor  boy 
has  now  a  wish  to  come  into  Parliament  ;  and  he  has  done 
me  a  service  in  the  hour  of  need." 

"  Leave  it  to  me.  And  as  to  Randal  Leslie,  he  shall  have 
an  occasion  himself  to  acquit  you  and  redeem  himself  ;  and 
happy,  indeed,  will  it  be  for  him  if  he  has  yet  one  spark  of 
gratitude,  or  one  particle  of  honor." 

The  two  continued  to  converse  for  a  few  moments — Dick 
seeming  to  forget  the  election  itself,  and  ask  questions  of 
more  interest  to  his  heart,  which  Harley  answered  so,  that 
Dick  wrung  L'Estrange's  hand  with  great  emotion — and 
muttered,  "  My  poor  mother  !  I  understand  now  why  she 
would  never  talk  to  me  of  Nora.  When  may  I  tell  her  the 
truth  ? " 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  1079 

"  To-morrow  evening,  after  the  election  ;  Egerton  shall 
embrace  you  all." 

Dick  started,  and  saying — "  See  Leonard  as  soon  as  you 
can — there  is  no  time  to  lose,"  plunged  into  a  lane  that 
led  toward  the  obscurer  recesses  of  the  town.  Harley 
continued  his  way  with  the  same  light  elastic  tread  which 
(lost  during  his  abnegation  of  his  own  nature)  was  now  re- 
stored to  the  foot,  that  seemed  loth  to  leave  a  print  upon 
the  mire. 

At  the  commencement  of  the  High  Street  he  encountered 
Mr.  Dale  and  Fairfield,  walking  slowly,  arm  in  arm. 

HARLEY. — Leonard,  I  was  coming  to  you.  Give  me  your 
hand.  Forget  for  the  present  the  words  that  justly  stung 
and  offended  you.  I  will  do  more  than  apologize — I  will 
repair  the  wrong.  Excuse  me,  Mr.  Dale — I  have  one 
word  to  say  in  private  to  Leonard. — He  drew  Fairfield 
aside. 

"  Avenel  tells  me  that  if  you  were  to  retire  from  this 
contest  it  would  be  a  sacrifice  of  inclination.  Is  it  so  ? " 

*'  My  lord,  I  have  sorrows  that  I  would  fain  forget  ;  and, 
though  I  at  first  shrunk  from  the  strife  in  which  I  have  been 
since  engaged,  yet  now  a  literary  career  seems  to  me  to  have 
lost  its  old  charm  ;  and  I  find  that,  in  public  life,  there  is  a 
distraction  to  the  thoughts  which  embitter  solitude,  that 
books  fail  to  bestow.  Therefore,  if  you  still  wish  me  to  con- 
tinue this  contest,  though  I  know  not  your  motive,  it  will 
not  be  as  it  was  to  begin  it — a  reluctant  and  a  painful  obedi- 
ence to  your  request." 

"  I  understand.  It  was  a  sacrifice  of  inclination  to  be- 
gin the  contest — it  would  be  now  a  sacrifice  of  inclination 
to  withdraw  !  " 

"  Honestly — yes,  my  lord." 

"  I  rejoice  to  hear  it,  for  I  ask  that  sacrifice  ;  a  sacrifice 
which  you  will  recall  hereafter  with  delight  and  pride  ;  a 
sacrifice  sweeter,  if  I  read  your  nature  aright — oh,  sweeter 
far,  than  all  which  common-place  ambition  could  bestow  J 
And  when  you  learn  why  I  make  this  demand,  you  will  say, 
'  This,  indeed,  is  reparation  for  the  words  that  wounded  my 
affections,  and  wronged  my  heart.'  " 

"My  lord,  my  lord!"  exclaimed  Leonard,  "the  injury 
is  repaired  already.  You  give  me  back  your  esteem,  when 
you  so  well  anticipate  my  answer.  Your  esteem  ! — life 
smiles  again.  I  can  return  to  my  more  legitimate  career 
without  a  sigh.  I  have  no  need  of  distraction  from  thought 


io8o  MY  NOVEL;    OK, 

now.  You  will  believe  that,  whatever  my  past  presximption, 
I  can  pray  sincerely  for  your  happiness." 

"  Poet !  you  adorn  your  career  ;  you  fulfil  your  mission, 
even  at  this  moment ;  you  beautify  the  world  ;  you  give  to 
the  harsh  form  of  Duty  the  cestus  of  the  Graces,"  said  Har- 
ley,  trying  to  force  a  smile  to  his  quivering  lips.  "But  we 
must  hasten  back  to  the  prose  of  existence.  I  accept  your 
sacrifice.  As  for  the  time  and  mode  I  must  select,  in  order 
to  insure  its  result,  I  will  ask  you  to  abide  by  such  instruc- 
tions as  I  shall  have  occasion  to  convey  through  your  uncle. 
Till  then,  no  word  of  your  intentions — not  even  to  Mr. 
Dale.  Forgive  me  if  I  would  rather  secure  Mr.  Egerton's 
election  than  yours.  •  Let  'that  explanation  suffice  for  the 
present.  What  think  you,  by  the  way,  of  Audley  Egerton  ?" 

"  I  thought  when  I  heard  him  speak,  and  when  he  closed 
with  those  touching  words — implying  that  he  left  all  of  his 
life  not  devoted  to  his  country,  '  to  the  charity  of  his  friends ' 
— how  proudly,  even  as  his  opponent,  I  could,  have  clasped 
his  hand  ;  and  if  he  had  wronged  me  in  private  life,  I  should 
have  thought  it  ingratitude  to  the  country  he  had  so  served, 
to  remember  the  offence." 

Harley  turned  away  abruptly,  and  joined  Mr.  Dale. 

"  Leave  Leonard  to  go  home  by  himself  ;  you  see  that  I 
have  healed  whatever  wounds  I  inflicted  on  him." 

PARSON. — And,  your  better  nature  thus  awakened,  I  trust, 
my  dear  lord,  that  you  have  altogether  abandoned  the  idea 
of 

HARLEY. — Revenge  ? — No.  And  if  you  do  not  approve 
that  revenge  to-morrow,  I  will  never  rest  till  I  have  seen 
you — a  bishop  ! 

MR.  DALE  (much  shocked). — My  lord,  for  shame  ! 

HARLEY  (seriously). — My  levity  is  but  lip-deep,  my  dear 
Mr.  Dale.  But  sometimes  the  froth  on  the  wave  shows  the 
change  in  the  tide. 

The  Parson  looked  at  him  earnestly,  and  then  seized 
him  by  both  hands  with  holy  gladness  and  affection. 

"Return  to  the  park,  now,"  said  Harley,  smiling,  "and 
tell  Violante,  if  it  be  not  too  late  to  see  her,  that  she  was 
even  more  eloquent  than  you." 

Lord  L' Estrange  bounded  forward. 

Mr.  Dale  walked  back  through  the  park  to  Lansmere 
House.  On  the  terrace  he  found  Randal,  who  was  still 
pacing  to  and  fro,  sometimes  in  the  starlight,  sometimes  in 
the  shadow- 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  1081 

Leslie  looked  up,  and  seeing  Mr.  Dale,  the  close  astute- 
ness of  his  aspect  returned  ;  and  stepping  out  of  the  star- 
light deep  into  the  shadow,  he  said — 

"  I  was  sorry  to  learn  that  Mr.  Fairfield  had  been  so 
hurt  by  Lord  L'Estrange's  severe  allusions.  Pity  that 
political  differences  should  interfere  with  private  friend- 
ships; but  I  hear  that  you  have  been  to  Mr.  Fairfield — 
and  doubtless,  as  the  peacemaker.  Perhaps  you  met  Lord 
L'Estrange  by  the  way  ?  He  promised  me  that  he  would 
apologize  and  retract." 

"Good  young  man,"  said  the  unsuspecting  Parson,  "he 
has  done  so." 

"And  Mr.  Leonard  Fairfield  will  therefore,  I  presume, 
continue  the  contest  ?'* 

"Contest — ah,  this  election  !  I  suppose  so,  of  course. 
But  I  grieve  that  he  should  stand  against  you,  who  seem  to 
be  disposed  toward  him  so  kindly." 

"  Oh,"  said  Randal,  with  a  benevolent  smile,  "  we  have 
fought  before,  you  know,  and  I  beat  him  then.  I  may  do  so 
again  ! " 

And  he  walked  into  the  house,  arm-in-arm  with  the  Par- 
son. Mr.  Dale  sought  Violante — Leslie  retired  to  his  own 
room,  and  felt  his  election  was  secured. 

Lord  L'Estrange  had  gained  the  thick  of  the  streets — 
passing  groups  of  roaring  enthusiasts — Blue  and  Yellow — 
now  met  with  a  cheer — now  followed  by  a  groan.  Just  by 
a  public-house  that  formed  the  angle  of  a  lane  with  the  High 
Street,  and  which  was  all  a-blaze  with  light,  and  all  alive 
with  clamor,  he  beheld  the  graceful  Baron  leaning  against, 
the  threshold,  smoking  his  cigar,  too  refined  to  associate  its 
divine  vapor  with  the  wreaths  of  shag  within,  and  chatting 
agreeably  with  a  knot  of  females,  who  were  either  attracted 
by  the  general  excitement,  or  waiting  to  see  husband, 
brother,  father,  or  son,  who  were  now  joining  in  the  chorus 
of  "  Blue  for  ever  !  "  that  rang  from  tap-room  to  attic  of 
the  illumined  hostelry.  Levy,  seeing  Lord  L'Estrange, 
withdrew  his  cigar  from  his  lips  and  hastened  to  join  him. 
"  All  the  Hundred  and  Fifty  are  in  there,"  said  the  Baron, 
with  a  backward  significant  jerk  of  his  thumb  toward  the 
inn.  "  I  have  seen  them  all  privately,  in  tens  at  a  time ; 
and  I  have  been  telling  the  ladies  without,  that  it  will  be 
best  for  the  interest  of  their  family  to  go  home,  and  let  us 
lock  up  the  Hundred  and  Fifty  safe  from  the  Yellows,  till 
we  bring  them  to  the  poll.  But  I  am  afraid,"  continued 
46 


io82  MY  NOVEL;    OR. 

Levy,  "  that  the  rascals  are  not  to  be  relied  upon  unless  I 
actually  pay  them  beforehand  ;  and  that  would  be  disreput- 
able, immoral — and,  what  is  more,  it  would  upset  the  elec- 
tion. Besides,  if  they  are  paid  beforehand,  query,  is  it 
quite  sure  how  they  will  vote  afterward  ?" 

"Mr.  Avenel,  I  dare  say,  can  manage  them,"  said  Har- 
ley.  "  Pray  do  nothing  immoral,  and  nothing  that  will  up- 
set the  election.  I  think  you  might  as  well  go  home." 

"  Home  !  No,  pardon  me,  my  lord  ;  there  must  be  some 
head  to  direct  the  Committee,  and  keep  our  captains  at 
their  posts  upon  the  doubtful  electors.  A  great  deal  of  mis- 
chief may  be  done  between  this  and  the  morrow  ;  and  I 
would  sit  up  all  night — ay,  six  nights  a  week  for  the  next 
three  months — to  prevent  any  awkward  mistake  by  which 
Audley  Egerton  can  be  returned." 

"  His  return  would  really  grieve  you  so  much  ?  "  said 
Harley. 

"You  may  judge  of  that  by  the  zeal  with  which  I  enter 
into  all  your  designs." 

Here  there  was  a  sudden  and  wondrously  loud  shout 
from  another  inn — a  Yellow  inn,  far  down  the  lane,  not  so 
luminous  as  the  Blue  hostelry  ;  on  the  contrary,  looking 
rather  dark  and  sinister,  more  like  a  place  of  conspirators 
or  felons  than  honest  independent  electors, — "  Avenel  for 
ever  ! — Avenel  and  the  Yellows  !  " 

"  Excuse  me,  my  lord,  I  must  go  back  and  watch  over 
my  black  sheep,  if  I  would  have  them  blue  !  "  said  Levy  ; 
and  he  retreated  toward  the  threshold.  But  at  that  shout 
of  "  Avenel  for  ever  !  "  as  if  at  a  signal,  various  electors  of 
the  redoubted  Hundred  and  Fifty  rushed  from  the  Blue 
hostelry,  sweeping  past,  and  hurrying  down  the  lane  to  the 
dark  little  Yellow  inn,  followed  by  the  female  stragglers,  as 
small  birds  follow  an  owl.  It  was  not,  however,  very  easy 
to  get  into  that  Yellow  inn.  Yellow  Reformers,  eminent 
for  their  zeal  on  behalf  of  purity  of  election,  were  stationed 
outside  the  door,  and  only  strained  in  one  candidate  for 
admittance  at  a  time.  "After  all,"  thought  the  Baron,  as  he 
passed  into  the  principal  room  of  the  Blue  tavern,  and 
proposed  the  national  song  of  "  Rule  Britannia  " — "  after 
all,  Avenel  hates  Egerton  as  much  as  I  do,  and  both  sides 
work  to  the  same  end."  And  thrumming  on  the  table,  he 
joined,  with  a  fine  bass,  in  the  famous  line, 

"  For  Britons  never  will  be  slaves  ! " 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  1083 

In  the  interim,  Harley  had  disappeared  within  the  "  Lans- 
mere  Arms,"  which  was  the  headquarters  of  the  Blue 
Committee.  Not,  however,  mounting  to  the  room  in  which 
a  few  of  the  more  indefatigable  were  continuing  their  labors, 
receiving  reports  from  scouts,  giving  orders,  laying  wagers, 
and  very  muzzy  with  British  principles  and  spirits,  Harley 
called  aside  the  landlord,  and  inquired  if  the  stranger,  for 
whom  rooms  had  been  prepared,  was  yet  arrived.  An  affir- 
mative answer  was  given,  and  Harley  followed  the  host  up 
a  private  stair,  to  a  part  of  the  house  remote  from  the  rooms 
devoted  to  the  purposes  of  the  election.  He  remained  with 
this  stranger  about  half  an  hour,  and  then  walked  into  the 
Committee-room,  got  rid  of  the  more  excited,  conferred 
with  the  more  sober,  issued  a  few  brief  directions  to  such  of 
the  leaders  as  he  felt  he  could  most  rely  upon,  and  returned 
home  as  rapidly  as  he  had  quitted  it. 

Dawn  was  gray  in  the  skies  when  Harley  sought  his  own 
chamber.  To  gain  it,  he  passed  by  the  door  of  Violante's. 
His  heart  suffused  with  grateful  ineffable  tenderness,  he 
paused  and  kissed  the  threshold.  When  he  stood  within 
his  room  (the  same  that  he  had  occupied  in  his  early  youth), 
he  felt  as  if  the  load  of  years  were  lifted  from  his  bosom. 
The  joyous,  divine  elasticity  of  spirit,  that  in  the  morning 
of  life  springs  toward  the  Future  as  a  bird  soars  into  heaven, 
pervaded  his  whole  sense  of  being.  A  Greek  poet  implies, 
that  the  height  of  bliss  is  the  sudden  relief  of  pain  ;  there  is 
a  nobler  bliss  still — the  rapture  of  the  conscience  at  the 
sudden  release  from  a  guilty  thought.  By  the  bedside  at 
which  he  had  knelt  in  boyhood,  Harley  paused  to  kneel 
once  more.  The  luxury  of  prayer,  interrupted  since  he 
had  nourished  schemes  of  which  (his  passions  had  blinded 
him  to  the  sin,  but  which,  nevertheless,  he  dared  not  confess 
to  the  All-Merciful,  was  restored  to  him.  And  yet,  as  he 
bowed  his  knee,  the  elation  of  spirits  he  had  before  felt  for- 
sook him.  The  sense  of  the  danger  his  soul  had  escaped — 
the  full  knowledge  of  the  guilt  to  which  the  fiend  had 
tempted — came  dread  before  his  clearing  vision  ;  he  shud- 
dered in  horror  of  himself.  And  he  who  but  a  few  hours 
before  had  deemed  it  so  impossible  to  pardon  his  fellow- 
man,  now  felt  as  if  years  of  useful  and  beneficent  deeds  could 
alone  purify  his  own  repentant  soul  from  the  memory  of 
one  hateful  passion. 


1084  MY  NOVEL;    OR, 


CHAPTER  XXXII. 

BUT  while  Harley  had  thus  occupied  the  hours  of  night 
with  cares  for  the  living,  Audley  Egerton  had  been  in  com- 
mune with  the  dead.  He  had  taken  from  the  pile  of  papers 
amidst  which  it  had  fallen,  the  record  of  Nora's  silenced 
heart.  With  a  sad  wonder  he  saw  how  he  had  once  been 
loved.  What  had  all  which  successful  ambition  had  be- 
stowed on  the  lonely  statesman  to  compensate  for  the 
glorious  empire  he  had  lost — such  realms  of  lovely  fancy  ; 
such  worlds  of  exquisite  emotion  ;  that  infinite  which  lies 
within  the  divine  sphere  that  unites  spiritual  genius  with 
human  love  ?  His  own  positive  and  earthly  nature  attained, 
for  the  first  time,  and  as  if  for  its  own  punishment,  the 
comprehension  of  that  loftier  and  more  ethereal  visitant 
from  the  heavens,  who  had  once  looked  with  a  seraph's 
smile  through  the  prison-bars  of  his  iron  life — that  celestial 
refinement  of  affection,  that  exuberance  of  feeling  which 
warms  into  such  varieties  of  beautiful  idea,  under  the  breath 
of  the  earth-beautifier,  Imagination  ; — all  from  which,  when 
it  was  all  his  own,  he  had  turned  half  weary  and  impatient, 
and  termed  the  exaggerations  of  a  visionary  romance — now 
that  the  world  had  lost  them  evermore,  he  interpreted  aright 
as  truths.  Truths  they  were,  although  illusions.  Even  as 
the  philosopher  tells  us  that  the  splendor  of  colors  which 
deck  the  universe  is  not  on  the  surface  whereon  we  think 
to  behold  it,  but  in  our  own  vision  ;  yet,  take  the  colors 
from  the  universe,  and  what  philosophy  can  assure  us  that 
the  universe  has  sustained  no  loss? 

But  when  Audley  came  to  that  passage  in  the  fragment 
which,  though  but  imperfectly,  explained  the  true  cause  of 
Nora's  flight ; — when  he  saw  how  Levy,  for  what  purpose 
he  was  unable  to  conjecture,  had  suggested  to  his  bride  the 
doubts  that  had  offended  him — asserted  the  marriage  to  be  a 
fraud — drawn  from  Audley's  own  brief  resentful  letters  to 
Nora,  proof  of  the  assertion — misled  so  naturally  the  young 
wife's  scanty  experience  of  actual  life,  and  maddened  one 
so  sensitively  pure  into  the  conviction  of  dishonor — his 
brow  darkened,  and  his  hand  clenched.  He  rose  and  went 
at  once  to  Levy's  room.  He  found  it  deserted — inquired — 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  1085 

learned  that  Levy  was  gone  forth,  and  had  left  word  he  might 
not  be  at  home  for  the  night.  Fortunate,  perhaps,  for  Aud- 
ley — fortunate  for  the  Baron — that  they  did  not  then  meet. 
Revenge,  in  spite  of  his  friend's  admonition,  might  at  that 
hour  have  been  as  potent  an  influence  on  Egerton  as  it  had 
been  on  Harley,  and  not,  as  with  the  latter,  to  be  turned 
aside. 

Audley  came  back  to  his  room  and  finished  the  tragic 
record.  He  traced  the  tremor  of  that  beloved  hand 
through  the  last  tortures  of  doubt  and  despair  ; — he  saw 
where  the  hot  tears  had  fallen  ; — he  saw  where  the  hand 
had  paused,  the  very  sentence  not  concluded  ; — mentally  he 
accompanied  his  fated  bride  in  the  dismal  journey  to  her 
maiden  home,  and  beheld  her  before  him  as  he  had  last  seen, 
more  beautiful  even  in  death  than  the  face  of  living  women 
had  ever  since  appeared  to  him  ; — and  as  he  bent  over  the  last 
words,  the  blank  that  they  left  on  the  leaf,  stretching  pale 
beyond  the  quiver  of  the  characters  and  the  blister  of  the 
tears — pale  and  blank  as  the  void  which  departed  love  leaves 
behind  it — he  felt  his  heart  suddenly  stand  still,  its  course 
arrested  as  the  record  closed.  It  beat  again,  but  feebly — so 
feebly  !  His  breath  became  labor  and  pain,  his  sight  grew 
dizzy.  But  the  constitutional  firmness  and  fortitude  of  the 
man  clung  to  him  in  the  stubborn  mechanism  of  habit — his 
will  yet  fought  against  his  disease — life  rallied  as  the  light 
flickers  up  in  the  waning  taper. 

The  next  morning,  when  Harley  came  into  his  friend's 
room,  Egerton  was  asleep.  But  the  sleep  seemed  much  dis- 
turbed ;  the  breathing  was  hard  and  difficult  ;  the  bed- 
clothes were  partially  thrown  off,  as  if  in  the  tossing  of  dis- 
turbed dreams  ;  the  sinewy  strong  arm,  the  broad,  athletic 
breast,  were  partly  bare.  Strange  that  so  deadly  a  disease 
within  should  leave  the  frame  such  apparent  power  that,  to 
the  ordinary  eye,  the  sleeping  sufferer  seemed  a  model  of 
healthful  vigor.  One  hand  was  thrust  with  uneasy  straining 
over  the  pillows — it  had  its  hold  on  the  fatal  papers  ;  a  por- 
tion of  the  leaves  was  visible  ;  and  where  the  characters  had 
been  blurred  by  Nora's  tears,  were  the  traces,  yet  moist,  of 
tears  perhaps  more  bitter. 

Harley  felt  deeply  affected  ;  and  while  he  still  stood  by 
the  bed,  Egerton  sighed  heavily  and  woke.  He  stared  round 
him,  as  if  perplexed  and  confused — till  his  eyes  resting  on 
Harley,  he  smiled  and  said — 

"  So  early  !     Ah — I  remember,  it  is  *hc  day  for  our  great 


io8<5  MY  NOVEL;    OR, 

boat-race.  We  shall  have  the  current  against  us  ;  but  you 
and  I  together — when  did  we  ever  lose  ? 

Audley's  mind  was  wandering  ;  it  had  gone  back  to 
the  old  Eton  days.  But  Harley  thought  that  he  spoke 
in  metaphorical  allusion  to  the  present  more  important 
contest. 

"  True,  my  Audley — you  and  I  together — when  did  we 
ever  lose  ?  But  will  you  rise  ?  I  wish  you  would  be  at  the 
polling-place  to  shake  hands  with  your  voters  as  they  come 
up.  By  four  o'clock,  you  will  be  released,  and  the  election 
won." 

"  The  election  !  How  ! — what !  "  said  Egerton,  recover- 
ing himself.  "  I  recollect  now.  Yes — I  accept  this  last 
kindness  from  you.  I  always  said  I  would  die  in  harness. 
Public  life — I  have  no  other.  Ah,  I  dream  again  !  Oh,  Har- 
ley ! — my  son — my  son  !  " 

"  You  shall  see  him  after  four  o'clock.  You  will  be  proud 
of  each  other.  But  make  haste  and  dress.  Shall  I  ring  the 
bell  for  your  servant  ?" 

'*  Do,"  said  Egerton,  briefly,  and  sinking  back.  Harley 
quitted  the  room,  and  joined  Randal  and  some  of  the  more 
important  members  of  the  Blue  Committee,  who  were  al- 
ready hurrying  over  their  breakfast. 

All  were  anxious  and  nervous  except  Harley,  who  dipped 
his  dry  toast  into  his  coffee,  according  to  his  ordinary  ab- 
stemious Italian  habit,  with  serene  composure.  Randal  in 
vain  tried  for  an  equal  tranquillity.  But  though  sure  of  his 
election,  there  would  necessarily  follow  a  scene  trying  to  the 
nerve  of  his  hypocrisy.  He  would  have  to  affect  profound 
chagrin  in  the  midst  of  vile  joy ;  have  to  act  the  part  of 
decorous  high-minded  sorrow,  that  by  some  untoward  chance 
— some  unaccountable  cross-splitting,  Randal  Leslie's  gain 
should  be  Audley  Egerton's  loss.  Besides,  he  was  flurried 
in  the  expectation  of  seeingthe  Squire,  and  of  appropriating 
the  money  which  was  to  secure  the  dearest  object  of  his  am- 
bition. Breakfast  was  soon  despatched.  The  Committee- 
men,  bustling  for  their  hats,  and  looking  at  their  watches, 
gave  the  signal  for  departure  ;  yet  no  Squire  Hazeldean  had 
made  his  appearance.  Harley,  stepping  from  the  window 
upon  the  terrace,  beckoned  to  Randal,  who  took  his  hat 
and  followed. 

"  Mr.  Leslie,"  said  Harley,  leaning  against  the  balustrade, 
and  carelessly  patting  Nero's  rough  honest  head,  "  you  re- 
member that  you  were  good  enough  to  volunteer  to  me  the 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  1087 

explanation  of  certain  circumstances  in  connection  with  the 
Count  di  Peschiera,  which  you  gave  to  the  Duke  di  Serrano  ; 
and  I  replied  that  my  thoughts  were  at  present  engaged  on 
the  election,  but  as  soon  as  that  was  over,  I  should  be  very 
willing  to  listen  to  any  communications  affecting  yourself 
and  my  old  friend  the  Duke,  with  which  you  might  be 
pleased  to  favor  me," 

This  address  took  Randal  by  surprise,  and  did  not  tend 
to  calm  his  nerves.  However,  he  replied  readily  : 

"  Upon  that,  as  upon  any  other  matter  that  may  influ- 
ence the  judgment  you  form  of  me,  I  shall  be  but  too  eager 
to  remove  a  single  doubt  that,  in  your  eyes,  can  rest  upon 
my  honor." 

"You  speak  exceedingly  well,  Mr.  Leslie  ;  no  man  can 
express  himself  more  handsomely  ;  and  I  will  claim  your 
promise  with  the  less  scruple,  because  the  Duke  is  powerful- 
ly affected  by  the  reluctance  of  his  daughter  to  ratify  the 
engagement  that  binds  his  honor,  in  case  your  own  is  indis- 
putably cleared.  I  may  boast  of  some  influence  over  the 
young  lady,  since  I  assisted  to  save  her  from  the  infamous 
plot  of  Peschiera  ;  and  the  Duke  urges  me  to  receive  your 
explanation,  in  the  belief  that,  if  it  satisfy  me,  as  it  has  sat- 
isfied him,  I  may  conciliate  his  child  in  favor  of  the  addresses 
of  a  suitor  who  would  have  hazarded  his  very  life  against 
so  redoubted  a  duellist  as  Peschiera." 

"  Lord  L'Estrange,"  replied  Randal,  bowing,"!  shall 
indeed  owe  you  much  if  you  can  remove  that  reluctance  on 
the  part  of  my  betrothed  bride,  which  alone  clouds  my  hap- 
piness, and  which  would  at  once  put  an  end  to  my  suit,  did 
I  not  ascribe  it  to  an  imperfect  knowledge  of  myself,  which 
I  shall  devote  my  life  to  improve  into  confidence  and  affec- 
tion." 

"No  man  can  speak  more  handsomely,"  reiterated  Har- 
ley,  as  if  with  profound  admiration  ;  and  indeed  he  did  eye 
Randal  as  we  eye  some  rare  curiosity.  "  I  am  happy  to 
inform  you  too,"  continued  L'Estrange,  "that  if  your  mar- 
riage with  the  Duke  di  Serrano's  daughter  take  place 

"  If  !  "  echoed  Randal. 

"I  beg  pardon  for  making  an  hypothesis  of  what  you 
claim  the  right  to  esteem  a  certainty — I  correct  my  ex- 
pression :  when  your  marriage  with  that  young  lady  takes 
place,  you  wTill  at  least  escape  the  rock  on  which  many 
young  men  of  ardent  affections  have  split  at  the  onset  of 
the  grand  voyage.  You  will  form  no  imprudent  connec- 


MY  NOVEL;    OK, 

tion.  In  a  word,  I  received  yesterday  a  despatch  from 
Vienna,  which  contains  the  full  pardon  and  formal  restor- 
ation of  Alphonso,  Duke  di  Serrano.  And  I  may  add, 
that  the  Austrian  government  (sometimes  misunderstood  in 
this  country)  is  bound  by  the  laws  it  administers,  and  can 
in  no  way  dictate  to  the  Duke,  once  restored,  as  to  the 
choice  of  his  son-in-law,  or  as  to  the  heritage  that  may 
devolve  on  his  child." 

"And  does  the  Duke  yet  know  of  his  recall  ?  "  exclaimed 
Randal,  his  cheek  flushed  and  his  eye  sparkling. 

"No.  I  reserve  that  good  news,  with  other  matters,  till 
after  the  election  is  over.  But  Egerton  keeps  us  waiting 
sadly.  Ah,  here  comes  his  valet." 

Audley's  servant  approached.  "  Mr.  Egerton  feels  him- 
self rather  more  poorly  than  usual,  my  lord ;  he  begs  you  will 
excuse  his  going  with  you  into  the  town  at  present.  He 
will  come  later  if  his  presence  is  absolutely  necessary." 

"  No.  Pray  tell  him  to  rest  and  nurse  himself.  I  should 
have  liked  him  to  witness  his  own  triumph — that  is  all. 
Say  I  will  represent  him  at  the  polling-place.  Gentlemen, 
are  you  ready  ?  We  will  go  on." 

The  polling-booth  was  erected  in  the  centre  of  the  mar- 
ket-place. The  voting  had  already  commenced  ;  and  Mr. 
Avenel  and  Leonard  were  already  at  their  posts,  in  order 
to  salute  and  thank  the  voters  in  their  cause  who  passed 
before  them.  Randal  and  L'Estrange  entered  the  booth 
amidst  loud  hurrahs,  and  to  the  national  air  of  "  See  the 
Conquering  Hero  comes."  The  voters  defiled  in  quick 
succession.  Those  who  voted  entirely  according  to  prin- 
ciple or  color — which  came  to  much  the  same  thing — and 
were  therefore  above  what  is  termed  "  management,"  flocked 
in  first,  voting  straightforwardly  for  both  Blues  or  both 
Yellows.  At  the  end  of  the  first  half-hour,  the  Yellows 
were  about  ten  ahead  of  the  Blues.  Then  sundry  split 
votes  began  to  perplex  conjecture  as  to  the  result  ;  and 
Randal,  at  the  end  of  the  first  hour,  had  fifteen  majority 
over  Audley  Egerton,  two  over  Dick  Avenel — Leonard 
Fairfield  heading  the  poll  by  five.  Randal  owed  his  place 
in  the  lists  to  the  voters  that  Harley's  personal  efforts  had 
procured  for  him  ;  and  he  was  well  pleased  to  see  that  Lord 
L'Estrange  had  not  withdrawn  from  him  a  single  promise 
so  obtained.  This  augured  well  for  Harley's  ready  belief 
in  his  appointed  "  explanations."  In  short,  the  whole  elec- 
tion seemed  going  just  as  he  had  calculated.  But  by 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  «      1089 

twelve  o'clock,  there  were  some  changes  in  the  relative 
position  of  the  candidates.  Dick  Avenel  had  gradually 
gained  ground — passing  Randal,  passing  even  Leonard. 
He  stood  at  the  head  of  the  poll  by  a  majority  of  ten. 
Randal  came  next.  Audley  was  twenty  behind  Randal, 
and  Leonard  four  behind  Audley. 

More  than  half  the  constituency  had  polled,  but  none  of 
the  Committee  on  either  side,  nor  one  of  the  redoubted 
corps  of  a  Hundred  and  Fifty. 

The  poll  now  slackened  sensibly.  Randal,  looking 
round,  and  longing  for  an  opportunity  to  ask  Dick  whether 
he  really  meant  to  return  himself  instead  of  his  nephew, 
saw  that  Harley  had  disappeared  ;  and  presently  a  note  was 
brought  to  him  requesting  his  presence  in  the  C6mmittee- 
room.  Thither  he  hastened. 

As  he  forced  his  way  through  the  bystanders  in  the 
lobby,  toward  the  threshold  of  the  room,  Levy  caught  hold 
of  him  and  whispered—"  They  begin  to  fear  for  Egerton. 
They  want  a  compromise  in  order  to  secure  him.  They 
will  propose  to  you  to  resign,  if  Avenel  will  withdraw 
Leonard.  Don't  be  entrapped.  L' Estrange  may  put  the 
question  to  you  ;  but — a  word  in  your  ear — he  would  be 
glad  enough  to.  throw  over  Egerton.  Rely  upon  this,  and 
stand  firm." 

Randal  made  no  answer,  but,  the  crowd  giving  way  for 
him,  entered  the  room.  Levy  followed.  The  doors  were 
instantly  closed.  All  the  Blue  Committee  were  assembled. 
They  looked  heated,  anxious,  eager.  Lord  L'Estrange, 
alone  calm  and  cool,  stood  at  the  head  of  the  long  table. 
Despite  his  composure,  Harley's  brow  was 'thoughtful. 
"  Yes,"  said  he  to  himself,  "  I  will  give  this  young  man  the 
fair  occasion  to  prove  gratitude  to  his  benefactor  ;  and  if 
he  here  acquit  himself,  I  will  spare  him  at  least  public  ex- 
posure of  his  deceit  to  others.  So  young,  he  must  have 
some  good  in  him — at  least  toward  the  man  to  whom  he 
owes  all." 

"  Mr.  Leslie,"  said  L'Estrange,  aloud,  "you  see  the  state 
of  the  poll.  Our  Committee  believe  that,  if  you  continue 
to  stand,  Egerton  must  be  beaten.  They  fear  that,  Leonard 
Fairfield  having  little  chance,  the  Yellows  will  not  waste 
their  second  votes  on  him,  but  will  transfer  them  to  you, 
in  order  to  keep  out  Egerton.  If  you  retire,  Egerton  will 
be  safe.  There  is  reason  to  suppose  that  Leonard  would, 
in  that  case,  also  be  withdrawn." 
46* 


logo  MY  NOVEL;    OR, 

"You  can  hope  and  fear  nothing  more  from  Egerton," 
whispered  Levy.  "  He  is  utterly  ruined  ;  and,  if  he  lose, 
will  sleep  in  a  prison.  The  bailiffs  are  waiting  for  him." 

Randal  was  still  silent,  and  at  that  silence  an  indignant 
murmur  ran  through  the  more  influential  members  of  the 
Committee.  For,  though  Audley  was  not  personally  very 
popular,  still  a  candidate  so  eminent  was  necessarily  their 
first  object,  and  they  would  seem  very  small  to  the  Yellows 
if  their  great  man  was  defeated  by  the  very  candidate  in- 
troduced to  aid  him — a  youth  unknown.  Vanity  and  patri- 
otism both  swelled  that  murmur.  "You  see,  young  sir," 
cried  a  rich,  blunt  master-butcher,  "that  it  was  an  honorable 
understanding  that  Mr.  Egerton  was  to  be  safe.  You  had 
no  claim  'on  us,  except  as  fighting  second  to  him.  And  we 
are  all  astonished  that  you  don't  say  at  once,  '  Save  Eger- 
ton, of  course.'  Excuse  my  freedom,  sir.  No  time  for 
palaver." 

"  Lord  L'Estrange,"  said  Randal,  turning  mildly  from 
the  butcher,  "  do  you,  as  the  first  here  in  rank  and  influence, 
and  as  Mr.  Egerton's  especial  friend,  call  upon  me  to  sacri- 
fice my  election,  and  what  appear  to  be  the  inclinations  of 
the  majority  of  the  constituents,  in  order  to  obtain  what  is, 
after  all,  a  doubtful  chance  of  returning  Mr..  Egerton  in  my 
room  ?  " 

"I  do  not  call  upon  you,  Mr.  Leslie.  It  is  a  matter  of 
feeling  or  of  honor,  which  a  gentleman  can  very  well  de- 
cide for  himself." 

"  Was  any  such  compact  made  between  your  lordship 
and  myself,  when  you  first  gave  me  your  interest  and  can- 
vassed for  me  in  person  ?  " 

"  Certainly  not.  Gentlemen,  be  silent.  No  such  com- 
pact was  mentioned  by  me." 

"  Neither  was  it  by  Mr.  Egerton.  Whatever  might  be 
the  understanding  spoken  of  by  the  respected  elector  who 
addressed  me,  I  was  no  party  to  it.  I  am  persuaded  that 
Mr.  Egerton  is  the  last  person  who  would  wish  to  owe  his 
election  to  a  trick  upon  the  electors  in  the  midst  of  the 
polling,  and  to  what  the  world  would  consider  a  very  un- 
handsome treatment  of  myself,  upon  whom  all  the  toil  of 
the  canvass  has  devolved." 

Again  the  murmur  rose  ;  but  Randal  had  an  air  so  de- 
termined, that  it  quelled  resentment,  and  obtained  a  con- 
tinued, though  most  chilling  and  half-contemptuous  hear- 
ing. 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  1091 

"Nevertheless,"  resumed  Randal,  "I  would  at  once  re- 
tire, were  I  not  under  the  firm  persuasion  that  I  shall  con- 
vince all  present,  who  now  seem  to  condemn  me,  that  I  act 
precisely  according  to  Mr.  Egerton's  own  private  inclina- 
tions. That  gentleman,  in  fact,  has  never  been  amongst 
you — has  not  canvassed  in  person — has  taken  no  trouble, 
beyond  a  speech,  that  was  evidently  meant  to  be  but  a  gen- 
eral defence  of  his  past  political  career.  What  does  this 
mean  ?  Simply  that  his  standing  has  been  merely  a  form, 
to  comply  with  the  wish  of  his  party,  against  his  own  de- 
sire." 

The  Committeemen  looked  at  each  other  amazed  and 
doubtful.  Randal  saw  he  had  gained  an  advantage  ;  he 
pursued  it  with  a  tact  and  an  ability  which  showed  that,  in 
spite  of  his  mere  oratorical  deficiencies,  he  had  in  him  the 
elements  of  a  dexterous  debater.  "  I  will  be  plain  with 
you,  gentlemen.  My  character,  my  desire  to  stand  well 
with  you  all,  oblige  me  to  be  so.  Mr.  Egerton  does  not 
wish  to  come  into  Parliament  at  present.  His  health  is 
much  broken  ;  his  private  affairs  need  all  his  time  and  at- 
tention. I  am,  I  may  say,  as  a  son  to  him.  He  is  most 
anxious  for  my  success  ;  Lord  L'Estrange  told  me  but  last 
night,  very  truly,  '  more  anxious  for  my  success  than  his 
own.'  Nothing  could  please  him  more  than  to  think  I  were 
serving  in  Parliament,  however  humbly,  those  great  inter- 
ests which  neither  health  nor  leisure  will,  in  this  momen- 
tous crisis,  allow  himself  to  defend  with  his  wonted  energy. 
Later,  indeed,  no  doubt,  he  will  seek  return  to  an  arena  in 
which  he  is  so  distinguished,  and  when  the  popular  excite- 
ment, which  produces  the  popular  injustice  of  the  day,  is 
over,  what  constituency  will  not  be  proud  to  return  such  a 
man  ?  In  support  and  proof  of  what  I  have  thus  said,  I  now 
appeal  to  Mr.  Egerton's  own  agent— a  gentleman  who,  in 
spite  of  his  vast  fortune  and  the  rank  he  holds  in  society, 
has  consented  to  act  gratuitously  on  behalf  of  that  great 
statesman.  I  ask  you,  then,  respectfully,  Baron  Levy — is 
not  Mr.  Egerton's  health  much  broken,  and  in  need  pf 
rest  ? " 

"  It  is,"  said  Levy. 

"  And  do  not  his  affairs  necessitate  his  serious  and  un- 
divided attention  ?  " 

"They  do,  indeed,"  quoth  the  Baron.  "Gentlemen,  I 
have  nothing  to  urge  in  behalf  of  my  distinguished  friend 
as  against  the  statement  of  his  adopted  son,  Mr.  Leslie." 


1092  MY  NOVEL;    OR, 

"Then  all  I  can  say,"  cried  the  butcher,  striking  his 
huge  fist  on  the  table,  "is,  that  Mr.  Egerton  has  behaved 
d d  unhandsome  to  us,  and  we  shall  be  the  laughing- 
stock of  the  borough." 

"  Softly,  softly,"  said  Harley.  "  There  is  a  knock  at  the 
door  behind.  Excuse  me." 

Harley  quitted  the  room,  but  only  for  a  minute  or  two. 
On  his  return  he  addressed  himself  to  Randal. 

"Are  we  then  to  understand,  Mr.  Leslie,  that  your  in- 
tention is  not  to  resign  ?" 

"  Unless  your  lordship  actually  urge  me  to  the  contrary, 
I  should  say,  '  Let  the  election  go  on,  and  all  take  our 
chance.'  This  seems  to  me  the  fair,  manly,  ENGLISH  (great 
emphasis  on  the  last  adjective),  honorable  course." 

"  Be  it  so," replied  Harley  ;  "  'let  all  take  their  chance.' 
Mr.  Leslie,  we  will  no  longer  detain  you.  Go  back  to  the 
polling-place — one  of  the  candidates  should  be  present  ;  and 
you,  Baron  Levy,  be  good  enough  to  go  also,  and  return 
thanks  to  those  who  may  yet  vote  for  Mr.  Egerton." 

Levy  bowed,  and  went  out  arm-in-arm  with  Randal. 

"  Capital,  capital,"  said  the  Baron.  "  You  have  a  won- 
derful head." 

"  I  did  not  like  L'Estrange's  look,  nevertheless.  But  he 
can't  hurt  me  now  ;  the  votes  he  got  for  me  instead  of  for 
Egerton  have  already  polled.  The  Committee,  indeed,  may 
refuse  to  vote  for  me  ;  but  then  there  is  Avenel's  body  of 
reserve.  Yes,  the  election  is  virtually  over.  When  we  get 
back,  Hazeldean  will  have  arrived  with  the  money  for  the 
purchase  of  my  ancestral  property ; — Dr.  Riccabocca  is 
already  restored  to  the  estates  and  titles  of  Serrano  ; — 
what  do  I  care  farther  for  Lord  L'Estrange  ?  Still,  I  do  not 
like  his  look." 

"  Pooh,  you  have  'done  just  what  he  wished.  I  am  for- 
bidden to  say  more.  Here  we  are  at  the  booth.  A  new 
placard  since  we  left.  How  are  the  numbers  ?  Avenel 
forty  ahead  of  you  ;  you  thirty  above  Egerton  ;  and  Leo- 
nard Fairfield  still  last  on  the  poll.  But  where  are  Avenel 
and  Fairfield  ?  " 

Both  these  candidates  had  disappeared,  perhaps  gone  to 
their  own  Committee-room. 

Meanwhile,  as  soon  as  the  doors  had  closed  on  Randal 
and  the  Baron,  in  the  midst  of  the  angry  hubbub  succeed- 
ing to  their  departure,  Lord  L'Estrange  sprang  upon  the 
table.  The  action  and  his  look  stilled  every  sound. 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  1093 

"  Gentlemen,  it  is  in  our  hands  to  return  one  of  our 
candidates,  and  to  make  our  own  choice  between  the  two. 
You  have  heard  Mr.  Leslie  and  Baron  Levy.  To  their 
statement  I  make  but  this  reply — Mr.  Egerton  is  needed  by 
the  country  ;  and  whatever  his  health  or  his  affairs,  he  is 
ready  to  respond  to  that  call.  If  he  has  not  canvassed — if 
he  does  not  appear  before  you  at  this  moment,  the  services 
of  more  than  twenty  years  plead  for  him  in  his  stead. 
Which,  then,  of  the  two  candidates  do  you  choose  as  your 
member — a  renowned  statesman,  or  a  beardless  boy  ? 
Both  have  ambition  and  ability  ; — the  one  has  identified 
those  qualities  with  the  history  of  a  country,  and  (as  it  is 
now  alleged  to  his  prejudice)  with  a  devotion  that  has 
broken  a  vigorous  frame  and  injured  a  princely  fortune. 
The  other  evinces  his  ambition  by  inviting  you  to  prefer 
him  to  his  benefactor  ;  and  proves  his  ability  by  the  excuses 
he  makes  for  ingratitude.  Choose  between  the  two — an 
Egerton  or  a  Leslie." 

"  Egerton  for  ever  ! "  cried  all  the  assembly,  as  with  a 
single  voice,  followed  by  a  hiss  for  Leslie. 

"  But,"  said  a  grave  and  prudent  Committeeman,  "  have 
we  really  the  choice  ? — Does  not  that  rest  with  the  Yellows  ? 
Is  not  your  lordship  too  sanguine?  " 

"  Open  that  door  behind  ;  a  deputation  from  our  oppo- 
nents waits  in  the  room  on  the  other  side  of  the  passage. 
Admit  them." 

The  committee  were  hushed  in  breathless  silence  while 
Harley's  order  was  obeyed.  And  soon,  to  their  great  sur- 
prise, Leonard  Fairfield  himself,  attended  by  six  of  the 
principal  members  of  the  Yellow  party,  entered  the  room. 

LORD  L'EsxRANGE. — You  have  a  proposition  to  make  to 
us,  Mr.  Fairfield,  on  behalf  of  yourself  and  Mr.  Avenel,  and 
with  the  approval  of  your  committee  ? 

LEONARD  (advancing  to  the  table). — I  have.  We  are 
convinced  that  neither  party  can  carry  both  its  candidates. 
Mr.  Avenel  is  safe.  The  only  question  is,  which  of  the  two 
candidates  on  your  side  it  best  becomes  the  honor  of  this 
constituency  to  select.  My  resignation,  which  I  am  about 
to  tender,  will  free  sufficient  votes  to  give  the  triumph  either 
to  Mr.  Egerton  or  Mr.  Leslie. 

"  Egerton  for  ever  ! "  cried  once  more  the  excited  Blues. 

"Yes — Egerton  for  ever!"  said  Leonard,  with  a  glow 
upon  his  cheek.  "  We  may  differ  from  his  politics,  but 
who  can  tell  us  those  of  Mr.  Leslie  ?  We  may  differ  from 


1094  MY  NOVEL;    OR, 

the  politician,  but  who  would  not  feel  proud  of  the  senator  ? 
A  great  and  incalculable  advantage  is  bestowed  on  that 
constituency  which  returns  to  Parliament  a  distinguished 
man.  His  distinction  ennobles  the  place  he  represents  -it 
sustains  public  spirit — it  augments  the  manly  interest  in 
all  that  affects  the  nation.  Every  time  his  voice  hushes  the 
assembled  Parliament,  it  reminds  us  of  our  common 
country  ;  and  even  the  discussion  amongst  his  constituents 
which  his  voice  provokes — clears  their  perceptions  of  the 
public  interest,  and  enlightens  themselves,  from  the  intel- 
lect which  commands  their  interest,  and  compels  their  at- 
tention. Egerton,  then,  for  ever  !  If  our  party  must  sub- 
scribe to  the  return  of  one  opponent,  let  all  unite  to  select 
the  worthiest.  My  Lord  L'Estrange,  when  I  quit  this  room, 
it  will  be  to  announce  my  resignation,  and  to  solicit  those 
who  have  promised  me  their  votes  to  transfer  them  to  Mr. 
Audley  Egerton." 

Amidst  the  uproarious  huzzas  which  followed  this  speech, 
Leonard  drew  near  to  Harley  !  "  My  Lord,  I  have  obeyed 
your  wishes,  as  conveyed  to  me  by  my  uncle,  who  is  en- 
gaged at  this  moment  elsewhere  in  carrying  them  into 
effect." 

"  Leonard,"  said  Harley,  in  the  same  undertone,  "  you 
have  insured  to  Audley  Egerton  what  you  alone  could  do 
— the  triumph  over  a  perfidious  dependant— the  contin- 
uance of  the  sole  career  in  which  he  has  hitherto  found  the 
solace  or  the  zest  of  life.  He  .must  thank  you  with  his  own 
lips.  Come  to  the  Park  after  the  close  of  the  poll.  There 
and  then  shall  the  explanations  yet  needful  to  both  be  given 
and  received." 

Here  Harley  bowed  to  the  assembly  and  raised  his 
voice  :  "  Gentlemen,  yesterday,  at  the  nomination  of  the 
candidates,  I  uttered  remarks  that  have  justly  pained  Mr. 
Fairfield.  In  your  presence  I  wholly  retract  and  frankly 
apologize  for  them.  In  your  presence  I  entreat  his  for- 
giveness, and  say,  that  if  he  will  accord  me  his  friendship, 
I  will  place  him  in  my  esteem  and  affection  side  by  side 
with  the  statesman  he  has  given  to  his  country." 

Leonard  grasped  the  hand  extended  to  him  with  both 
his  own,  and  then,  overcome  by  his  emotions,  hurried  from 
the  room  ;  while  Blues  and  Yellows  exchanged  greetings, 
rejoiced  in  the  compromise  that  would  dispel  all  party 
irritation,  secure  the  peace  of  the  borough,  and  allow  quiet 
men,  who  had  detested  each  other  the  day  before,  and 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  109$ 

vowed  reciprocal  injuries  to  trade  and  custom,  the  in- 
dulgence of  all  amiable  and  fraternal  feelings — until  the 
next  general  election. 

In  the  meanwhile  the  polling  had  gone  on  slowly  as 
before,  but  still  to  the  advantage  of  Randal.  "  Not  two- 
thirds  of  the  constituency  will  poll,"  murmured  Levy, 
looking  at  his  watch.  "  The  thing  is  decided.  Aha,  Audley 
Egerton  !  you  who  once  tortured  me  with  the  unspeakable 
jealousy  that  bequeaths  such  implacable  hate — you  who 
scorned  my  society,  and  called  me  '  scoundrel ' — disdainful 
of  the  very  power  your  folly  placed  within  my  hands — aha, 
your  time  is  up  ! — and  the  spirit  that  administered  to  your 
own  destruction  strides  within  the  circle  to  seize  its  prey." 

"You  shall  have  my  first  frank  Levy,"  said  Randal,  "to 
enclose  your  letter  to  Mr.  Thornhill's  solicitor.  This  affair 
of  the  election  is  over  ;  we  must  now  look  to  what  else 
rests  on  our  hands." 

"  What  the  devil  is  that  placard  ? "  cried  Levy,  turning 
pale. 

Randal  looked,  and  right  up  the  market-place,  followed 
by  an  immense  throng,  moved,  high  over  the  heads  of  all,  a 
Yellow  Board  that  seemed  marching  through  the  air  comet- 
like  :— 

Two  o'clock  p.  in. 

RESIGNATION  OF  FAIRFIELD  ! 


YELLOWS ! 

VOTE   FOR 

AVENEL  AND  EGERTON! 

(Signed)  TIMOTHY  ALLJACK. 

Yellow  Committee  Room, 

"  What  infernal  treachery  is  this  ?  "  cried  Randal,  livid 
with  honest  indignation. 

"  Wait  a  moment ;  there  is  Avenel  !  "  exclaimed  Levy  ; 
and  at  the  head  of  another  procession  that  emerged  from 
the  obscurer  lanes  of  the  town,  walked,  with  grave  majesty, 
the  surviving  Yellow  candidate.  Dick  disappeared  for  a 
moment  within  a  grocer's  shop  in  the  broadest  part  of  the 
place,  and  then  culminated,  at  the  height  of  a  balcony  on 
the  first  story,  just  above  an  enormous  yellow  canister,  sig- 
nificant of  the  profession  and  the  politics  of  the  householder. 
No  sooner  did  Dick,  hat  in  hand,  appear  on  this  rostrum, 


1096  MY  NOVEL;    OK, 

than  the  two  processions  halted  below,  bands  ceased,  flags 
drooped  round  their  staves,  crowds  rushed  within  hearing, 
and  even  the  poll-clerks  sprang  from  the  booth.  Randal 
and  Levy  themselves  pressed  into  the  throng.  Dick  on  the 
balcony  was  the  Deus  ex  Machind. 

"  Freemen  and  electors ! "  said  Dick,  with  his  most 
sonorous  accents — "  finding  that  the  public  opinion  of  this 
independent  and  enlightened  constituency  is  so  evenly 
divided,  that  only  one  Yellow  candidate  can  be  returned, 
and  only  one  Blue  has  a  chance,  it  was  my  intention  last 
night  to  retire  from  the  contest,  and  thus  put  an  end  to  all 
bickerings  and  ill-blood — (Hold  your  tongues  there,  can't 
you  !) — I  say  honestly,  I  should  have  preferred  the  return 
of  my  distinguished  and  talented  young  nephew — honorable 
relation — to  my  own  ;  but  he  would  not  hear  of  it ;  and 
talked  all  our  Committee  into  the  erroneous  but  high- 
minded  notion,  that  the  town  would  cry  shame  if  the 
nephew  rode  into  Parliament  by  breaking  the  back  of  the 
uncle."  (Loud  cheers  from  the  mob,  and  partial  cries  of 
"  We'll  have  you  both  !  ") 

"You'll  do  no  such  thing,  and  you  know  it  ;  hold  your 
jaw,"  resumed  Dick,  with  imperious  good-humor.  "  Let 
me  go  on,  can't  you  ? — time  presses.  In  a  word,  my 
nephew  resolved  to  retire,  if,  at  two  o'clock  this  day,  there 
was  no  chance  of  returning  both  of  us ;  and  there  is  none. 
Now,  then,  the  next  thing  for  the  Yellows  who  have  not 
yet  voted,  is  to  consider  how  they  will  give  their  second 
votes.  If  I  had  been  the  man  to  retire,  why,  for  certain 
reasons,  I  should  have  recommended  them  to  split  with 
Leslie — a  clever  chap,  and  pretty  considerable  sharp." 

"Hear,  hear,  hear!"  cried  the  Baron,  lustily. 

"  But  I'm  bound  to  say  that  my  nephew  has  an  opinion 
of  his  own — as  an  independent  Britisher,  let  him  be  twice 
your  nephew,  ought  to  have  ;  and  his  opinion  goes  the 
other  way,  and  so  does  that  of  our  Committee." 

"  Sold  !  "  cried  the  Baron  ;  and  some  of  the  crowd  shook 
their  heads,  and  looked  grave — especially  those  suspected 
of  a  wish  to  be  bought. 

"  Sold ! — pretty  fellow  you,  with  the  nosegay  in  your 
button-hole,  to  talk  of  selling  !  You  who  wanted  to  sell 
your  own  clients — and  you  know  it.  [Levy  recoiled.]  Why, 
gentlemen,  that's  Levy,  the  Jew,  who  talks  of  selling  !  And 
if  he  asperses  the  character  of  this  constituency,  I  stand 
here  to  defend  it ;  and  there  stands  the  parish  pump,  with 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  1097 

a  handle  for  the  arm  of  Honesty,  and  a  spout  for  the  lips 
of  Falsehood  !" 

At  the  close  of  this  magniloquent  period,  borrowed,  no 
doubt,  from  some  great  American  orator,  Baron  Levy  in- 
voluntarily retreated  toward  the  shelter  of  the  polling-booth, 
followed  by  some  frowning  Yellows,  with  very  menacing 
gestures. 

"  But  the  calumniator  sneaks  away ;  leave  him  to  the 
reproach  of  his  conscience,"  resumed  Dick,  with  a  gener- 
ous magnanimity. 

"  SOLD  !  [the  word  rang  through  the  place  like  the 
blast  of  a  trumpet] — sold  !  No,  believe  me,  not  a  man  who 
votes  for  Egerton  instead  of  Fairfield  will,  so  far  as  I  am 
concerned,  be  a  penny  the  better  [chilling  silence] — or  [with 
a  scarce  perceivable  wink  toward  the  anxious  faces  of  the 
Hundred  and  fifty  who  filled  the  background] — or  a  penny 
the  worse.  [Loud  cheers  from  the  Hundred  and  fifty,  and 
cries  of  '  Noble  ! ']  I  don't  like  the  politics  of  Mr.  Egerton. 
But  I  am  not  only  a  politician — I  am  a  MAN  !  The  argu- 
ments of  our  respected  Committee — persons  in  business, 
tender  husbands,  and  devoted  fathers — have  weight  with 
me.  I  myself  am  a  husband  and  a  father.  If  a  needless 
contest  be  prolonged  to  the  last,  with  all  the  irritations  it 
engenders,  who  suffer  ? — why,  the  tradesman  and  the  opera- 
tive. Partially,  loss  of  custom,  tyrannical  demands  for 
house-rent,  notices  to  quit — in  a  word,  the  screw  !  " 

"  Hear,  hear  !  "  and  "  Give  us  the  Ballot !  " 

"  The  Ballot — with  all  my  heart,  if  I  had  it  about  me  ! 
And  if  we  had  the  Ballot,  I  should  like  to  see  a  man  dare  to 
vote  Blue.  [Loud  cheers  from  the  Yellows.]  But,  as  we 
have  not  got  it,  we  must  think  of  our  families.  And  I  may 
add,  that  though  Mr.  Egerton  may  come  again  into  office, 
yet  [added  Dick,  solemnly]  I  will  do  my  best,  as  his  col- 
league, to  keep  him  straight  ;  and  your  own  enlightenment 
(for  the  schoolmaster  is  abroad)  will  show  him  that  no  min- 
ister can  brave  public  opinion,  nor  quarrel  with  his  own 
bread  and  butter.  [Much  cheering.]  In  these  times  the  aris- 
tocracy must  endear  themselves  to  the  middle  and  working 
class  ;  and  a  member  in  office  has  much  to  give  away  in  the 
Stamps  and  Excise,  in  the  Customs,  the  Post  Office,  and 
other  State  departments  in  this  rotten  old — I  mean  this 
magnificent  empire — by  which  he  can  benefit  his  consti- 
tuents, and  reconcile  the  prerogatives  of  aristocracy  with 


1098  MY  NOVEL;    OR, 

the  claims  of  the  people — ^more  especially  in  this  case,  the 
people  of  the  borough  of  Lansmere.  [Hear,  hear.] 

"  And  therefore,  sacrificing  party  inclinations  (since  it 
seems  that  I  can  in  no  way  promote  them)  on  the  altar  of 
General  Good  Feeling,  I  cannot  oppose  the  resignation  of 
my  nephew — honorable  relation — nor  blind  my  eyes  to  the 
advantages  that  may  result  to  a  borough  so  important  to 
the  nation  at  large,  if  the  electors  think  fit  to  choose  my 
Right  Honorable  broth — I  mean  the  Right  Honorable  Blue 
candidate — as  my  brother  colleague.  Not  that  I  presume 
to  dictate,  or  express  a  wish  one  way  or  the  other — only,  as 
a  Family  Man,  I  say  to  you,  Electors  and  Freemen,  having 
served  your  country  in  returning  me,  you  have  nobly  won 
the  right  to  think  of  the  little  ones  at  home." 

Dick  put  his  hand  to  his  heart,  bowed  gracefully,  and 
retired  from  the  balcony  amidst  unanimous  applause. 

In  three  minutes  more,  Dick  had  resumed  his  place  in 
the  booth  in  his  quality  of  candidate.  A  rush  of  Yellow 
electors  poured  in,  hot  and  fast.  Up  came  Emanuel  Trout, 
and,  in  a  firm  voice,  recorded  his  vote — "  Avenel  and  Eger- 
ton."  Every  man  of  the  Hundred  and  Fifty  so  polled.  To 
each  question,  "Whom  do  you  vote  for?"  "Avenel  and 
Egerton  "  knelled  on  the  ears  of  Randal  Leslie  with  "dam- 
nable iteration."  The  young  man  folded  his  arms  across 
his  breast  in  dogged  despair.  Levy  had  to  shake  hands  for 
Mr.  Egerton,  with  a  rapidity  that  took  away  his  breath. 
He  longed  to  slink  away — longed  to  get  at  L'Estrange, 
whom  he  supposed  would  be  as  wroth  at  this  turn  in  the 
wheel  of  fortune  as  himself.  But  how,  as  Egerton's  repre- 
sentative, escape  from  the  continuous  gripes  of  those  horny 
hands  ?  Besides,  there  stood  the  parish  pump,  right  in  face 
of  the  booth,  and  some  huge  truculent-looking  Yellows 
loitered  round  it,  as  if  ready  to  pounce  on  him  the  instant 
he  quitted  his  present  sanctuary.  Suddenly  the  crowd 
round  the  booth  receded — Lord  L'Estrange's  carriage  drove 
up  to  the  spot,  and  Harley,  stepping  from  it,  assisted  out 
of  the  vehicle  an  old  gray-haired  paralytic  man.  The  old 
man  stared  round  him,  and  nodded  smilingly  to  the  mob. 
"  I'm  here — I'm  come  ;  I'm  but  a  poor  creature,  but  I'm  a 
good  Blue  to  the  last ! " 

"Old  John  Avenel — fine  old  man  !"  cried  many  a  voice. 

And  John  Avenel,  still  leaning  on  Harley's  arm,  tottered 
into  the  booth,  and  plumped  for  "Egerton." 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  1099 

"  Shake  hands,  father,"  said  Dick,  bending  forward, 
"  though  you'll  not  vote  for  me." 

"  I  was  a  Blue  before  you  were  born,"  answered  the  old 
man,  tremulously.  "  But  I  wish  you  success  all  the  same, 
and  God  bless  you,  my  boy ! " 

Even  the  poll-clerks  were  touched ;  and  when  Dick, 
leaving  his  place,  was  seen  by  the  crowd  assisting  Lord 
L'Estrange  to  place  poor  John  again  in  the  carriage — that 
picture  of  family  love  in  the  midst  of  political  difference — 
of  the  prosperous,  wealthy,  energetic  son,  who,  as  a  boy, 
had  played  at  marbles  in  the  very  kennel,  and  who  had 
risen  in  life  by  his  own  exertions,  and  was  now  virtually 
M.P.  for  his  native  town — tending  on  the  broken-down, 
aged  father,  whom  even  the  interests  of  a  son  he  was  so 
proud  of  could  not  win  from  the  colors  which  he  associated 
with  truth  and  rectitude — had  such  an  effect  upon  the  rud- 
est of  the  mob  there  present,  that  you  might  have  heard  a 
pin  fall — till  the  carriage  drove  away  back  to  John's  hum- 
ble home  ;  and  then  there  rose  such  a  tempest  of  huzzas ! 
John  Avenel's  vote  for  Egerton  gave  another  turn  to  the 
vicissitudes  of  that  memorable  election.  As  yet  Avenel  had 
been  ahead  of  Audley  ;  but  a  plumper  in  favor  of  Egerton, 
from  Avenel's  own  father,  set  an  example  and  gave  an  ex- 
cuse to  many  a  Blue  who  had  not  yet  voted,  and  could  not 
prevail  on  himself  to  split  his  vote  between  Dick  and  Audley  ; 
and  therefore,  several  leading  tradesmen,  who,  seeing  that 
Egerton  was  safe,  had  previously  resolved  not  to  vote  at 
all,  came  up  in  the  last  hour,  plumped  for  Egerton,  and 
carried  him  to  the  head  of  the  poll  ;  so  that  poor  John, 
whose  vote,  involving  that  of  Mark  Fairfield,  had  secured 
the  first  opening  in  public  life  to  the  young  ambition  of  the 
unknown  son-in-law,  still  contributed  to  connect  with  suc- 
cess and  triumph,  but  also  with  sorrow,  and,  it  may  be, 
with  death,  the  names  of  the  high-born  Egerton  and  the 
humble  Avenel. 

The  great  town-clock  strikes  the  hour  of  four ;  the  re- 
turning-officer  declares  the  poll  closed  ;  the  formal  an- 
nouncement of  the  result  will  be  made  later.  But  all  the 
town  knows  that  Audley  Egerton  and  Richard  Avenel  are 
the  members  for  Lansmere.  And  flags  stream,  and  drums 
beat,  and  men  shake  each  other  by  the  hand  heartily  ;  and 
there  is  talk  of  the  chairing  to-morrow  ;  and  the  public- 
houses  are  crowded  ;  and  there  is  an  indistinct  hubbub 
in  street  and  alley,  with  sudden  bursts  of  uproarious 


M00  MY  NOVEL;    OR, 

shouting  ;  and  the  clouds  to  the  west  look  red  and  lurid 
round  the  sun,  which  has  gone  down  behind  the  church- 
tower — behind  the  yew-trees  that  overshadow  the  quiet 
grave  of  Nora  Avenel. 


CHAPTER  XXXIII. 

AMIDST  the  darkening  shadows  of  twilight,  Randal  Les- 
lie walked  through  Lansmere  Park  toward  the  house.  He 
had  slunk  away  before  the  poll  was  closed— crept  through 
by-lanes,  and  plunged  into  the  leafless  copses  of  the  Earl's 
stately  pasture-grounds.  Amidst  the  bewilderment  of  his 
thoughts — at  a  loss  to  conjecture  how  this  strange  mischance 
had  befallen  him — inclined  to  ascribe  it  to  Leonard's  in- 
fluence over  Avenel — but  suspecting  Harley,  and  half 
doubtful  of  Baron  Levy,  he  sought  to  ascertain  what  fault 
of  judgment  he  himself  had  committed— what  wile  he  had 
forgotten — what  thread  in  his  web  he  had  left  ragged  and 
incomplete.  He  could  discover  none.  His  ability  seemed 
to  him  unimpeachable — totus,  feres,  atque  rotundus.  And  then 
there  came  across  his  breast  a  sharp  pang — sharper  than  that 
of  baffled  ambition — thefeeling  that  he  had  been  deceived  and 
bubbled,  and  betrayed.  For  so  vital  a  necessity  to  all  liv- 
ing men  is  TRUTH,  that  the  vilest  traitor  feels  amazed  and 
wronged — feels  the  pillars  of  the  world  shaken,  when  treason 
recoils  on  himself.  "That  Richard  Avenel,  whom  I  trusted 
could  so  deceive  me ! "  murmured  Randal,  and  his  lip 
quivered. 

He  was  still  in  the  midst  of  the  park,  when  a  man  with 
a  yellow  cockade  in  his  hat,  and  running  fast  from  the  di- 
rection of  the  town,  overtook  him  with  a  letter,  on  deliver- 
ing which  the  messenger,  waiting  for  no  answer,  hastened 
back  the  way  he  had  come.  Randal  recognized  Avenel's 
hand  on  the  address — broke  the  seal,  and  read  as  follows  : — 

(Private  and  Confidential.) 

"DEAR  LESLIE, — Don't  be  down-hearted — you  will  know 
to-night  or  to-morrow  why  I  have  had  cause  to  alter  my 
opinion  as  to  the  Right  Honorable  ;  and  you  will  see  that 
I  could  not,  as  a  Family  Man,  act  otherwise  than  I  have 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  1101 

done.  Though  I  have  not  broken  my  word  to  you — for  you 
remember  that  all  the  help  I  promised  was  dependent  on 
my  own  resignation,  and  would  go  for  nothing  if  Leonard 
resigned  instead — yet  I  feel  you  must  think  yourself  rather 
bamboozled.  But  I  have  been  obliged  to  sacrifice  you,  from 
a  sense  of  Family  Duty,  as  you  will  soon  acknowledge.  My 
own  nephew  is  sacrificed  also  ;  and  I  have  sacrificed  my  own 
concerns,  which  require  the  whole  man  of  me  for  the  next 
year  or  two  at  Screwstown.  Se  we  are  all  in  the  same  boat, 
though  you  may  think  you  are  set  adrift  by  yourself.  But 
I  don't  mean  to  stay  in  Parliament.  I  shall  take  the  Chiltern 
Hundreds,  pretty  considerable  soon.  And  if  you  keep  well 
with  the  Blues,  I'll  do  my  best  with  the  Yellows  to  let  you 
walk  over  the  course  in  my  stead.  For  I  don't  think  Leon- 
ard will  want  to  stand  again.  And  so  a  word  to  the  wise — 
and  you  may  yet  be  member  for  Lansmere. 

"R.  A." 

In  this  letter,  Randal,  despite  all  his  acuteness,  could 
not  detect  the  honest  compunction  of  the  writer.  He  could 
at  first  only  look  at  the  worst  side  of  human  nature,  and 
fancy  that  it  was  a  paltry  attempt  to  stifle  his  just  anger 
and  insure  his  discretion.  But,  on  second  thoughts,  it 
struck  him  that  Dick  might  very  naturally  be  glad  to  be 
released  to  his  mill,  and  get  a  quid  pro  quo  out  of  Randal, 
under  the  comprehensive  title — "repayment  of  expenses." 
Perhaps  Dick  was  not  sorry  to  wait  until  Randal's  marriage 
gave  him  the  means  to  make  the  repayment.  Nay,  perhaps 
Randal  had  been  thrown  over  for  the  present,  in  order  to 
wring  from  him  better  terms  in  a  single  election.  Thus 
reasoning,  he  took  comfort  from  his  belief  in  the  mercenary 
motives  of  another.  True,  it  might  be  but  a  short  disap- 
pointment. Before  the  next  Parliament  was  a  month  old, 
he  might  yet  take  his  seat  in  it  as  member  for  Lansmere. 
But  all  would  depend  on  his  marriage  with  the  heiress  ;  he 
must  hasten  that. 

Meanwhile  it  was  necessary  to  knit  and  gather  up  all 
his  thought,  courage,  and  presence  of  mind.  How  he 
shrunk  from  return  to  Lansmere  House — from  facing  Eger- 
ton,  Harley — all.  But  there  was  no  choice.  He  would 
have  to  make  it  up  with  the  Blues — to  defend  the  course  he 
had  adopted  in  the  Committee-Room.  There,  no  doubt, 
was  Squire  Hazeldean  awaiting  him  with  the  purchase- 
money  for  the  lands  of  Rood — there  was  the  Duke  di  Ser- 


M02  MY  NOVEL;    OR, 

rano,  restored  to  wealth  and  honor— there  was  his  promised 
bride,  the  great  heiress,  on  whom  depended  all  that  could 
raise  the  needy  gentleman  into  wealth  and  position.  Grad- 
ually, with  the  elastic  temper  that  is  essential  to  a  systematic 
schemer,  Randal  Leslie  plucked  himself  from  the  pain  of 
brooding  over  a  plot  that  was  defeated,  to  prepare  himself 
for  consummating  those  that  yet  seemed  so  near  success. — 
After  all,  should  he  fail  in  regaining  Egerton's  favor,  Eger- 
ton  was  of  use  no  more.  He  might  rear  his  head,  and  face 
out  what  some  might  call  "  ingratitude,"  provided  he  could 
but  satisfy  the  Blue  Committee.  Dull  dogs,  how  could  he 
fail  to  do  that !  He  could  easily  talk  over  the  Machiavellian 
sage.  He  should  have  small  difficulty  in  explaining  all  to 
the  content  of  Audley's  distant  brother,  the  Squire.  Harley 
alone — but  Levy  had  so  positively  assured  him  that  Harley 
was  not  sincerely  anxious  for  Egerton  ;  and  as  to  the  more 
important  explanation  relative  to  Peschiera,  surely  what 
had  satisfied  Violante's  father  ought  to  satisfy  a  man  who 
had  no  peculiar  right  to  demand  explanations  at  all ;  and  if 
these  explanations  did  not  satisfy,  the  onus  to  disprove  them 
must  rest  with  Harley  ;  and  who  or  what  could  contradict 
Randal's  plausible  assertions — assertions  in  support  of  which 
he  himself  could  summon  a  witness  in  Baron  Levy  ?  Thus 
nerving  himself  to  all  that  could  task  his  powers,  Randal 
Leslie  crossed  the  threshold  of  Lansmere  House  ;  and  in 
the  hall  he  found  the  Baron  awaiting  him. 

"  I  can't  account,"  said  Levy,  "  for  what  has  gone  so 
cross  in  this  confounded  election.  It  is  L'Estrange  that 
puzzles  me  ;  but  I  know  that  he  hates  Egerton.  I  know 
that  he  will  prove  that  hate  by  one  mode  of  revenge,  if  he 
has  lost  it  in  another. — But  it  is  well,  Randal,  that  you  are 
secure  of  Hazeldean's  money  and  the  rich  heiress's  hand  ; 
otherwise " 

"  Otherwise,  what  ?  " 

"  I  should  wash  my  hands  of  you,  man  cher  /  for,  in  spite 
of  all  your  cleverness,  and  all  I  have  tried  to  do  for  you, 
somehow  or  other  I  begin  to  suspect  that  your  talents  will 
never  secure  your  fortune.  A  carpenter's  son  beats  you  in 
public  speaking,  and  a  vulgar  mill-owner  tricks  you  in  pri- 
vate negotiation.  Decidedly,  as  yet,  Randal  Leslie,  you  are 
— a  failure.  And,  as  you  so  admirably  said,  '  a  man  from 
whom  we  have  nothing  to  hope  or  fear,  we  must  blot  out 
of  the  map  of  the  future.'  " 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE. 


1103 


Randal's  answer  was  cut  short  by  the  appearance  of  the 
groom  of  the  chambers. 

"  My  lord  is  in  the  saloon,  and  requests  you  and  Mr. 
Leslie  will  do  him  the  honor  to  join  him  there."  The  two 
gentlemen  followed  the  servant  up  the  broad  stairs. 

The  saloon  formed  the  centre  room  of  the  suite  of  apart- 
ments. From  its  size  it  was  rarely  used  save  on  state  oc- 
casions. It  had  the  chilly  and  formal  aspect  of  rooms  re- 
served for  ceremony. 

Riccabocca,  Violante,  Helen,  Mr.  Dale,  Squire  Hazel- 
dean,  and  Lord  L' Estrange,  were  grouped  together  by  the 
cold  Florentine  marble  table,  not  littered  with  books  and 
female  work,  and  the  endearing  signs  of  habitation,  that 
give  a  living  smile  to  the  face  of  home  ;  nothing  thereon  save 
a  great  silver  candelabrum,  that  scarce  lighted  the  spacious 
room,  and  brought  out  the  portraits  on  the  walls  as  a  part 
of  the  assembly,  looking,  as  portraits  do  look,  with  search- 
ing, curious  eyes  upon  every  eye  that  turns  to  them. 

But  as  soon  as  Randal  entered,  the  Squire  detached  him- 
self from  the  group,  and,  coming  to  the  defeated  candidate, 
shook  hands  with  him  heartily. 

"  Cheer  up,  my  boy  ;  'tis  no  shame  to  be  beaten.  Lord 
L'Estrange  says  you  did  your  best  to  win,  and  man  can  do 
no  more.  And  I'm  glad,  Leslie,  that  we  don't  meet  for 
our  little  business  till  the  election  is  over ;  for,  after  an- 
noyance, something  pleasant  is  twice  as  acceptable.  I've 
the  money  in  my  pocket.  Hush — and  I  say,  my  dear,  dear, 
dear  boy,  I  cannot  find  out  where  Frank  is ;  but  is  it  really 
all  off  with  that  foreign  woman — eh  ?" 

"  Yes,  indeed,  sir ;  I  hope  so.  I'll  talk  to  you  about  it 
when  we  can  be  alone.  We  may  slip  away  presently,  I 
trust." 

"  I'll  tell  you  a  secret  scheme  of  mine  and  Harry's,"  said 
the  Squire,  in  a  still  low  whisper.  "We  must  drive  that 
marchioness,  or  whatever  she  is,  out  of  the  boy's  head,  and 
put  a  pretty  English  girl  into  it  instead.  That  will  settle 
him  in  life  too.  And  I  must  try  and  swallow  that  bitter 
pill  of  the  post-obit.  Harry  makes  worse  of  it  than  I  do,  and 
is  so  hard  on  the  poor  fellow  that  I've  been  obliged  to  take 
his  part.  I've  no  idea  of  being  under  petticoat  government 
—it  is  not  the  way  with  the  Hazeldeans.  Well,  but  to  come 
back  to  the  point — whom  do  you  think  I  mean  by  the 
pretty  girl  ? " 

"  Miss  Sticktorights  ?  " 


1 104  MY  NOVEL;    OR, 

"  Zounds,  no  ! — your  own  little  sister,  Randal.  Sweet 
pretty  face  !  Harry  liked  her  from  the  first,  and  then  you'll 
be  Frank's  brother,  and  your  sound  head  and  good  heart 
will  keep  him  right.  And  as  you  are  going  to  be  married 
too  (you  must  tell  me  all  about  that  later),  why,  we  shall 
have  two  marriages,  perhaps,  in  the  family  on  the  same 
day." 

Randal's  hand  grasped  the  Squire's,  and  with  an  emo- 
tion of  human  gratitude — for  we  know  that,  hard  to  all  else, 
he  had  natural  feelings  for  his  fallen  family  ;  and  his  neg- 
lected sister  was  the  one  being  on  earth  whom  he  might 
almost  be  said  to  love.  With  all  his  intellectual  disdain  for 
honest,  simple  Frank,  he  knew  no  one  in  the  world  with 
whom  his  young  sister  could  be  more  secure  and  happy. 
Transferred  to  the  roof,  and  improved  by  the  active  kind- 
ness, of  Mrs.  Hazeldean — blest  in  the  manly  affection  of 
one  not  too  refined  to  censure  her  own  deficiencies  of  edu- 
cation— what  more  could  he  ask  for  his  sister,  as  he  pic- 
tured her  to  himself,  with  her  hair  hanging  over  her  ears, 
and  her  mind  running  into  seed  over  some  trashy  novel. 
But  before  he  could  reply,  Violante's  father  came  to  add  his 
own  philosophical  consolations  to  the  Squire's  downright 
comfortings. 

"  Who  could  ever  count  on  popular  caprice  ?  The  wise 
of  all  ages  had  despised  it.  In  that  respect,  Horace  and 
Machiavelli  were  of  the  same  mind,"  etc.,  etc.  "  But,"  said 
the  Duke,  with  emphatic  kindness,  "  perhaps  your  very 
misfortune  here  may  serve  you  elsewhere.  The  female 
heart  is  prone  to  pity,  and  ever  eager  to  comfort.  Besides, 
if  I  am  recalled  to  Italy,  you  will  have  leisure  to  come  with 
us,  and  see  the  land  where,  of  all  others,  ambition  can  be 
most  readily  forgotten,  even  [added  the  Italian,  with  a  sigh] 
— even  by  her  own  sons  ! " 

Thus  addressed  by  both  Hazeldean  and  the  Duke,  Ran- 
dal recovered  his  spirits.  It  was  clear  that  Lord  L'Estrange 
had  not  conveyed  to  them  any  unfavorable  impression  of 
his  conduct  in  the  Committee-room.  While  Randal  had 
been  thus  engaged,  Levy  had  made  his  way  to  Harley, 
who  retreated  with  the  Baron  into  the  bay  of  the  great 
window. 

"  Well,  my  lord,  do  you  comprehend  this  conduct  on 
the  part  of  Richard  Avenel  ?  He  secure  Egerton's  return  ! 
—he  ! " 

"What  so  natural,  Baron  Levy — his  own  brother-in-law?" 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  1105 

The  Baron  started,  and  turned  very  pale. 

"  But  how  did  he  know  that  ?  I  never  told  him.  I 
meant  indeed " 

"  Meant,  perhaps,  to  shame  Egerton's  pride  at  the  last, 
by  publicly  declaring  his  marriage  with  a  shopkeeper's 
daughter.  A  very  good  revenge  still  left  to  you  ;  but  re- 
venge for  what  ?  A  word  with  you,  now,  Baron,  that  our 
acquaintance  is  about  to  close  for  ever.  You  know  why  I 
have  cause  for  resentment  against  Egerton.  I  do  but  sus- 
pect yours  ;  will  you  make  it  clear  to  me  ?" 

"  My  lord,  my  lord,"  faltered  Baron  Levy,  "  I,  too,  wooed 
Nora  Avenel  as  my  wife  ;  I,  too,  had  a  happier  rival  in  the 
haughty  worldling  who  did  not  appreciate  his  own  felicity ; 
I,  too — in  a  word,  some  women  inspire  an  affection  that 
mingles  with  the  entire  being  of  a  man,  and  is  fused  with 
all  the  currents  of  his  life-blood  ;  Nora  Avenel  was  one  of 
those  women." 

Harley  was  startled.  This  burst  of  emotion  from  a  man 
so  corrupt  and  cynical  arrested  even  the  scorn  he  felt  for 
the  usurer.  Levy  soon  recovered  himself.  "  But  our  re- 
venge is  not  baffled  yet.  Egerton,  if  not  already  in  my 
power,  is  still  in  yours.  His  election  may  save  him  from 
arrest,  but  the  law  has  other  modes  of  public  exposure  and 
effectual  ruin." 

"  For  the  knave,  yes — as  I  intimated  to  you  in  your  own 
house — you  who  boast  of  your  love  to  Nora  Avenel,  and 
know  in  your  heart  that  you  were  her  destroyer — you  who 
witnessed  her  marriage,  and  yet  dared  to  tell  her  that  she 
was  dishonored  ! " 

"  My  lord — I — how  could  you  know — I  mean,  how  think 
that — that "  faltered  Levy,  aghast. 

"Nora  Avenel  has  spoken  from  her  grave,"  replied 
Harley,  solemnly.  "  Learn  that,  wherever  man  commits  a 
crime,  Heaven  finds  a  witness  !  " 

"  It  is  on  me,  then,"  said  Levy,  wrestling  against  a 
superstitious  thrill  at  his  heart — "  on  me  that  you  now  con- 
centrate your  vengeance  ;  and  I  must  meet  it  as  I  may. 
But  I  have  fulfilled  my  part  of  our  compact.  I  have  obeyed 
you  implicitly — and " 

"  I  will  fulfil  my  part  of  our  bond,  and  leave  you  un- 
disturbed in  your  wealth." 

"  I  knew  I  might  trust  to  your  lordship's  honor,"  ex- 
claimed the  usurer,  in  servile  glee. 

"  And  this  vile  creature  nursed  the  same  passions  as 

47 


no6  MY  NOVEL;    OK, 

myself  ;  and  but  yesterday  we  were  partners  in  the  same 
purpose,  and  influenced  by  the  same  thought,"  muttered 
Harley  to  himself.  "Yes,"  he  said  aloud,  "I  dare  not, 
Baron  Levy,  constitute  myself  your  judge.  Pursue  your  own 
path — all  roads  meet  at  last  before  the  common  tribunal. 
But  you  are  not  yet  released  from  our  compact  ;  you  must 
do  some  good  in  spite  of  yourself.  Look  yonder,  where 
Randal  Leslie  stands,  smiling  secure,  between  the  two 
clangers  he  has  raised  up  for  himself.  And  as  Randal  Les- 
lie himself  has  invited  me  to  be  his  judge,  and  you  are  aware 
that  he  cited  yourself  this  very  day  as  his  witness,  here  I 
must  expose  the  guilty — f6r  here  the  innocent  still  live,  and 
need  defence." 

Harley  turned  away,  and  took  his  place  by  the  table. 
"  I  have  wished,"  said  he,  raising  his  voice,  "  to  connect 
with  the  triumph  of  my  earliest  and  dearest  friend  the  hap- 
piness of  others  in  whose  welfare  I  feel  an  interest.  To 
you,  Alphonso,  Duke  di  Serrano,  I  now  give  this  despatch, 
received  last  evening  by  a  special  messenger  from  the 

Prince  Von ,  announcing  your  restoration  to  your  lands 

and  honors." 

The  Squire  stared  with  open  mouth.  "  Rickeybockey  a 
duke  ?  Why,  Jemima's  a  duchess  !  Bless  me,  she  is  actual- 
ly crying  !  "  And  his  good  heart  prompted  him  to  run  to 
his  cousin  and  cheer  her  up  a  bit. 

Violante  glanced  at  Harley,  and  flung  herself  on  her 
father's  breast.  Randal  involuntarily  rose,  and  moved  to 
the  Duke's  chair. 

"And  you,  Mr.  Randal  Leslie,"  continued  Harley, 
"  though  you  have  lost  your  election,  see  before  you  at  this 
moment  such  prospects  of  wealth  and  happiness,  that  I  shall 
only  have  to  offer  you  congratulations  to  which  those  that 
greet  Mr.  Audley  Egerton  may  well  appear  lukewarm  and 
insipid,  provided  you  prove  that  you  have  not  forfeited  the 
right  to  claim  that  promise  which  the  Duke  di  Serrano  has 
accorded  to  the  suitor  of  his  daughter's  hand.  Some  doubts 
resting  on  my  mind,  you  have  volunteered  to  dispel  them. 
I  have  the  duke's  permission  to  address  to  you  a  few  ques- 
tions, and  I  now  avail  myself  of  your  offer  to  reply  to 
them." 

"Now — and  here,  my  lord?"  said  Randal,  glancing 
round  the  room,  as  if  deprecating  the  presence  of  so  many 
witnesses. 

"  Now — and  here.     Nor  are   those    present  so  strange 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  1107 

to  your  explanations  as  your  question  would  imply.  Mr. 
Hazeldean,  it  so  happens  that  much  of  what  I  shall  say  to 
Mr.  Leslie  concerns  your  son." 

Randal's  countenance  fell.  An  uneasy  tremor  now 
seized  him. 

"My  son! — Frank?  Oh  then,  of  course,  Randal  will 
speak  out.  Speak,  my  boy  !  " 

Randal  remained  silent.  The  Duke  looked  at  his  work- 
ing face,  and  drew  away  his  chair. 

"  Young  man,  can  you  hesitate  ?"  said  he.  "  A  doubt  is 
expressed  which  involves  your  honor." 

"  'Sdeath  !"  cried  the  Squire,  also  gazing  on  Randal's 
cowering  eye  and  quivering  lip — "  What  are  you  afraid  of  ? " 

"Afraid  !"  said  Randal,  forced  into  speech,  and  with  a 
hollow  laugh — "  afraid  ? — I  ?  What  of  ?  I  was  only  won- 
dering what  Lord  L'Estrange  could  mean." 

"  I  will  dispel  that  wonder  at  once.  Mr.  Hazeldean,  your 
son  displeased  you  first  by  his  proposals  of  marriage  to  the 
Marchesa  di  Negra  against  your  consent ;  secondly  by  a 
post-obit  bond  granted  to  Baron  Levy.  Did  you  under- 
stand from  Mr.  Randal  Leslie  that  he  had  opposed  or 
favored  the  said  marriage — that  he  had  countenanced  or 
blamed  the  said  post-obit?  " 

"  Why,  of  course,"  cried  the  Squire,  "  that  he  had  op- 
posed both  the  one  and  the  other." 

"Is  it  so,  Mr.  Leslie?" 

"  My  lord — I — I — my  affections  for  Frank,  and  my  es- 
teem for  his  respected  father — I — I — "  He  nerved  himself, 
and  went  on  with  firm  voice  :  "Of  course  I  did  all  I  could 
to  dissuade  Frank  from  the  marriage  ;  and  as  to  the  post' 
obit,  I  know  nothing  about  it." 

"  So  much  at  present  for  this  matter.  I  pass  on  to  the 
graver  one,  that  affects  your  engagement  with  the  Duke  di 
Serrano's  daughter.  I  understand  from  you,  Duke,  that  to 
save  your  daughter  from  the  snares  of  Count  di  Peschiera, 
and  in  the  belief  that  Mr.  Leslie  shared  in  your  dread  of  the 
Count's  designs,  you,  while  in  exile  and  in  poverty, 
promised  to  that  gentleman  your  daughter's  hand  ?  When 
the  probabilities  of  restoration  to  your  principalities  seemed 
well-nigh  certain,  you  confirmed  that  promise  on  learning 
from  Mr.  Leslie  that  he  had,  however  ineffectively,  strug- 
gled to  preserve  your  heiress  from  a  perfidious  snare.  Is 
it  not  so  ? " 

"  Certainly.     Had  I  succeeded  to.  a  throne,  I  could  not 


iioS  My  NOVEL;    OR, 

recall  the  promise  that  I  had  given  in  penury  and  banish- 
ment— I  could  not  refuse  to  him  who  would  have  sacrificed 
worldly  ambition  in  wedding  a  penniless  bride,  the  reward 
of  his  own  generosity.  My  daughter  subscribes  to  my 
views." 

Violante  trembled,  and  her  hands  were  locked  together ; 
but  her  gaze  was  fixed  on  Harley. 

Mr.  Dale  wiped  his  eyes,  and  thought  of  the  poor  refugee 
feeding  on  minnows,  and  preserving  himself  from  debt 
amongst  the  shades  of  the  Casino. 

"  Your  answer  becomes  you,  Duke,"  resumed  Harley. 
"But  should  it  be  proved  that  Mr.  Leslie,  instead  of  wooing 
the  Princess  for  herself,  actually  calculated  on  the  receipt 
of  money  for  transferring  her  to  Count  Peschiera — instead 
of  saving  her  from  the  danger  you  dreaded,  actually  sug- 
gested the  snare  from  whic.h  she  was  delivered — would  you 
still  deem  your  honor  engaged  to " 

"  Such  a  villain  !  No,  surely  not !  "  exclaimed  the  Duke. 
"  But  this  is  a  groundless  hypothesis  !  Speak,  Randal." 

"  Lord  L'Estrange  cannot  insult  me  by  deeming  it  other- 
wise than  a  groundless  hypothesis,"  said  Randal,  striving  to 
rear  his  head. 

"  I  understand  then,  Mr.  Leslie,  that  you  scornfully  re- 
ject such  a  supposition  ?" 

"  Scornfully — yes.  And,"  continued  Randal,  advancing 
a  step,  "since  the  supposition  has  been  made,  I  demand 
from  Lord  L'Estrange,  as  his  equal  (for  all  gentlemen  are 
equals  where  honor  is  to  be  defended  at  the  cost  of  life), 
either  instant  retractation  or  instant  proof." 

"  That's  the  first  word  you  have  spoken  like  a  man," 
cried  the  Squire.  "  I  have  stood  my  ground  myself  for  a 
less  cause.  I  have  had  a  ball  through  my  right  shoulder." 

"  Your  demand  is  just,"  said  Harley,  unmoved.  "  I  can- 
not give  the  retractation — I  will  produce  the  proof." 

He  rose  and  rang  the  bell ; — the  servant  entered,  re- 
ceived his  whispered  order,  and  retired.  There  was  a  pause 
painful  to  all.  Randal,  however,  ran  over  in  his  fearful 
mind  what  evidence  could  be  brought  against  him — and 
foresaw  none.  The  folding-doors  of  the  saloon  were  thrown 
open,  and  the  servant  announced — 

THE  COUNT  DI  PESCHIERA. 

A  bombshell  descending  through  the  roof  could  not  have 
produced  a  more  startling  sensation.  Erect,  bold,  with  all 
the  imposing  effect  of  his  form  and  bearing,  the  Count 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  1109 

strode  into  the  centre  of  the  ring  ;  and,  after  a  slight  bend 
of  haughty  courtesy,  which  comprehended  all  present, 
reared  up  his  lofty  head,  and  looked  round,  with  calm  in 
his  eye  and  a  curve  on  his  lip — the  self-assured,  magnificent, 
high-bred  Daredevil. 

"Duke  di  Serrano,"  said  the  Count  in  English,  turning 
toward  his  astounded  kinsman,  and  in  a  voice  that,  slow, 
clear,  and  firm,  seemed  to  fill  the  room,  "  I  returned  to 
England  on  the  receipt  of  a  letter  from  my  Lord  L'Estrange, 
and  with  a  view,  it  is  true,  of  claiming  at  his  hands  the  sat- 
isfaction which  men  of  our  birth  accord  to  each  other, 
where  affront,  from  what  cause  soever,  has  been  given  or 
received.  Nay,  fair  kinswoman," — and  the  Count,  with  a 
slight  but  grave  smile,  bowed  to  Violante,  who  had  uttered 
a  faint  cry — "  that  intention  is  abandoned.  If  I  have  adopt- 
ed too  lightly  the  old  courtly  maxim,  that  '  all  stratagems 
are  fair  in  love,'  I  am  bound  also  to  yield  to  my  Lord  L'Es- 
trange's  arguments,  that  the  counter  stratagems  must  be 
fair  also.  And,  after  all,  it  becomes  me  better  to  laugh  at 
my  own  sorry  figure  in  defeat,  than  to  confess  myself 
gravely  mortified  by  an  ingenuity  more  successful  than  my 
own."  The  Count  paused,  and  his  eye  lightened  with  a 
sinister  fire,  which  ill  suited  the  raillery  of  his  tone,  and  the 
polished  ease  of  his  bearing.  "  Ma  foi !  "  he  continued,  "  it 
is  permitted  me  to  speak  thus,  since  at  least  I  have  given 
proofs  of  my  indifference  to  danger,  and  my  good  fortune 
when  exposed  to  it.  Within  the  last  six  years  I  have  had 
the  honor  to  fight  nine  duels,  and  the  regret  to  wound  five, 
and  dismiss  from  the  world  four,  as  gallant  and  worthy  gen- 
tlemen as  ever  the  sun  shone  upon." 

"  Monster  !  "  faltered  the  Parson. 

The  Squire  stared  aghast,  and  mechanically  rubbed  the 
shoulder  which  had  been  lacerated  by  Captain  Dashmore's 
bullet.  Randal's  pale  face  grew  yet  more  pale,  and  the  eye 
he  had  fixed  upon  the  Count's  hardy  visage  quailed  and 
fell. 

"  But,"  resumed  the  Count,  with  a  graceful  wave  of  the 
hand,  "  I  have  to  thank  my  Lord  L'Estrange  for  reminding 
me  that  a  man  whose  courage  is  above  suspicion,  is  privi- 
leged not  only  to  apologize  if  he  has  injured  another,  but  to 
accompany  apology  with  atonement.  Duke  di  Serrano,  it 
is  for  that  purpose  that  I  am  here.  My  lord,  you  have  sig- 
nified your  wish  to  ask  me  some  questions  of  serious  im- 


1 1  io  MY  NOVEL;    OR, 

port  as  regards  the  Duke  and  his  daughter — I  will  answer 
them  without  reserve." 

"Monsieur  le  Comte"  said  Harley,  "availing  myself  of 
your  courtesy,  I  presume  to  inquire  who  informed  you  that 
this  young  lady  was  a  guest  under  my  father's  roof  ?" 

"  My  informant  stands  yonder — Mr.  Randal.  Leslie. 
And  I  call  upon  Baron  Levy  to  confirm  my  statement." 

"  It  is  true,"  said  the  Baron,  slowly,  and  as  if  over- 
mastered by  the  tone  and  mien  of  an  imperious  chieftain. 

There  came  a  low  sound  like  a  hiss  from  Randal's  livid 
lips. 

"  And  was  Mr.  Leslie  acquainted  with  your  project  for 
securing  the  person  and  hand  of  your  young  kinswoman  ? " 

"Certainly — and  Baron  Levy  knows  it."  The  Baron 
bowed  assent.  "  Permit  me  to  add — for  it  is  due  to  a  lady 
nearly  related  to  myself — that  it  was,  as  I  have  since  learned, 
certain  erroneous  representations  made  to  her  by  Mr.  Les- 
lie, which  alone  induced  that  lady,  after  my  own  arguments 
had  failed,  to  lend  her  aid  to  a  project  which  otherwise  she 
would  have  condemned  as  strongly  as,  Duke  di  Serrano,  I 
now  with  unfeigned  sincerity  do  myself  condemn  it." 

There  was  about  the  Count,  as  he  thus  spoke,  so  much 
of  that  personal  dignity  which,  whether  natural  or  artificial, 
imposes  for  the  moment  upon  human  judgment — a  dignity 
so  supported  by  the  singular  advantages  of  his  superb  stat- 
ure, his  handsome  countenance,  his  patrician  air,  that  the 
Duke,  moved  by  his  good  heart,  extended  his  hand  to  the 
perfidious  kinsman,  and  forgot  all  the  Machiavellian  wisdom 
which  should  have  told  him  how  little  a  man  of  the  Count's 
hardened  profligacy  was  likely  to  be  influenced  by  any 
purer  motives,  whether  to  frank  confession  or  to  manly  re- 
pentance. The  Count  took  the  hand  thus  extended  to  him, 
and  bowed  his  face,  perhaps  to  conceal  the  smile  which 
would  have  betrayed  his  secret  soul.  Randal  still  remained 
mute,  and  pale  as  death.  His  tongue  clove  to  his  mouth. 
He  felt  that  all  present  were  shrinking  from  his  side.  At 
last,  with  a  violent  effort,  he  faltered  out,  in  broken  sen- 
tences— 

"  A  charge  so  sudden  may  well — may  well  confound  me. 
But — but — who  can  credit  it  ?  Both  the  law  and  common 
sense  presuppose  some  motive  for  a  criminal  action  ;  what 
could  be  my  motive  here  ?  I — myself  the  suitor  for  the 
hand  of  the  Duke's  daughter — /  betray  her !  Absurd — ab- 
surd. Duke — Duke,  I  put  it  to  your  own  knowledge  of 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  mi 

mankind — who  ever  goes  thus  against  his  own  interest — 
and — and  his  own  heart  ?  " 

This  appeal,  however  feebly  made,  was  not  without 
effect  on  the  philosopher.  "That  is  true,"  «aid  the  Duke, 
dropping  his  kinsman's  hand  ;  '"  I  see  no  motive," 

"  Perhaps,"  said  Harley,  "  Baron  Levy  may  here  en- 
lighten us.  Do  you  know  of  any  motive  of  self-interest 
that  could  have  actuated  Mr.  Leslie  in  assisting  the  Count's 
schemes  ? " 

Levy  hesitated.  The  Count  took  up  the  word.  "Par- 
dieu  !  "  said  he,  in  his  clear  tone  of  determination  and  will 
— "  Pardieu  !  I  can  have  no  doubt  thrown  on  my  assertion, 
least  of  all  by  those  who  know  of  its  truth  ;  and  I  call  upon 
you,  Baron  Levy,  to  state  whether,  in  case  of  my  marriage 
with  the  Duke's  daughter,  I  had  not  agreed  to  present  my 
sister  with  a  sum,  to  which  she  alleged  some  ancient  claim, 
and  which  would  have  passed  through  your  hands  ?  " 

"Certainly,  that  is  true,"  said  the  Baron. 

"And  would  Mr.  Leslie  have  benefited  by  any  portion 
of  that  sum  ?  " 

Levy  paused  again. 

"  Speak,  sir,"  said  the  Count,  frowning. 

"The  fact  is,"  said  the  Baron,  "that  Mr.  Leslie  was 
anxious  to  complete  a  purchase  of  certain  estates  that  had 
once  belonged  to  his  family,  and  that  the  Count's  marriage 
with  the  Signorina,  and  his  sister's  marriage  with  Mr.  Hazel- 
dean,  would  have  enabled  me  to  accommodate  Mr.  Leslie 
with  a  loan  to  effect  that  purchase." 

"What!  what!"  exclaimed  the  Squire,  hastily  button- 
ing his  breast-pocket  with  one  hand,  while  he  seized  Ran- 
dal's arm  with  the  other — "  my  son's  marriage  !  You  lent 
yourself  to  that,  too  ?  Don't  look  so  like  a  lashed  hound  ! 
Speak  out  like  a  man,  if  man  you  be  ! " 

"  Lent  himself  to  that,  my  good  sir  !  "  said  the  Count. 
"  Do  you  suppose  that  the  Marchesa  di  Negra  could  have 
condescended  to  an  alliance  with  a  Mr.  Hazeldean  ? " 

"  Condescended ! — a  Hazeldean  of  Hazeldean ! "  exclaimed 
the  Squire,  turning  fiercely,  and  half-choked  with  indig- 
nation. 

"  Unless,"  continued  the  Count,  imperturbably,  "  she  had 
been  compelled  by  circumstances  to  do  that  said  Mr.  Hazel- 
dean  the  honor  to  accept  a  pecuniary  accommodation, 
which  she  had  no  other  mode  to  discharge.  And  here,  sir, 
the  family  of  Hazeldean,  I  am  bound  to  say,  owe  a  great 


1 1 12  MY  NOVEL;    OR, 

debt  of  gratitude  to  Mr.  Leslie  ;  for  it  was  he  who  most 
forcibly  represented  to  her  the  necessity  for  this  mesalliance  : 
and  it  was  he,  I  believe,  who  suggested  to  my  friend  the 
Baron  the  mode  by  which  Mr.  Hazeldean  was  best  enabled 
to  afford  the  accommodation  my  sister  deigned  to  accept." 

"Mode! — the  post-obit!"  ejaculated  the  Squire,  relin- 
quishing his  hold  of  Randal,  to  lay  his  gripe  upon  Levy. 

The  Baron  shrugged  his  shoulders.  "  Any  friend  of 
Mr.  Frank  Hazeldean's  would  have  recommended  the  same, 
as  the  most  economical  mode  of  raising  money." 

Parson  Dale,  who  had  at  first  been  more  shocked  than 
any  one  present  at  these  gradual  revelations  of  Randal's 
treachery,  now  turning  his  eyes  toward  the  young  man, 
was  so  seized  with  commiseration  at  the  sight  of  Randal's 
face,  that  he  laid  his  hand  on  Harley's  arm,  and  whispered 
him — "  Look,  look  at  that  countenance  !— and  one  so  young  ! 
Spare  him,  spare  him  !  " 

"  Mr.  Leslie,"  said  Harley,  in  softened  tones,  "believe 
me  that  nothing  short  of  justice  to  the  Duke  di  Serrano, 
— justice,  even  to  my  young  friend  Mr.  Hazeldean,  has 
compelled  me  to  this  painful  duty.  Here  let  all  enquiry 
terminate." 

"  And,"  said  the  Count,  with  exquisite  blandness,  "since 
I  have  been  informed  by  my  Lord  L' Estrange,  that  Mr. 
Leslie  has  represented  as  a  serious  act  on  his  part  that 
personal  challenge  to  myself  which  I  understood  was  but  a 
pleasant  and  amicable  arrangement  in  our  baffled  scheme 
— let  me  assure  Mr.  Leslie,  that  if  he  be  not  satisfied  with 
the  regret  that  I  now  express  for  the  leading  share  I  have 
taken  in  these  disclosures,  I  am  wholly  at  Mr.  Leslie's  ser- 
vice." 

"Peace,  homicide,"  cried  the  Parson,  shuddering;  and 
he  glided  to  the  side  of  the  detected  sinner,  from  whom  all 
else  had  recoiled  in  loathing. 

Craft  against  craft,  talent  against  talent,  treason  against 
treason — in  all  this  Randal  Leslie  would  have  risen  supe- 
rior to  Giulio  di  Peschiera.  But  what  now  crushed  him, 
was  not  the  superior  intellect — it  was  the  sheer  brute  power 
of  audacity  and  nerve.  Here  stood  the  careless,  unblush- 
ing villain,  making  light  of  his  guilt,  carrying  it  away  from 
disgust  itself,  with  resolute  look  and  front  erect.  There 
stood  the  abler,  subtler,  profounder  criminal — cowering, 
abject,  pitiful  ;  the  power  of  mere  intellectual  knowledge 
shivered  into  pieces  against  the  brazen  metal  with  which 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  IHJ 

the  accident  of  constitution  often  arms  some  ignobler 
nature. 

The  contrast  was  striking,  and  implied  that  truth  so 
universally  felt,  yet  so  little  acknowledged  in  actual  life, 
that  men  with  audacity  and  force  of  character  can  subdue 
and  paralyze  those  far  superior  to  themselves  in  ability 
and  intelligence.  It  was  these  qualities  which  made  Pes- 
chiera  Randal's  master  ;  nay,  the  very  physical  attributes 
of  the  Count,  his  very  voice  and  form,  his  bold  front  and 
unshrinking  eye,  overpowered  the  acuter  mind  of  the  re- 
fining schemer,  as  in  a  popular  assembly  some  burly  Cleon 
cows  into  timorous  silence  every  dissentient  sage.  But 
Randal  turned  in  sullen  impatience  from  the  Parson's 
whisper,  that  breathed  comfort  or  urged  repentance  ;  and 
at  length  said,  with  clearer  tones  than  he  had  yet  mus- 
tered— 

"  It  is  not  a  personal  conflict  with  the  Count  di  Pes- 
chiera  that  can  vindicate  my  honor  ;  and  I  disdain  to  de- 
fend myself  against  the  accusations  of  a  usurer,  and  of  a 
man  who " 

"  Monsieur  !  "  said  the  Count,  drawing  himself  up. 

"A  man  who,"  persisted  Randal,  though  he  trembled 
visibly,  "  by  h.is  own  confession,  was  himself  guilty  of  all 
the  schemes  in  which  he  would  represent  me  as  his  accom- 
plice, and  who  now,  not  clearing  himself,  would  yet  convict 
another " 

"  Cher  petit  Monsieur !  "  said  the  Count,  with  his  grand 
air  of  disdain,  "  when  men  like  me  make  use  of  men  like 
you,  we  reward  them  for  a  service  if  rendered,  or  discard 
them  if  the  service  be  not  done  ;  and  if  I  condescend  to 
confess  and  apologize  for  any  act  I  have  committed,  surely 
Mr.  Randal  Leslie  might  do  the  same  without  disparage- 
ment to  his  dignity.  But  I  should  never,  sir,  have  taken 
the  trouble  to  appear  against  you,  had  you  not,  as  I  learn, 
pretended  to  the  hand  of  the  lady  whom  I  had  hoped,  with 
less  presumption,  to  call  my  bride  ;  and  in  this,  how  can  I 
tell  that  you  have  not  tricked  and  betrayed  me  ?  Is  there 
anything  in  our  past  acquaintance  that  warrants  me  to  be- 
lieve that,  instead  of  serving  me,  you  sought  but  to  serve 
yourself  ?  Be  that  as  it  may,  I  had  but  one  mode  of  repair- 
ing to  the  head  of  mv  house  the  wrongs  I  have  done  him — 
and  that  was  by  saving  his  daughter  from  a  derogatory  alli- 
ance with  an  impostor  who  had  abetted  my  schemes  for 
hire,  and  who  now  would  filch  for  himself  their  fruit. " 

47* 


III4  MY  NOVEL;    OR, 

"  Duke  ! "  exclaimed  Randal. 

The  Duke  turned  his  back.  Randal  extended  his  hands 
to  the  Squire.  "  Mr  Hazeldean — what  ?  you,  too,  condemn 
me,  and  unheard  ? " 

"  Unheard  ! — zounds,  no  !  If  you  have  anything  to  say, 
speak  truth,  and  shame  the  devil." 

"label  Frank's  marriage! — I  sanction  the  post-obit! — 
Oh  !  "  cried  Randal,  clinging  to  a  straw,  "  if  Frank  himself 
were  but  here  !  " 

Harley's  compassion  vanished  before  this  sustained 
hypocrisy. 

"  You  wish  for  the  presence  of  Frank  Hazeldean.  It 
is  just."  Harley  opened  the  door  of  the  inner  room,  and 
Frank  appeared  at  the  entrance. 

"  My  son — my  son  !  "  cried  the  Squire,  rushing  forward, 
and  clasping  Frank  to  his  broad  fatherly  breast. 

This  affecting  incident  gave  a  sudden  change,  to  the  feel- 
ings of  the  audience,  and  for  a  moment  Randal  himself 
was  forgotten.  The  young  man  seized  that  moment.  Re- 
prieved, as  it  were,  from  the  glare  of  contemptuous  accus- 
ing eyes — slowly  he  crept  to  the  door,  slowly  and  noiselessly 
as  the  viper,  when  it  is  wounded,  drops  its  crest  and  glides 
writhing  through  the  grass.  Levy  followepl  him  to  the 
threshold,  and  whispered  in  his  ear — 

"  I  could  not  help  it — you  would  have  done  the  same  by 
me.  You  see  you  have  failed  in  everything  ;  and  when  a 
man  fails  completely,  we  both  agreed  that  we  must  give 
him  up  altogether." 

Randal  said  not  a  word,  and  the  Baron  marked  his 
shadow  fall  on  the  broad  stairs,  stealing  down,  down,  step 
after  step,  till  it  faded  from  the  stones. 

"  But  he  was  of  some  use,"  muttered  Levy.  "  His 
treachery  and  his  exposure  will  gall  the  childless  Egerton. 
Some  little  revenge  still ! " 

The  Count  touched  the  arm  of  the  musing  usurer — 

"J'ai  bien  jout  mon  role,  riest-ce  pas  ?  " — (I  have  well 
played  my  part,  have  I  not  ?) 

"  Your  part  !  Ah  !  but,  my  dear  Count,  I  do  not  quite 
understand  it." 

"  Mafoi—jQ\\  are  passably  dull.  I  had  just  been  landed 
in  France,  when  a  letter  from  L'Estrange  reached  me.  It 
was  couched  as  an  invitation,  which  I  interpreted  to — the 
duello.  Such  invitations  I  never  refuse.  I  replied.  I  came 
hither — took  my  lodgings  at  an  inn.  My  lord  seeks  me 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  1115 

last  night.  I  begin  in  the  tone  you  may  suppose.  Pardieu  ! 
he  is  clever,  milord!  He  shows  me  a  letter  from  the 

Prince  Von  ,  Alphonso's  recall,  my  own  banishment. 

He  places  before  me,  but  with  admirable  suavity,  the  option 
of  beggary  and  ruin,  or  an  honorable  claim  on  Alphonso's 
gratitude.  And  as  for  that  petit  Monsieur,  do  you  think  I 
could  quietly  contemplate  my  own  tool's  enjoyment  of  all 
I  had  lost  myself  ?  Nay,  more,  if  that  young  Harpagon 
were  Alphonso's  son-in-law,  could  the  Duke  have  a  whis- 
perer at  his  ear  more  fatal  to  my  own  interests  ?  To  be 
brief,  I  saw  at  a  glance  my  best  course.  I  have  adopted  it. 
The  difficulty  was  to  extricate  myself  as  became  a  man  '  de 
sang  et  de  feu.1  If  I  have  done  so,  congratulate  me.  Al- 
phonso  has  taken  my  hand,  and  I  now  leave  it  to  him — to 
attend  to  my  fortunes,  and  clear  up  my  repute." 

"  If  you  are  going  to  London,"  said  Levy,  "  my  carriage, 
ere  this,  must  be  at  the  door,  and  I  shall  be  proud  to  offer 
you  a  seat,  and  converse  with  you  on  your  prospects.  But, 
peste  !  mon  cher,  your  fall  has  been  from  a  great  height,  and 
any  other  man  would  have  broken  his  bones." 

"  Strength  is  ever  light,"  said  the  Count,  smiling  ;  and 
it  does  not  fall  ;  it  leaps  down  and  rebounds." 

Levy  looked  at  the  Count,  and  blamed  himself  for  hav- 
ing disparaged  Peschiera  and  overrated  Randal. 

While  this  conference  went  on,  Harley  was  by  Violante's 
side. 

"  I  have  kept  my  promise  to  you,"  said  he,  with  a  kind 
of  tender  humility.  "Are  you  still  so  severe  on  me  ?  " 

"  Ah  ! "  answered  Violante,  gazing  on  his  noble  brow, 
with  all  a  woman's  pride  in  her  eloquent,  admiring  eyes — 
"I  have  heard  from  Mr.  Dale  that  you  have  achieved  a  con- 
quest over  yourself,  which  makes  me  ashamed  to  think  that 
I  presumed  to  doubt  how  your  heart  would  speak  when  a 
moment  of  wrath  (though  of  wrath  so  just)  had  passed 
away." 

"  No,  Violante — do  not  acquit  me  yet  ;  witness  my 
revenge  (for  I  have  not  foregone  it),  and  then  let  my  heart 
speak,  and  breathe  its  prayer  that  the  angel  voice,  which  it 
now  beats  to  hear,  may  still  be  its  guardian  monitor." 

"  What  is  this  ? "  cried  an  amazed  voice  ;  and  Harley, 
turning  round,  saw  that  the  Duke  was  by  his  side  ;  and, 
glancing  with  ludicrous  surprise,  now  to  Harley,  now  to 
Violante,  "  Am  I  to  understand  that  you " 


ni6  MY  NOVEL;    OR, 

"  Have  freed  you  from  one  suitor  for  this  dear  hand,  to 
become,  myself,  your  petitioner ! " 

"  Corpo  di  JBacco  !  "  cried  the  sage,  almost  embracing 
Harley,  "  this,  indeed,  is  joyful  news.  But  I  must  not 
again  make  a  rash  pledge — not  again  force  my  child's  in- 
clinations. And  Violante,  you  see,  is  running  away." 

The  Duke  stretched  out  his  arm,  and  detained  his  child. 
He  drew  her  to  his  breast,  and  whispered  in  her  ear. 
Violante  blushed  crimson,  and  rested  her  head  on  his 
shoulder.  Harley  eagerly  pressed  forward. 

"There,"  said  the  Duke,  joining  Harley's  hand  with  his 
daughter's — I  don't  think  I  shall  hear  much  more  of  the 
convent  ;  but  anything  of  this  sort  I  never  suspected.  If 
there  be  a  language  in  the  world  for  which  there  is  no 
lexicon  nor  grammar,  it  is  that  which  a  woman  thinks  in, 
but  never  speaks." 

"  It  is  all  that  is  left  of  the  language  spoken  in  Paradise," 
said  Harley. 

"  In  the  dialogue  between  Eve  and  the  serpent — yes," 
quoth  the  incorrigible  sage. — "But  who  comes  here? — our 
friend  Leonard." 

Leonard  now  entered  the  room ;  but  Harley  could  scarce- 
ly greet  him  before  he  was  interrupted  by  the  Count. 

" Milord"  said  Peschiera,  beckoning  him  aside,  I  have 
fulfilled  my  promise,  and  I  will  now  leave  your  roof.  Baron 
Levy  returns  to  London,  and  offers-me  a  seat  in  his  carnage, 
which  is  already,  I  believe,  at  your  door.  The  Duke  and 
his  daughter  will  readily  forgive  me,  if  I  do  not  ceremon- 
iously bid  them  farewell.  In  our  altered  positions,  it  does 
not  become  me  too  intrusively  to  claim  kindred ;  it  became 
me  only  to  remove,  as  I  trust  I  have  done,  a  barrier  against 
the  claim.  If  you  approve  my  conduct,  you  will  state  your 
own  opinion  to  the  Duke."  With  a  profound  salutation, 
the  Count  turned  to  depart  ;  nor  did  Harley  attempt  to  stay 
him,  but  attended  him  down  the  stairs  with  polite  formality. 

"  Remember  only,  my  lord,  that  I  solicit  nothing.  I  may 
allow  myself  to  accept.  Voilatout"  He  bowed  again,  with 
the  inimitable  grace  of  the  old  regime,  and  stepped  into  the 
Baron's  travelling-carriage. 

Levy,  who  had  lingered  behind,  paused  to  accost 
L' Estrange. 

"Your  lordship  will  explain  to  Mr.  Egerton  how  his 
adopted  son  deserved  his  esteem,  and  repaid  his  kindness. 
For  the  rest,  though  you  have  bought  up  the  more  pressing 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  1117 

and  immediate  demands  on  Mr.  Egerton,  I  fear  that  even 
your  fortune  will  not  enable  you  to  clear  those  liabilities, 
which  will  leave  him,  perhaps,  a  pauper!" 

"  Baron  Levy,"  said  Harley,  abruptly,  "if  I  have  forgiven 
Mr.  Egerton,  cannot  you  too  forgive  ?  Me  he  has  wronged 
— you  have  wronged  him  and  more  foully." 

"No,  my  lord,  I  cannot  forgive  him.  You  he  has  never 
humiliated — you  he  has  never  employed  for  his  wants,  and 
scorned  as  his  companion.  You  have  never  known  what  it 
is  to  start  in  life  with  one  whose  fortunes  were  equal  to  your 
own,  whose  talents  were  not  superior.  Look  you,  Lord 
L'Estrange — in  spite  of  this  difference  between  me  and  Eger- 
ton, that  he  has  squandered  the  wealth  that  he  gained  with- 
out effort,  while  I  have  converted  the  follies  of  others  into 
my  own  ample  revenues — the  spendthrift  in  his  penury  has 
the  respect  and  position  which  millions  cannot  bestow  upon 
me.  You  would  say  that  I  am  a  usurer,  and  he  is  a  states- 
man. But  do  you  know  what  I  should  have  been,  had  I 
not  been  born  the  natural  son  of  a  peer  ?  Can  you  guess 
what  I  should  have  been,  if  Nora  Avenel  had  been  my  wife  ? 
The  blot  on  my  birth,  and  the  blight  on  my  youth — and  the 
knowledge  that  he  who  was  rising  every  year  into  the  rank 
which  entitled  him  to  reject  me  as  a  guest  at  his  table — he 
whom  the  world  called  the  model  of  a  gentleman — was  a 
coward  and  a  liar  to  the  friend  of  his  youth  ;  all  this  made 
me  look  on  the  world  with  contempt ;  and,  despising  Audley 
Egerton,  I  yet  hated  him  and  envied.  You,  whom  he 
wronged,  stretch  your  hand  as  before  to  the  great  states- 
man ;  from  mv  touch  you  would  shrink  as  pollution.  My 
lord,  you  may  forgive  him  whom  you  love  and  pity  ;  I  can- 
not forgive  him  whom  I  scorn  and  envy.  Pardon  my  pro- 
lixity. I  now  quit  your  house." 

The  Baron  moved  a  step — then  turning  back,  said  with 
a  withering  sneer — 

"  But  you  will  tell  Mr.  Egerton  how  I  helped  to  expose 
the  son  he  adopted  !  I  thought  of  the  childless  man  when 
your  lordship  imagined  I  was  but  in  fear  of  your  threats. 
Ha  !  ha! — that  will  sting." 

The  Baron  gnashed  his  teeth  as,  hastily  entering  the 
carriage,  he  drew  down  the  blinds.  The  post-boys  cracked 
their  whips,  and  the  wheels  rolled  away. 

"Who  can  judge,"  thought  Harley,  "through  what 
modes  retribution  comes  home  to  the  breast  ?  That  man  is 
chastised  in  his  wealth — ever  gnawed  by  desire  for  what  his 


in8  MY  NOVEL;    OR, 

wealth  cannot  buy  ! "  He  roused  himself,  cleared  his  brow, 
as  from  a  thought  that  darkened  and  troubled  ;  and,  enter- 
ing the  saloon,  laid  his  hand  upon  Leonard's  shoulder,  and 
looked,  rejoicing,  into  the  poet's  mild,  honest,  lustrous  eyes. 
"  Leonard,"  said  he,  gently,  your  hour  is  come  at  last." 


CHAPTER  XXXIV. 

AUDLEY  EGERTON  was  alone  in  his  apartment.  A  heavy 
sleep  had  come  over  him,  shortly  after  Harley  and  Randal 
had  left  the  house  in  the  early  morning  ;  and  that  sleep  con- 
tinued till  late  in  the  day.  All  the  while  the  town  of  Lans- 
mere  had  been  distracted  in  his  cause — all  the  while  so 
many  tumultuous  passions  had  run  riot  in  the  contest  that 
was  to  close  or  re-open,  for  the  statesman's  ambition,  the 
Janus  gates  of  political  war — the  object  of  so  many  fears 
and  hopes,  schemes  and  counter-schemes,  had  slumbered 
quietly  as  an  infant  in  the  cradle.  He  woke  but  in  time  to 
receive  Harley's  despatch,  announcing  the  success  of  his 
election  ;  and  adding,  "  Before  the  night  you  shall  embrace 
your  son.  Do  not  join  us  below  when  I  return.  Keep 
calm — we  will  come  to  you." 

In  fact,  though  not  aware  of  the  dread  nature  of  Aud- 
ley's  complaint,  with  its  warning  symptons,  Lord  L'Es- 
trange  wished  to  spare  to  his  friend  the  scene  of  Randal's 
exposure. 

On  the  receipt  of  that  letter,  Egerton  rose.  At  the 
prospect  of  seeing  his  son — Nora's  son — the  very  memory 
of  his  disease  vanished.  The  poor,  weary,  over-labored 
heart  indeed  beat  loud,  and  with  many  a  jerk  and  spasm. 
He  heeded  it  not.  The  victory,  that  restored  him  to  the 
sole  life  for  which  he  had  hitherto  cared  to  live,  was  clean 
forgotten.  Nature  claimed  her  own — claimed  it  in  scorn  of 
death,  and  in  oblivion  of  renown. 

There  sat  the  man,  dressed  with  his  habitual  precision  ; 
the  black  coat,  buttoned  across  the  broad  breast ;  his 
countenance,  so  mechanically  habituated  to  self-control, 
still  revealing  little  of  emotion,  though  the  sickly  flush 
came  and  went  on  the  bronzed  cheek,  and  the  eye  watched 
the  hand  of  the  clock,  and  the  ear  hungered  for  a  foot- 
tread  along  the  corridor.  At  length  the  sound  was  heard 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  1119 

— steps — many  steps.  He  sprang  to  his  feet — he  stood 
on  the  hearth.  Was  the  hearth  to  be  solitary  no  more  ? 
Harley  entered  first.  Egerton's  eyes  rested  on  him  eagerly 
for  a  moment,  and  strained  onward  across  the  threshold. 
Leonard  came  next — Leonard  Fairfield,  whom  he  had  seen 
as  his  opponent  !  He  began  to  suspect — to  conjecture — to 
see  the  mother's  tender  eyes  in  the  son's  manly  face.  In- 
voluntarily he  opened  his  arms  ;  but,  Leonard  remaining 
still,  let  them  fall  with  a  deep  sigh,  and  fancied  himself 
deceived. 

"  Friend,"  said  Harley,  "  I  give  to  you  a  son  proved  in 
adversity,  and  who  has  fought  his  own  way  to  fame. 
Leonard,  in  the  man  to  whom  I  prayed  you  to  sacrifice 
your  own  ambition, — of  whom  you  have  spoken  with  such 
worthy  praise, — whose  career  of  honor  you  have  promoted, 
— and  whose  life  unsatisfied  by  those  honors,  you  will 
soothe  with  your  filial  love — behold  the  husband  of  Nora 
Avenel !  Kneel  to  your  father  !  O  Audley,  embrace  your 
son !  " 

"  Here — here,"  exclaimed  Egerton,  as  Leonard  bent  his 
knee — "  here  to  my  heart ! — Look  at  me  with  those  eyes  ! — 
kindly,  forgivingly  ;  they  are  your  mother's  !  "  His  proud 
head  sunk  on  his  son's  shoulder. 

"  But  this  is  not  enough,"  said  Harley,  leading  Helen, 
and  placing  her  by  Leonard's  side  ;  "  you  must  open  your 
heart  for  more.  Take  into  its  folds  my  sweet  ward  and 
daughter.  What  is  a  home  without  the  smile  of  woman  ? 
They  have  loved  each  other  from  children.  Audley,  yours 
be  the  hand  to  join — yours  be  the  lips  to  bless." 

Leonard  started  anxiously.  "  Oh,  sir  ! — oh,  my  father ! 
— this  generous  sacrifice  may  not  be  ;  for  he — he  who  has 
saved  me  for  this  surpassing  joy — he  too  loves  her  ! " 

"  Nay,  Leonard,"  said  Harley,  smiling,  "  I  am  not  so 
neglectful  of  myself.  Another  home  woos  you,  Audley. 
He  whom  you  long  so  vainly  sought  to  reconcile  to  life, 
exchanging  mournful  dreams  for  happy  duties — he,  too, 
presents  you  to  his  bride.  Love  her  for  my  sake — for  your 
own.  She  it  is,  not  I,  who  presides  over  this  hallowed  re- 
union. But  for  her,  I  should  have  been  a  blinded,  vindic- 
tive, guilty,  repentant  man  ;  and "  Violante's  soft  hand 

was  on  his  lips. 

"  Thus,"  said  the  Parson,  with  mild  solemnity,  "  man 
finds  that  the  Savior's  precepts,  '  Let  not  the  sun  go  down 
upon  thy  wrath,'  and  '  Love  one  another,'  are  clues  that 


1 120  MY  NOVEL;    OR, 

conduct  us  through  the  labyrinth  of  human  life,  when  the 
schemes  of  fraud  and  hate  snap  asunder,  and  leave  us  lost 
amidst  the  maze." 

Egerton  reared  his  head,  as  if  to  answer ;  and  all  pre- 
sent were  struck  and  appalled  by  the  sudden  change  that 
had  come  over  his  countenance.  There  was  a  film  upon 
the  eye — a  shadow  on  the  aspect ;  the  words  failed  his  lips 
— he  sunk  on  the  seat  beside  him.  The  left  hand  rested 
droopingly  upon  the  piles  of  public  papers  and  official 
documents,  and  the  fingers  played  with  them,  as  the  bed- 
ridden sufferer  plays  with  the  coverlid  he  will  soon  exchange 
for  the  winding-sheet.  But  his  right  hand  seemed  to  feel, 
as  through  the  dark,  for  the  recovered  son  ;  and  having 
touched  what  it  sought,  feebly  drew  Leonard  near  and 
nearer.  Alas  !  that  blissful  PRIVATE  LIFE— that  close  centre 
round  the  core  of  being  in  the  individual  man — so  long 
missed  and  pined  for — slipped  from  him,  as  it  were,  the 
moment  it  reappeared  ;  hurried  away,  as  the  circle  on  the 
ocean,  which  is  scarce  seen  ere  it  vanishes  amidst  infinity. 
Suddenly  both  hands  were  still ;  the  head  fell  back.  Joy 
had  burst  asunder  the  last  ligaments,  so  fretted  away  in 
unrevealing  sorrow.  Afar,  their  sound  borne  into  that 
room,  the  joy-bells  were  pealing  triumph  ;  mobs  roaring 
out  huzzas  ;  the  weak  cry  of  John  Avenel  might  be  blent  in 
those  shouts,  as  the  drunken  zealots  reeled  by  his  cottage- 
door,  and  startled  the  screaming  ravens  that  wheeled  round 
the  hollow  oak.  The  boom  which  is  sent  from  the  waves 
on  the  surface  of  life,  while  the  deeps  are  so  noiseless  in 
their  march,  was  wafted  on  the  wintry  air  into  the  chamber 
of  the  statesman  it  honored,  and  over  the  grass  sighing  low 
upon  Nora's  grave.  But  there  was  one  in  the  chamber,  as 
in  the  grave,  for  whom  the  boom  on  the  wave  had  no 
sound,  and  the  march  of  the  deep  had  no  tide.  Amidst 
promises  of  home,  and  union,  and  peace,  and  fame,  Death 
strode  into  the  household  ring,  and  seating  itself,  calm  and 
still,  looked  life-like ;  warm  hearts  throbbing  round  it ; 
lofty  hopes  fluttering  upward  ;  Love  kneeling  at  its  feet ; 
Religion,  with  lifted  finger,  standing  by  its  side. 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  1121 


FINAL  CHAPTER. 

SCENE. —  The  Hall  in  the  Old  Tower  of  CAPTAIN  ROLAND  DE 

CAXTON. 

"  BUT  you  have  not  done  ?"  said  Augustine  Caxton. 

PISISTRATUS. — What  remains  to  do  ? 

MR.  CAXTON. — What! — why  the  Final  Chapter! — the 
last  news  you  can  give  us  of  those  whom  you  have  intro- 
duced to  our  liking  or  dislike. 

PISISTRATUS. — Surely  it  is  more  dramatic  to  close  the 
work  with  a  scene  that  completes  the  main  designs  of  the 
plot,  and  leave  it  to  the  prophetic  imagination  of  all  whose 
flattering  curiosity  is  still  not  wholly  satisfied,  to  trace  the 
streams  of  each  several  existence,  when  they  branch  off 
again  from  the  lake  in  which  their  waters  converge,  and  by 
which  the  sibyl  has  confirmed  and  made  clear  the  decree, 
that  "  Conduct  is  Fate." 

MR.  CAXTON. — More  dramatic,  I  grant ;  but  you  have 
not  written  the  drama.  A  novelist  should  be  a  comfortable, 
garrulous,  communicative,  gossiping  fortune-teller  ;  not  a 
grim,  laconical,  oracular  sibyl.  I  like  a  novel  that  adopts 
all  the  old-fashioned  customs  prescribed  to  its  art  by  the 
rules  of  the  Masters,  more  especially  a  novel  which  you  style 
"  My  Novel, "par  emphasis. 

CAPTAIN  ROLAND. — A  most  vague  and  impracticable 
title,  "  My  Novel."  It  must  really  be  changed  before  the 
work  goes  in  due  form  to  the  public. 

MR.  SQUILLS. — Certainly  the  present  title  cannot  be  even 
pronounced  by  many  without  inflicting  a  shock  upon  their 
nervous  system.  Do  you  think,  for  instance,  that  my  friend, 
Lady  Priscilla  Graves — who  is  a  great  novel  reader,  indeed, 
but  holds  all  female  writers,  unfeminine  deserters  to  the 
standard  of  Man — could  ever  come  out  with,  "  Pray,  sir, 
have  you  had  time  to  look  at — MY  Novel  ? "  She  would 
rather  die  first.  And  yet  to  be  silent  altogether  on  the 
latest  acquisition  to  the  circulating-libraries,  would  bring 
on  a  functional  derangement  of  her  ladyship's  organs  of 
speech.  Or  how  could  pretty  Miss  Dulcet — all  sentiment, 
it  is  true,  but  all  bashful  timidity — appal  Captain  Smirk 


1 122  MY  NOVEL;    OR, 

from  proposing,  with,  "  Did  you  not  think  the  Parson's  ser- 
mon a  little  too  dry  in  MY  Novel  ?"  It  will  require  a  face 
of  brass,  or  at  least  a  long  course  of  citrate  of  iron,  before 
a  respectable  lady  or  unassuming  young  gentleman,  with  a 
proper  dread  of  being  taken  for  scribblers,  could  electrify  a 
socialcircle  with,  "The  reviewers  don't  do  justice  to  the  ex- 
cellent things  in — MY  Novel." 

CAPTAIN  ROLAND. — Awful  consequences,  indeed,  may 
arise  from  the  mistakes  such  a  title' gives  rise  to. — Counsel- 
lor Digwell,  for  instance — a  lawyer  of  literary  tastes,  but 
whose  career  at  the  bar  was  long  delayed  by  an  unjust  sus- 
picion amongst  the  attorneys  that  he  had  written  a  "  Phil- 
osophical Essay  " — imagine  such  a  man  excusing  himself  for 
being  late  at  a  dinner  of  big-wigs,  with,  "  I  could  not  get 
away  from — MY  Novel."  It  would  be  his  professional  ruin  ! 
I  am  not  fond  of  lawyers  in  general,  but  still  I  would  not  be 
a  party  to  taking  the  bread  out  of  the  mouth  of  those  with 
a  family ;  and  Digwell  has  children — the  tenth  an  innocent 
baby  in  arms. 

MR.  CAXTON. — As  to  Digwell  in  particular,  and  lawyers 
in  general,  they  are  too  accustomed  to  circumlocution,  to 
expose  themselves  to  the  danger  your  kind  heart  appre- 
hends ;  but  I  allow  that  a  shy  scholar  like  myself,  or  a  grave 
college  tutor,  might  be  a  little  put  to  the  blush  if  he  were 
to  blurt  forth  inadvertently  with — "  Don't  waste  your  time 
over  trash  like — MY  Novel."  And  that  thought  presents  to 
us  another  and  more  pleasing  view  of  this  critical  question. 
The  title  you  condemn  places  the  work  under  universal 
protection.  Lives  there  a  man  or  a  woman  so  dead  to  self- 
love  as  to  say,  "What  contemptible  stuff  is — MY  Novel  ?" 
Would  he  or  she  not  rather  be  impelled  by  that  strong  im- 
pulse of  an  honorable  and  virtuous  heart,  which  moves  us 
to  stand  as  well  as  we  can  with  our  friends,  to  say,  ''Allow 
that  there  is  really  a  good  thing  now  and  then  in — MY 
Novel."  Moreover,  as  a  novel  aspires  to  embrace  most  of 
the  interests  or  the  passions  that  agitate  mankind — to  gen- 
eralize, as  it  were,  the  details,  of  life  that  come  home  to  us 
all — so,  in  reality,  the  title  denotes  that,  if  it  be  such  as  the 
author  may  not  unworthily  call  his  Novel,  it  must  also  be 
such  as  the  reader,  whoever  he  be,  may  appropriate  in  part 
to  himself,  representing  his  own  ideas — expressing  his  own 
experience — reflecting,  if  not  in  full,  at  least  in  profile,  his 
own  personal  identity.  Thus,  when  we  glance  at  the  look- 
ing-glass in  another  man's  room,  our  likeness  for  the  mo- 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  1123 

ment  appropriates  the  mirror  ;  and  according  to  the  humor 
in  which  we  are,  or  the  state  of  our  spirits  and  health,  we 
say  to  ourselves,  "Bilious  and  yellow! — I  might  as  well 
take  care  of  my  diet ! "  Or,  "  Well,  I've  half  a  mind  to 
propose  to  dear  Jane  ;  I'm  not  such  an  ill-looking  dog  as  I 
thought  for  !  "  Still,  whatever  result  from  that  glance  at 
the  mirror,  we  never  doubt  that  'tis  our  likeness  we  see  ; 
and  each  says  to  the  phantom  reflection,  "  Thou  art  my- 
self," though  the  mere  article  of  furniture  that  gives  the 
reflection  belongs  to  another.  It  is  my  likeness  if  it  be  his 
glass.  And  a  narrative  that  is  true  to  the  Varieties  of  Life 
is  Every  Man's  Novel,  no  matter  from  what  shores,  by 
what  rivers,  by  what  bays,  in  what  pits,  were  extracted  the 
sands  and  the  silex,  the  pearl-ash,  the  nitre  and  quick- 
silver, which  form  its  materials  ;  no  matter  who  the  crafts- 
man who  fashioned  its  form  ;  no  matter  who  the  vender 
that  sold,  or  the  customer  who  bought  ;  still  if,  I  but  recog- 
nized some  trait  of  myself,  'tis  my  likeness  that  makes  it 
"MY  Novel." 

MR.  SQUILLS  (puzzled,  and  therefore  admiring).— Subtle, 
sir — very  subtle.  Fine  organ  of  Comparison  in  Mr.  Caxton's 
head,  and  much  called  into  play  this  evening. 

MR.  CAXTON  (benignly). — Finally,  the  author,  by  this 
most  admirable  and  much-signifying  title,  dispenses  with  all 
necessity  of  preface.  He  need  insinuate  no  merits — he  need 
extenuate  no  faults  ;  for,  by  calling  his  works  thus  curtly 
"My  Novel,"  he  doth  delicately  imply  that  it  is  no  use 
wasting  talk  about  faults  or  merits. 

PISISTRATUS  (amazed). — How  is  that,  sir  ? 

MR.  CAXTON. — What  so  clear  ?  You  imply  that,  though 
a  better  novel  may  be  written  by  others,  you  do  not  expect 
to  write  a  novel  to  which,  taken  as  a  novel,  you  would  more 
decisively  and  unblushingly  prefix  that  voucher  of  personal 
authorship  and  identity  conveyed  in  the  mono-syllable 
"  My."  And  if  you  have  written  your  best,  let  it  be  ever  so 
bad,  what  can  any  man  of  candor  and  integrity  require  more 
from  you  ?  Perhaps  you  will  say  that,  if  you  had  lived  two 
thousand  years  ago,  you  might  have  called  it  The  Novel,  or 
the  Golden  Novel,  as  Lucius  calls  his  story  "The  Ass  ;"  and 
Apuleius,  to  distinguish  his  own  more  elaborate  Ass  from 
all  Asses  preceding  it,  called  his  tale  "  The  Golden  Ass." 
But  living  in  the  present  day,  such  a  designation — implying 
a  merit  in  general,  not  the  partial  and  limited  merit  corre- 
sponding only  with  your  individual  abilities — would  be  pre- 


1 124  MY  NOVEL;    OR, 

sumptuous  and  offensive.  True — I  here  anticipate  the 
observation  I  see  Squills  is  about  to  make 

SQUILLS. — I,  sir  ? 

MR.  CAXTON. — You  would  say  that,  as  Scarron  called 
his  work  of  fiction  "The  Comic  Novel,"  so Pisistratus  might 
have  called  his  "The  Serious  Novel,"  or  "The  Tragic 
Novel."  But,  Squills,  that  title  would  not  have  been  in- 
viting nor  appropriate,  and  would  have  been  exposed  to 
comparison  with  Scarron,  who,  being  dead,  is  inimitable. 
Wherefore — to  put  the  question  on  the  irrefragable  basis  of 
mathematics — wherefore,  as  A  B,  "  My  Novel,"  is  not  equal  to 
B  C,  "  The  Golden  Novel,"  nor  to  D  E,  "  The  Serious  or 
Tragic  Novel,"  it  follows,  that  A  B,  "  My  Novel,"  is  equal  to 
P  C,  "Pisistratus  Caxton,"  and  P  C,  "'Pisistratus  Caxton," 
must  therefore  be  just  equal,  neither  more  nor  less,  to  A  B, 
"  My  Novel," — which  was  to  be  demonstrated.  [My  father 
looked  round  triumphantly,  and  observing  that  Squills  was 
dumb-founded,  and  the  rest  of  his  audience  posed,  he 
added  mildly] 

"  And  so  now,  non  quieta  tnovere,  proceed  with  the  Final 
Chapter,  and  tell  us  first  what  became  of  that  youthful 
Giles  Overreach,  who  was  himself  his  own  Marrall  ? " 

"Ay!"  said  the  Captain,  "what  became  of  Randal 
Leslie  ?  Did  he  repent  and  reform  ? " 

"  Nay,"  quoth  my  father,  with  a  mournful  shake  of  the 
head,  "you  can  regulate  the  warm  tide  of  wild  passion — 
you  can  light  into  virtue  the  dark  errors  of  ignorance  ;  but 
where  the  force  of  the  brain  does  but  clog  the  free  action  of 
the  heart — where  you  have  to  deal,  not  with  ignorance  mis- 
led, but  intelligence  corrupted — small  hope  of  reform  ;  for 
reform  here  will  need  reorganization.  I  have  somewhere 
read  (perhaps  in  Hebrew  tradition)  that  of  the 'two  orders 
of  fallen  spirits — the  Angels  of  Love,  and  the  Angels  of 
Knowledge — the  first  missed  the  stars  they  had  lost,  and 
wandered  back  through  the  darkness,  one  by  one  into 
heaven  ;  but  the  last,  lighted  on  by  their  own  lurid  splen- 
dors, said,  '  Wherever  we  go,  there  is  heaven  ! '  And  deeper 
and  lower  descending,  lost  their  shape  and  their  nature, 
till,  deformed  and  obscene,  the  bottomless  pit  closed  around 
them." 

MR.  SQUILLS. — I  should  not  have  thought,  Mr.  Caxton, 
that  a  book-man  like  you  would  be  thus  severe  upon 
Knowledge. 

MR.    CAXTON    (in   wrath). — Severe    upon    knowledge  ! 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  1125 

O  Squills — Squills — Squills  !  Knowledge  perverted  is 
knowledge  no  longer.  Vinegar,  which,  exposed  to  the  sun, 
breeds  small  serpents,  or  at  best  slimy  eels,  not  comestible, 
once  was  wine.  If  i  say  to  my  grand-children,  "  Don't 
drink  that  sour  stuff,  which  the  sun  itself  fills  with  reptiles  ;  " 
does  that  prove  me  a  foe  to  sound  sherry  ?  Squills,  if  you 
had  but  received  a  scholastic  education,  you  would  know 
the  wise  maxim  that  saith,  "All  things  the  worst  are  cor- 
ruptions from  things  originally  designed  as  the  best." 
Has  not  freedom  bred  anarchy,  and  religion  fanaticism  ? 
And  if  I  blame  Marat  calling  for  blood,  or  Dominic  rack- 
ing a  heretic,  am  I  severe  on  the  religion  that  canonized 
Francis  de  Sales,  or  the  freedom  that  immortalized  Thrasy- 
bulus  ? 

Mr.  Squills,  dreading  a  catalogue  of  all  the  saints  in  the 
calendar,  and  an  epitome  of  ancient  history,  exclaimed 
eagerly, — "Enough,  sir — I  am  convinced  !  " 

MR.  CAXTON. — Moreover,  I  have  thought  it  a  natural 
stroke  of  art  in  Pisistratus,  to  keep  Randal  Leslie,  in  his 
progress  toward  the  rot  of  the  intellect  unwholesomely 
refined,  free  from  all  the  salutary  influences  that  deter 
ambition  from  settling  into  egotism.  Neither  in  his  slo- 
venly home,  nor  from  his  classic  tutor  at  his  preparatory 
school,  does  he  seem  to  have  learned  any  truths,  religious 
or  mortal  that  might  give  sap  to  fresh  shoots,  when  the  first 
rank  growth  was  cut  down  by  the  knife  ;  and  I  especially 
noted,  as  illustrative  of  Egerton,  no  less  than  of  Randal, 
that  though  the  statesman's  occasional  hints  of  advice  to  his 
protege  are  worldly-wise  in  their  way,  and  suggestive  of 
honor  as  befitting  the  creed  of  a  gentleman,  they  are  not 
such  as  much  influence  a  shrewd  reasoner  like  Randal, 
whom  the  example  of  the  playground  at  Eton  had  not 
served  to  correct  of  the  arid  self-seeking  which  looked  to 
knowledge  for  no  object  but  power.  A  man  tempted  by 
passions  like  Audley,  or  seduced  into  fraud  by  a  cold  subtle 
spirit  like  Leslie,  will  find  poor  defence  in  the  elegant  pre- 
cept, "  Remember  to  act  as  a  gentleman."  Such  moral 
embroidery  adds  a  beautiful  scarf  to  one's  armor  ;  but  it  is 

not  the  armor  itself  !  Ten  oclock — as  I  live Push  on, 

Pisistratus  !  and  finish  the  chapter. 

MRS.  CAXTON  (benevolently). — Don't  hurry.  Begin  with 
that  odious  Randal  Leslie,  to  oblige  your  father ;  but  there 
are  others  whom  Blanche  and  I  care  much  more  to  hear 
about. 


1 126  MY  NOVEL;    OR, 

Pisistratus,  since  there  is  no  help  for  it,  produces  a 
supplementary  manuscript,  which  proves  that,  whatever  his 
doubt  as  to  the  artistic  effect  of  a  Final  Chapter,  he  had 
foreseen  that  his  audience  would  not  be  contented  without 


Randal  Leslie,  late  at  noon  the  day  after  he  quitted 
Lansmere  Park,  arrived  on  foot  at  his  father's  house.  He 
had  walked  all  the  way,  and  through  the  solitudes  of  the 
winter  night ;  but  he  was  not  sensible  of  fatigue  till  the 
dismal  home  closed  round  him,  with  its  air  of  hopeless  ig- 
noble poverty  ;  and  then  he  sunk  upon  the  floor,  feeling 
himself  a  ruin  amidst  the  ruins.  He  made  no  disclosure  of 
what  had  passed  to  his  relations.  Miserable  man,  there 
was  not  one  to  whom  he  could  confide,  or  from  whom  he 
might  hear  the  truths  that  connect  repentance  with  consola- 
tion !  After  some  weeks  passed  in  sullen  and  almost 
unbroken  silence,  he  left  as  abruptly  as  he  had  appeared, 
and  returned  to  London.  The  sudden  death  of  a  man  like 
Egerton  had,  even  in  those  excited  times,  created  intense, 
though  brief  sensation.  The  particulars  of  the  election, 
that  had  been  given  in  detail  in  the  provincial  papers,  were 
copied  into  the  London  journals  ; — among  those  details, 
Randal  Leslie's  conduct  in  the  committee-room,  with  many 
an  indignant  comment  on  selfishness  and  ingratitude.  The 
political  world  of  all  parties  formed  one  of  those  judgments 
on  the  great  man's  poor  dependent,  which  fix  a  stain  upon 
the  character,  and  place  a  barrier  in  the  career  of  ambitious 
youth.  The  important  personages  who  had  once  noticed 
Randal  for  Audley's  sake,  and  who,  on  their  subsequent  and 
not  long-deferred  restoration  to  power,  could  have  made 
his  fortune,  passed  him  in  the  streets  without  a  nod.  He 
did  not  venture  to  remind  Avenel  of  the  promise  to  aid  him 
in  another  election  for  Lansmere,  nor  dream  of  filling  up 
the  vacancy  which  Egerton's  death  had  created.  He  was 
too  shrewd  not  to  see  that  all  hope  of  that  borough  was 
over  ;  he  would  have  been  hooted  in  the  streets  and  pelted 
from  the  hustings.  Forlorn  in  the  vast  metropolis  as  Leon- 
ard had  once  been,  in  his  turn  he  loitered  on  the  bridge, 
and  gazed  on  the  remorseless  river.  He  had  neither  money 
nor  connections — nothing  save  talents  and  knowledge  to 
force  his  way  back  into  the  lofty  world  in  which  all  had 
smiled  on  him  before  ;  and  talents  and  knowledge,  that  had 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  1127 

been  exerted  to  injure  a  benefactor,  made  him  but  the  more 
despised.  But  even  now,  Fortune,  that  had  bestowed  on 
the  pauper  heir  of  Rood  advantages  so  numerous  and  so 
dazzling,  out  of  which  he  had  cheated  himself,  gave  him  a 
chance,  at  least  of  present  independence,  by  which,  with 
patient  toil,  he  might  have  won,  if  not  to  the  highest  places, 
at  least  to  a  position  in  which  he  could  have  forced  the 
world  to  listen  to  his  explanations,  and  perhaps  receive  his 
excuses  :  the  ^"5,000  that  Audley  designed  for  him,  and 
which  in  a  private  memorandum  the  statesman  had  entreated 
Harley  to  see  safely  rescued  from  the  fangs  of  the  law,  were 
made  over  to  Randal  by  Lord  L'Estrange's  solicitor  ;  but 
this  sum  seemed  to  him  so  small  after  the  loss  of  such  gor- 
geous hopes,  and  the  up-hill  path  seemed  so  slow  after  such 
short  cuts  to  power,  that  Randal  looked  upon  the  unex- 
pected bequest  simply  as  an  apology  for  adopting  no  pro- 
fession. Stung  to  the  quick  by  the  contrast  between  his 
past  and  his  present  place  in  the  English  world,  he  hastened 
abroad.  There,  whether  in  distraction  from  thought,  or 
from  the  curiosity  of  a  restless  intellect  to  explore  the 
worth  of  things  yet  untried,  Randal  Leslie,  who  had  hitherto 
been  so  dead  to  the  ordinary  amusements  of  youth,  plunged 
into  the  society  of  damaged  gamesters  and  third-rate  roue's. 
In  this  companionship  his  very  talents  gradually  degener- 
ated, and  their  exercise  upon  low  intrigues  and  miserable 
projects  but  abased  his  social  character,  till,  sinking  step 
after  step  as  his  funds  decayed,  he  finally  vanished  out  of 
the  sphere  in  which  even  profligates  still  retain  the  habits, 
and  cling  to  the  caste,  of  gentlemen.  His  father  died  ;  the 
neglected  property  of  Rood  devolved  on  Randal,  but  out  of 
its  scanty  proceeds  he  had  to  pay  the  portions  of  his  brother 
and  sister,  and  his  mother's  jointure  ;  the  surplus  left  was 
scarcely  visible  in  the  executor's  account.  The  hope  of  re- 
storing the  home  and  fortunes  of  his  forefathers  had  long 
ceased.  What  were  the  ruined  hall  and  its  bleak  wastes, 
without  that  hope  which  had  once  dignified  the  wreck  and 
the  desert  ?  He  wrote  from  St.  Petersburg,  ordering  the 
sale  of  the  property.  No  one  great  proprietor  was  a  candi- 
date for  the  unpromising  investment ;  it  was  sold  in  lots 
among  small  freeholders  and  retired  traders.  A  builder 
bought  the  Hall  for  its  materials.  Hall,  lands,  and  name 
were  blotted  out  of  the  map  and  the  history  of  the  country. 
The  widow,  Oliver,  and  Juliet  removed  to  a  provincial 
town  in  another  shire.  Juliet  married  an  ensign  in  a 


1128  MY  NOVEL;    OR, 

marching  regiment,  and  died  of  neglect  after  childbirth. 
Mrs.  Leslie  did  not  long  survive  her.  Oliver  added  to  his 
little  fortune  by  marriage  with  the  daughter  of  a  retail 
tradesman,  who  had  amassed  a  few  thousand  pounds.  He 
set  up  a  brewery,  and  contrived  to  live  without  debt ;  though 
a  large  family,  and  his  own  constitutional  inertness,  ex- 
tracted from  his  business  small  profits  and  no  savings. 
Nothing  of  Randal  had  been  heard  of  for  years  after  the 
sale  of  Rood,  except  that  he  had  taken  up  his  residence 
either  in  Australia  or  the  United  States ;  it  was  not  known 
which,  but  presumed  to  be  the  latter.  Still  Oliver  had 
been  brought  up  with  so  high  a  veneration  of  his  brother's 
talents,  that  he  cherished  the  sanguine  belief  that  Randal 
would  some  day  appear,  wealthy  and  potent,  like  the  uncle 
in  a  comedy  ;  lift  up  the  sunken  family,  and  rear  into 
graceful  ladies  and  accomplished  gentlemen  the  clumsy  lit- 
tle boys  and  the  vulgar  little  girls,  who  now  crowded  round 
Oliver's  dinner-table,  with  appetites  altogether  dispropor- 
tioned  to  the  size  of  the  joints. 

One  winter  day,  when  from  the  said  dinner-table  wife 
and  children  had  retired,  and  Oliver  sat  sipping  his  half- 
pint  of  bad  port,  and  looking  over  unsatisfactory  accounts, 
a  thin  terrier,  lying  on  the  threadbare  rug  by  the  niggard 
fire,  sprang  up  and  barked  fiercely.  Oliver  lifted  his  dull 
blue  eyes,  and  saw  opposite  to  him,  at  the  window,  a  human 
face.  The  face  was  pressed  close  to  the  panes,  and  was 
obscured  by  the  haze  which  the  breath  of  its  lips  drew  forth 
from  the  frosty  rime  that  had  gathered  on  the  glass. 

Oliver,  alarmed  and  indignant,  supposing  this  intrusive 
spectator  of  his  privacy  to  be  some  bold  and  lawless  tramper, 
stepped  out  of  the  room,  opened  the  front  door,  and  bade 
the  stranger  go  about  his  business;  while  the  terrier  still 
more  inhospitably  yelped  and  snapped  at  the  stranger's 
heels.  Then  a  hoarse  voice  said,  "  Don't  you  know  me,  Oli- 
ver ?  I  am  your  brother  Randal !  Call  away  your  dog, 
and  let  me  in."  Oliver  stared  aghast — he  could  not  believe 
his  slow  senses — he  could  not  recognize  his  brother  in  the 
gaunt  grim  apparition  before  him.  But  at  length  he  came 
forward,  gazed  into  Randal's  face,  and,  grasping  his  hand 
in  amazed  silence,  led  him  into  the  little  parlor.  Not  a 
trace  of  the  well-bred  refinement  which  had  once  charac- 
terized Randal's  air  and  person  was  visible.  His  dress  be- 
spoke the  last  stage  of  that  terrible  decay  which  is  signifi- 
cantly called  the  "  shabby  genteel."  His  mien  was  that  of 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  1129 

the  skulking,  timorous,  famished  vagabond.  As  he  took  off 
his  greasy  tattered  hat,  he  exhibited,  though  still  young  in 
years,  the  signs  of  premature  old  age.  His  hair,  once  so 
fine  and  silken,  was  of  a  harsh  iron-gray,  bald  in  ragged 
patches  ;  his  forehead  and  visage  were  ploughed  into  fur- 
rows ;  intelligence  was  still  in  the  aspect,  but  an  intelligence 
that  instinctivly  set  you  on  your  guard — sinister — gloomy 
— menacing. 

Randal  stopped  short  all  questioning.  He  seized  the 
small  modicum  of  wine  on  the  table,  and  drained  it  at  a 
draught.  "  Pooh,"  said  he,  "  have  you  nothing  that  warms 
a  man  better  than  this  ?"  Oliver,  who  felt  as  if  under  the 
influence  of  a  frightful  dream,  went  to  a  cupboard  and 
took  out  a  bottle  of  brandy  three-parts  full.  Randal 
snatched  at  it  eagerly,  and  put  his  lips  to  the  mouth  of  the 
bottle.  "Ah,"  said  he,  after  a  short  pause,  "this  comforts  ; 
now  give  me  food."  Oliver  hastened  himself  to  serve  his 
brother;  in  fact,  he  felt  ashamed  that  even  the  slip-shod 
maid-servant  should  see  his  visitor.  When  he  returned 
with  such  provisions  as  he  could  extract  from  the  larder, 
Randal  was  seated  by  the  fire,  spreading  over  the  embers 
emaciated  bony  hands  like  the  talons  of  a  vulture. 

He  devoured  the  cold  meat  set  before  him  with  terrible 
voracity,  and  nearly  finished  the  spirits  left  in  the  bottle  ; 
but  the  last  had  no  effect  in  dispersing  his  gloom.  Oliver 
stared  at  him  in  fear — the  terrier  continued  to  utter  a  low 
suspicious  growl. 

"  You  would  know  my  history  ?  "  at  length  said  Randal, 
bluntly.  "  It  is  short.  I  have  tried  for  fortune  and  failed 
— I  am  without  a  penny  and  without  a  hope.  You  seem 
poor — I  suppose  you  cannot  much  help  me.  Let  me  at 
least  stay  with  you  for  a  time — I  know  not  where  else  to 
look  for  bread  and  for  shelter." 

Oliver  burst  into  tears,  and  cordially  bade  his  brother 
welcome.  Randal  remained  some  weeks  at  Oliver's  house, 
never  stirring  out  of  the  doors,  and  not  seeming  to  notice, 
though  he  did  not  scruple  to  use,  the  new  habiliments 
which  Oliver  procured  ready-made,  and  placed,  without  re- 
mark, in  his  room.  But  his  presence  soon  became  intoler- 
able to  the  mistress  of  the  house,  and  oppressive  even  to  its 
master.  Randal,  who  had  once  been  so  abstemious  that  he 
had  even  regarded  the  most  moderate  use  of  wine  as  incom- 
patible with  clear  judgment  and  vigilant  observation,  had 
contracted  the  habit  of  drinking  spiiits  at  all  hours  of  the 
48 


1 130  MY  NOVEL;    OR, 

day  ;  but  though  they  sometimes  intoxicated  him  into  stu- 
por, they  never  unlocked  his  heart  nor  enlivened  his  sullen 
mood.  If  he  observed  less  acutely  than  of  old,  he  could 
still  conceal  just  as  closely.  Mrs.  Oliver  Leslie,  at  first 
rather  awed  and  taciturn,  grew  cold  and  repelling,  then 
pert  and  sarcastic,  at  last  undisguisedly  and  vulgarly  rude. 
Randal  made  no  retort  ;  but  his  sneer  was  so  galling  that 
the  wife  flew  at  once  to  her  husband,  and  declared  that 
either  she  or  his  brother  must  leave  the  house.  Oliver  tried 
to  pacify  and  compromise,  with  partial  success  ;  and,  a  few 
days  afterward,  he  came  to  Randal  and  said,  timidly,  "  You 
see,  my  wife  brought  me  nearly  all  I  possess,  and  you  don't 
condescend  to  make  friends  with  her.  Your  residence  here 
must  be  as  painful  to  you  as  to  me.  But  I  wish  to  see  you 
provided  for  ;  and  I  could  offer  you  something — only  it 
seems,  at  first  glance,  so  beneath — 

"Beneath  what?"  interrupted  Randal,  witheringly. 
"  What  I  was — or  what  I  am  ?  Speak  out !  " 

"  To  be  sure  you  are  a  scholar  ;  and  I've  heard  you  say 
fine  things  about  knowledge,  and  so  forth  ;  and  you'll  have 
plenty  of  books  at  your  disposal,  no  doubt  ;  and  you  are 
still  young,  and  may  rise — and " 

"  Hell  and  torments  ! — Be  quick — say  the  worst  or  the 
best !  "  cried  Randal,  fiercely. 

"  Well  then,"  said  poor  Oliver,  still  trying  to  soften  the 
intended  proposal,  "you  must  know  that  our  poor  sister's 
husband  was  nephew  to  Dr.  Felpem,  who  keeps  a  very 
respectable  school.  He  is  not  learned  himself,  and  attends 
chiefly  to  arithmetic  and  book-keeping,  and  such  matters — 
but  he  wants  an  usher  to  teach  the  classics  ;  for  some  of 
the  boys  go  to  college.  And  I  have  written  to  him,  just  to 
sound — I  did  not  mention  your  name  till  I  knew  if  you 
would  like  it  ;  but  he  will  take  my  recommendation.  Board 
— lodging — fifty  pounds  a  year  ;  in  short,  the  place  is  yours 
if  you  like  it." 

Randal  shivered  from  head  to  foot,  and  was  long  before 
he  answered.  "  Well,  be  it  so  ;  I  have  come  to  that.  Ha, 
ha  !  yes,  knowledge  is  power  ! "  He  paused  a  few  moments. 
"  So,  the  old  Hall  is  razed  to  the  ground,  and  you  are  a 
tradesman  in  a  small  country  town,  and  my  sister  is  dead, 
and  I  henceforth  am — John  Smith  !  You  say  that  you  did 
not  mention  my  name  to  the  schoolmaster — still  keep  it 
concealed  ;  forget  that  I  once  was  a  Leslie.  Our  tie  of 
brotherhood  ceases  when  I  go  from  your  hearth.  Write, 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  1131 

then,  to  your  head-master,  who  attends  to  arithmetic,  and 
secure  the  rank  of  his  usher  in  Latin  and  Greek  for — John 
Smith!" 

Not  many  days  afterward,  the  protige  of  Audley  Eger- 
ton  entered  on  his  duties  as  usher  in  one  of  those  large 
cheap  schools,  which  comprise  a  sprinkling  of  the  sons  of 
gentry  and  clergymen  designed  for  the  learned  professions, 
with  a  far  larger  proportion  of  the  sons  of  traders,  intended, 
some  for  the  counting-house,  some  for  the  shop  and  the 
till.  There,  to  this  day,  under  the  name  of  John  Smith, 
lives  Randal  Leslie. 

It  is  probably  not  pride  alone  that  induces  him  to  per- 
sist in  that  change  of  name,  and  makes  him  regard  as 
perpetual  the  abandonment  of  the  one  that  he  took  from 
his  forefathers,  and  with  which  he  had  once  identified  his 
vaulting  ambition  ;  for  shortly  after  he  had  quitted  his 
brother's  house,  Oliver  read  in  the  weekly  newspaper,  to 
which  he  bounded  his  lore  of  the  times  in  which  he  lived, 
an  extract  from  an  American  journal,  wherein  certain  men- 
tion was  made  of  an  English  adventurer  who,  amongst  other 
aliases,  had  assumed  the  name  of  Leslie — that  extract 
caused  Oliver  to  start,  turn  pale,  look  round,  and  thrust 
the  paper  into  the  fire.  From  that  time  he  never  attempted 
to  violate  the  condition  Randal  had  imposed  on  him — never 
sought  to  renew  their  intercourse,  nor  to  claim  a  brother. 
Doubtless,  if  the  adventurer  thus  signalized  was  the  man 
Oliver  suspected,  whatever  might  be  imputed  to  Randal's 
charge  that  could  have  paled  a  brother's  cheek,  it  was  none 
of  the  more  violent  crimes  to  which  law  is  inexorable,  but 
rather  (in  that  progress  made  by  ingratitude  and  duplicity, 
with  Need  and  Necessity  urging  them  on),  some  act  of  dis- 
honesty which"  may  just  escape  from  the  law,  to  sink,  with- 
out redemption,  the  name.  However  this  be,  there  is 
nothing  in  Randal's  present  course  of  life  which  forebodes 
any  deeper  fall.  He  has  known  what  it  is  to  want  bread, 
and  his  former  restlessness  subsides  into  cynic  apathy. 

He  lodges  in  the  town  near  the  school,  and  thus  the 
debasing  habit  of  unsocial  besotment  is  not  brought  under 
the  eyes  of  his  superior.  The  dram  is  his  sole  luxury — if  it 
be  suspected,  it  is  thought  to  be  his  sole  vice.  He  goes 
through  the  ordinary  routine  of  tuition  with  average  credit ; 
his  spirit  of  intrigue  occasionally  shows  itself  in  attempts 
to  conciliate  the  favor  of  the  boys  whose  fathers  are  wealthy 
— who  are  born  to  higher  rank  than  the  rest  ;  and  he  lays 


1 1 32  MY  NOVEL;    OR, 

complicated  schemes  to  he  asked  home  for  the  holidays. 
But  when  the  schemes  succeed,  and  the  invitation  comes, 
he  recoils  and  shrinks  back — he  does  not  dare  to  show  him- 
self on  the  borders  of  the  brighter  world  he  once  hoped  to 
sway  ;  he  fears  that  he  may  be  discovered  to  be — a  Leslie ! 
On  such  days,  when  his  taskwork  is  over,  he  shuts  himself 
up  in  his  room,  locks  the  door,  and  drugs  himself  into  in- 
sensibility. 

Once  he  found  a  well-worn  volume  running  the  round 
of  delighted  school-boys — took  it  up,  and  recognized  Leon- 
ard's earliest  popular  work,  which  had,  many  years  before, 
seduced  himself  into  pleasant  thoughts  and  gentle  emo- 
tions. He  carried  the  book  to  his  own  lodgings — read  it 
again  ;  and  when  he  returned  it  to  its  young  owner,  some 
of  the  leaves  were  stained  with  tears.  Alas !  perhaps  but 
the  maudlin  tears  of  broken  nerves,  not  of  the  awakened 
soul — for  the  leaves  smelt  strongly  of  whiskey.  Yet,  after 
that  re-perusal,  Randal  Leslie  turned  suddenly  to  deeper 
studies  than  his  habitual  drudgeries  required.  He  revived 
and  increased  his  early  scholarship  ;  he  chalked  the  outline 
of  a  work  of  great  erudition,  in  which  the  subtlety  of  his 
intellect  found  field  in  learned  and  acute  criticism.  But  he 
has  never  proceeded  far  in  this  work.  After  each  irregular 
and  spasmodic  effort,  the  pen  drops  from  his  hand,  and  he 
mutters,  "  But  to  what  end  ?  I  can  never  now  raise  a  name. 
Why  give  reputation  to — John  Smith  ?  " 

Thus  he  drags  on  his  life  ;  and  perhaps,  when  he  dies, 
the  fragments  of  his  learned  work  may  be  discovered  in  the 
desk  of  the  usher,  and  serve  as  hints  to  some  crafty  student, 
who  may  filch  ideas  and  repute  from  the  dead  Leslie,  as 
Leslie  had  filched  them  from  the  living  Burley. 

While  what  may  be  called  poetical  juStice  has  thus 
evolved  itself  from  the  schemes  in  which  Randal  Leslie  had 
wasted  rare  intellect  in  baffling  his  own  fortunes,  no  out- 
ward signs  of  adversity  evince  the  punishment  of  Provi- 
dence on  the  head  of  the  more  powerful  offender,  Baron 
Levy.  No  fall  in  the  Funds  has  shaken  the  sumptuous 
fabric,  built  from  the  ruined  houses  of  other  men.  Baron 
Levy  is  still  Baron  Levy  the  millionaire ;  but  I  doubt  if  at 
heart  he  be  not  more  acutely  miserable  than  Randal  Leslie, 
the  usher.  For  Levy  is  a  man  who  has  admitted  the  fiercer 
passions  into  his  philosophy  of  life  ;  he  has  not  the  pale 
blood  and  torpid  heart  which  allow  the  scotched  adder  to 
doze  away  its  sense  of  pain.  Just  as  old  age  began  to  creep 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  1133 

upon  the  fashionable  usurer  he  fell  in  love  with  a  young 
opera-dancer,  whose  light  heels  had  turned  the  lighter 
heads  of  half  the  Elegants  of  Paris  and  London.  The  craft 
of  the  dancer  was  proof  against  all  lesser  bribes  than  that 
of  marriage  ;  and  Levy  married  her.  From  that  moment 
ihis  house,  Louis  Quinze,  was  more  crowded  than  ever  by  the 
I  high-born  dandies  whose  society  he  had  long  so  eagerly 
courted.  That  society  became  his  curse.  The  Baroness 
was  an  accomplished  *  coquette ;  and  Levy  (with  whom,  as 
we  have  seen,  jealousy  was  the  predominant  passion)  was 
stretched  on  an  eternal  rack.  His  low  estimate  of  human 
nature— his  disbelief  in  the  possibility  of  virtue — added 
strength  to  the  agony  of  his  suspicions,  and  provoked  the 
very  dangers  he  dreaded.  His  sole  self-torturing  task  was 
that  of  the  spy  upon  his  own  hearth.  His  banquets  were 
haunted  by  a  spectre  ;  the  attributes  of  his  wealth  were  as 
the  goad  and  the  scourge  of  Nemesis.  His  gay  cynic  smile 
changed  into  a  sullen  scowl — his  hair  blanched  into  white 
— his  eyes  were  hollow  with  one  consuming  care.  Sud- 
denly he  left  his  costly  house;  left  London ;  abjured  all  the 
society  which  it  had  been  the  joy  of  his  wealth  to  pur- 
chase ;  buried  himself  and  his  wife  in  a  remote  corner  of 
the  provinces  ;  and  there  he  still  lives.  He  seeks  in  vain 
to  occupy  his  days  with  rural  pursuits  ;  he  to  whom  the 
excitements  of  a  metropolis,  with  all  its  corruption  and  its 
vices,  were  the  sole  sources  of  the  turbid  stream  that  he 
called  "pleasure."  There,  too,  the  fiend  of  jealousy  still 
pursues  him  ;  he  prowls  round  his  demesnes  with  the  hag- 
gard eye  and  furtive  step  of  a  thief ;  he  guards  his  wife  as 
a  prisoner,  for  she  threatens  every  day  to  escape.  The  life 
of  a  man  who  had  opened  the  prison  to  so  many  is  the  life 
of  a  jailer.  His  wife  abhors  him,  and  does  not  conceal  it  ; 
and  still  slavishly  he  dotes  on  her.  Accustomed  to  the 
freest  liberty-^-demanding  applause  and  admiration  as  her 
rights — wholly  uneducated,  vulgar  in  mind,  coarse  in  lan- 
guage, violent  in  temper — the  beautiful  Fury  he  has 
brought  to  his  home,  makes  that  home  a  hell.  Thus,  what 
might  seem  to  the  superficial  most  enviable^  is  to  their 
possessor  most  hateful.  He  dares  not  ask  a  soul  to  see 
how  he  spends  his  gold— he  has  shrunk  into  a  mean  and 
niggardly  expenditure,  and  complains  of  reverse  and  pov- 
erty, in  order  to  excuse  himself  to  his  wife  for  debarring 
her  the  enjoyments  which  she  anticipated  from  the  Money- 
Bags  she  had  married.  A  vague  consciousness  of  retribu- 


H34  MY  NOV2L;    OR, 

tion  has  awakened  remorse,  to  add  to  his  other  stings.  And 
the  remorse  coming  from  superstition,  not  religion  (sent 
from  below,  not  descending  from  above),  brings  with  it 
none  of  the  consolations  of  a  genuine  repentance.  He 
never  seeks  to  atone — never  dreams  of  some  redeeming 
good  action.  His  riches  flow  around  him,  spreading  wider 
and  wider  out  of  his  own  reach. 

The  Count  di  Peschiera  was  not  deceived  in  the  calcu- 
lations which  had  induced  him  to  affect  repentance,  and 
establish  a  claim  upon  his  kinsman.  He  received  from  the 
generosity  of  the  Duke  di  Serrano  an  annuity  not  dispro- 
portionate to  his  rank,  and  no  order  from  his  court  forbade 
his  return  to  Vienna.  But,  in  the  very  summer  that  fol- 
lowed his  visit  to  Lansmere,  his  career  came  to  an  abrupt 
close.  At  Baden-Baden  he  paid  court  to  a  wealthy  and  ac- 
complished Polish  widow  ;  and  his  fine  person  and  terrible 
repute  awed  away  all  rivals  save  a  young  Frenchman,  as 
daring  as  himself,  and  much  more  in  love.  A  challenge 
was  given  and  accepted.  Peschiera  appeared  on  the  fatal 
ground  with  his  customary  sang-froid,  humming  an  opera 
air,  and  looked  so  diabolically  gay  that  his  opponent's 
nerves  were  affected  in  spite  of  his  courage,  and,  the  French- 
man's trigger  going  off  before  he  had  even  taken  aim,  to 
his  own  ineffable  astonishment,  he  shot  the  Count  through 
the  heart,  dead. 

Beatrice  di  Negra  lived  for  some  years  after  her  broth- 
er's death  in  strict  seclusion,  lodging  within  a  convent, 
though  she  did  not  take  the  veil,  as  she  at  first  proposed. 
In  fact,  the  more  she  saw  of  the  sisterhood,  the  more  she 
found  that  human  regrets  and  human  passions  (save  in  some 
rarely  gifted  natures)  find  their  way  through  the  barred 
gates  and  over  the  lofty  walls.  Finally,  she  took  up  her 
abode  in  Rome,  where  she  is  esteemed  for  a  life  not  only 
marked  by  strict  propriety,  but  active  benevolence.  She 
cannot  be  prevailed  on  to  accept  from  the  Duke  more  than 
a  fourth  of  the  annuity  that  had  been  bestowed  on  her 
brother  ;  but  she  has  few  wants,  save  those  of  charity  ;  and 
when  charity  is  really  active,  it  can  do  so  much  with  so  lit- 
tle gold  !  She  is  not  known  in  the  gayer  circles  of  the  city  ; 
but  she  gathers  around  her  a  small  society  composed  chief- 
ly of  artists  and  scholars,  and  is  never  so  happy  as  when 
she  can  aid  some  child  of  genius — more  especially  if  his 
country  be  England. 

The  Squire  and  his  wife  still  flourish  at  Hazeldean,  where 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  1135 

Captain  Barnabas  Higginbotham  has  taken  up  his  perma- 
nent abode.  The  Captain  is  a  confirmed  hypochondriac, 
but  he  brightens  up  now  and  then  when  he  hears  of  any 
illness  in  the  family  of  Mr.  Sharpe  Currie,  and,  at  such 
times,  is  heard  to  murmur,  "  If  those  seven  sickly  children 
should  go  off,  I  might  still  have  very  great — EXPECTATIONS." 
For  the  which  he  had  been  roundly  scolded  by  the  Squire, 
and  gravely  preached  at  by  the  Parson.  Upon  both,  how- 
ever, he  takes  his  revenge  in  a  fair  and  gentlemanlike  way, 
three  times  a  week,  at  the  whist-table,  the  Parson  no  longer 
having  the  Captain  as  his  constant  partner,  since  a  fifth 
now  generally  cuts  in  at  the  table — in  the  person  of  that  old 
enemy  and  neighbor,  Mr.  Sticktorights.  The  Parson,  thus 
fighting  his  own  battles  unallied  to  the  Captain,  observes 
with  melancholy  surprise  that  there  is  a  long  run  of  luck 
against  him,  and  that  he  does  not  win  so  much  as  he  used 
to  do.  Fortunately  that  is  the  sole  trouble — except  Mrs. 
Dale's  "little  tempers,"  to  which  he  is  accustomed — that 
ever  disturbs  the  serene  tenor  of  the  Parson's  life.  We 
must  now  explain  how  Mr.  Sticktorights  came  to  cut  in  at 
the  Hazeldean  whist-table.  Frank  has  settled  at  the  Casino 
with  a  wife  who  suits  him  exactly,  and  that  wife  was  Miss 
Sticktorights.  It  was  two  years  before  Frank  recovered 
the  disappointment  with  which  the  loss  of  Beatrice  sad- 
dened his  spirits,  but  sobered  his  habits  and  awoke  his  re- 
flection. An  affection,  however  misplaced  and  ill-requited, 
if  honestly  conceived  and  deeply  felt,  rarely  fails  to  advance 
the  self-education  of  man.  Frank  became  steady  and  seri- 
ous ;  and,  on  a  visit  to  Hazeldean,  met  at  a  country  ball 
Miss  Sticktorights,  and  the  two  young  persons  were  instant- 
ly attracted  toward  each  other,  perhaps  by  the  very  feud 
that  had  so  long  existed  between  their  houses.  The  mar- 
riage settlements  were  nearly  abandoned,  at  the  last  mo- 
ment, by  a  discussion  between  the  parents  as  to  the  Right 
of  Way.  But  the  dispute  was  happily  appeased  by  Mr. 
Dale's  suggestion,  that  as  both  properties  would  be  united 
in  the  children  of  the  proposed  marriage,  all  cause  for  liti- 
gation would  naturally  cease,  since  no  man  would  go  to  law 
with  himself.  Mr.  Sticktorights  and  Mr.  Hazeldean,  how- 
ever, agreed  in  the  precaution  of  inserting  a  clause  in  the 
settlements  (though  all  the  lawyers  declared  that  it  could 
not  be  of  any  legal  avail),  by  which  it  was  declared,  that  if, 
in  default  of  heritable  issue  by  the  said  marriage,  the  Stick- 
torights estates  devolved  on  some  distant  scion  o*.  the  Stick- 


1 1 36  MY  NOVEL;    OR, 

torights  family,  the  right  of  way  from  the  wood  across  the 
waste  land  would  still  remain  in  the  same  state  of  delect- 
able dispute  in  which  it  then  stood.  There  seems,  however, 
little  chance  of  a  lawsuit  thus  providentially  bequeathed  to 
•the  misery  of  distant  generations — since  two  sons  and  two 
i  daughters  are  already  playing  at  hide-and-seek  on  the  ter- 
race where  Jackeyrno  once  watered  the  orange-trees,  and 
in  the  belvidere  where  Riccabocca  had  studied  his  Machia- 
velli. 

Jackeymo,  though  his  master  has  assessed  the  long 
arrears  of  his  wages  at  a  sum  which  would  enable  him  to 
have  orange-groves  and  servants  of  his  own,  still  clings  to  his 
former  duties,  and  practises  his  constitutional  parsimony. 
His  only  apparent  deviation  into  profusion  consists  in  the 
erection  of  a  chapel  to  his  sainted  namesake,  to  whom  he 
burns  many  a  votive  taper  ; — the  tapers  are  especially  tall, 
and  their  sconces  are  wreathed  with  garlands  whenever  a 
letter  with  a  foreign  post-mark  brings  good  news  of  the 
absent  Violante  and  her  English  lord. 

Riccabocca  was  long  before  he  reconciled  himself  to  the 
pomp  of  his  principalities  and  his  title  of  Duke.  Jemima 
accommodated  herself  much  more  readily  to  greatness,  but 
she  retained  all  her  native  Hazeldean  simplicity  at  heart, 
and  is  adored  by  the  villagers  around  her,  especially  by  the 
youth  of  both  sexes,  whom  she  is  always  ready  to  marry  and 
to  portion  ;• — convinced,  long  ere  this,  of  the  redeemable 
qualities  of  the  male  sex  by  her  reverence  for  the  Duke, 
who  continues  to  satirize  women  and  wedlock,  and  deem 
himself — thanks  to  his  profound  experience  of  the  one,  and 
his  philosophical  endurance  of  the  other — the  only  happy 
husband  in  the  world.  Longer  still  was  it  before  the  sage, 
who  had  been  so  wisely  anxious  to  rid  himself  of  the  charge 
of  a  daughter,  could  wean  his  thoughts  from  the  re- 
,membrance  of  her  tender  voice  and  loving  eyes.  Not, 
indeed,  till  he  seriously  betook  himself  to  the  task  of 
educating  the  son  with  whom,  according  to  his  scientific 
prognostics,  Jemima  presented  him  shortly  after  his  return 
to  his  native  land.  The  sage  began  betimes  with  his 
Italian  proverbs,  full  of  hard-hearted  worldly  wisdom,  and 
the  boy  was  scarce  out  of  the  hornbook  before  he  was 
introduced  to  Machiavelli.  But  somehow  or  other  the 
simple  goodness  of  the  philosopher's  actual  life,  with  his 
high-wrought  patrician  sentiments  of  integrity  and  honor, 
So  counteract  the  theoretical  lessons,  that  the  heir  of 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  1137 

Serrano  is  little  likely  to  be  made  more  wise  by  the 
proverbs,  or  more  wicked  by  the  Machiavelli,  than  those 
studies  have  practically  made  the  progenitor,  whose  opin- 
ions his  countrymen  still  shame  with  the  title  of  "  Alphonso 
the  Good." 

The  Duke  long  cherished  a  strong  curiosity  to  know 
what  had  become  of  Randal.  He  never  traced  the  adven- 
turer to  his  closing  scene.  But  once  (years  before  Randal 
had  crept  into  his  present  shelter),  in  a  visit  of  inspection  to 
the  hospital  at  Genoa,  the  Duke,  with  his  peculiar  shrewd- 
ness of  observation  in  all  matters  except  those  which  con- 
cerned himself,  was  remarking  to  the  officer  in  attendance, 
"  that  for  one  dull  honest  man,  whom  fortune  drove  to  the 
hospital  or  the  jail,  he  had  found,  on  investigation  of  their 
antecedents,  three  sharp-witted  knaves  who  had  thereto 
reduced  themselves  " — when  his  eye  fell  upon  a  man  asleep 
in  one  of  the  sick-wards,  and  recognizing  the  face,  not  then 
so  changed  as  Oliver  had  seen  it,  he  walked  straight  up, 
and  gazed  upon  Randal  Leslie. 

"  An  Englishman,"  said  the  official.  **  He  was  brought 
hither  insensible,  from  a  severe  wound  on  the  head,  inflicted, 
as  we  discovered,  by  a  well-known  eheiialier  (f  Industrie,  who 
declared  that  the  Englishman  had  outwitted  and  cheated 
him.  That  was  not  very  likely,  for  a  few  crowns  were  all 
we  could  find  on  the  Englishman's  person,  and  he  had  been 
obliged  to  leave  his  lodgings  for  debt.  He  is  recovering — 
but  there  is  fever  still." 

The  Duke  gazed  silently  on  the  sleeper,  who  was  toss- 
ing restlessly  on  his  pallet,  and  muttering  to  himself  ;  then 
he  placed  his  purse  in  the  official's  hand.  "  Give  this  to 
the  Englishman,"  said  he;  "but  conceal  my  name.  It  is 
true — it  is  true — the  proverb  is  very  true  " — resumed  the 
Duke,  descending  the  stairs — Pih  pelli  di  volpi  ehe  di  asini 
vanno  in  pellicciaria."  (More  hides  of  foxes  than  of  asses 
find  their  way  to  the  tanner's.) 

Dr.  Morgan  continues  to  prescribe  globules  for  grief, 
and  to  administer  infinitesimally  to  a  mind  diseased.  Prac- 
tising what  he  prescribes,  he  swallows  a  globule  of  "  caustic  " 
whenever  the  sight  of  a  distressed  fellow-creature  moves 
him  to  compassion — a  constitutional  tendency  which,  he  is 
at  last  convinced,  admits  of  no  radical  cure.  For  the  rest, 
his  range  of  patients  has  notably  expanded  ;  and  under 
his  sage  care  his  patients  unquestionably  live  as  long — as 
Providence  pleases.  No  allopathist  can  say  more. 
48* 


1 138  MY  NOVEL;    OR, 

The  death  of  poor  John  Burley  found  due  place  in  the 
obituary  of  "literary  men."  Admirers,  unknown  before, 
came  forward  and  subscribed  for  a  handsome  monument  to 
his  memory  in  Kensal  Green.  They  would  have  subscribed 
for  the  relief  of  his  widow  and  children,  if  he  had  left  any. 
Writers  in  magazines  thrived  for  some  months  on  collec- 
tions of  his  humorous  sayings,  anecdotes  of  his  eccentricities, 
and  specimens  of  the  eloquence  that  had  lightened  through 
the  tobacco-reek  of  tavern  and  club-room.  Leonard  ul- 
timately made  a  selection  from  his  scattered  writings,  which 
found  place  in  standard  libraries,  though  their  subjects  were 
either  of  too  fugitive  an  interest,  or  treated  in  too  capricious 
a  manner,  to  do  more  than  indicate  the  value  of  the  ore 
had  it  been  purified  from  its  dross  and  subjected  to  the  art 
of  the  mint.  These  specimens  could  not  maintain  their 
circulation  as  the  coined  money  of  Thought,  but  they  were 
hoarded  by  collectors  as  rare  curiosities.  Alas,  poor  Burley  ! 

The  Pompleys  sustained  a  pecuniary  loss  by  the  crash 
of  a  railway  company,  in  which  the  Colonel  had  been  in- 
duced to  take  several  shares  by  one  of  his  wife's  most 
boasted  "  connections,"  whose  estate  the  said  railway  pro- 
posed to  traverse,  on  paying  ^400  an  acre,  in  that  golden 
age  when  railway  companies  respected  the  rights  of  pro- 
perty. The  Colonel  was  no  longer  able,  in  his  own  coun- 
try, to  make  both  ends  meet  at  Christmas.  He  is  now 
straining  hard  to  achieve  that  feat  in  Boulogne,  and  has  in 
the  process  grown  so  red  in  the  face,  that  those  who  meet 
him  in  his  morning  walk  on  the  pier,  bargaining  for  fish, 
shake  their  heads  and  say,  "  Old  Pompley  will  go  off  in  a 
fit  of  apoplexy  ;  a  great  loss  to  society  ;  genteel  people  the 
Pompleys  !  and  very  highly  '  connected.'  " 

The  vacancy  created  in  the  borough  of  Lansmere  by 
Audley  Egerton's  death,  was  filled  up  by  our  old  acquaint- 
ance Haveril  Dashmore,  who  had  unsuccessfully  contested 
that  seat  on  Egerton's  first  election.  The  naval  officer  was 
now  an  admiral,  and  perfectly  reconciled  to  the  Constitu- 
tion, with  all  its  alloy  of  aristocracy. 

Dick  Avenel  did  not  retire  from  Parliament  so  soon  as 
he  had  anticipated.  He  was  not  able  to  persuade  Leonard, 
whose  brief  fever  of  political  ambition  was  now  quenched 
in  the  calm  fountain  of  the  Muse,  to  supply  his  place  in 
the  senate,  and  he  felt  that  the  house  of  Avenel  needed  one 
representative.  He  contrived,  however,  to  devote,  for  the 
first  year  or  two,  much  more  of  his  time  to  his  interests  at 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  1139 

Screwstown  than  to  the  affairs  of  his  country,  and  succeeded 
in  baffling  the  over-competition  to  which  he  had  been  sub- 
jected, by  taking  the  competitor  into  partnership.  Having 
thus  secured  a  monopoly  at  Screwstown,  Dick,  of  course, 
returned  with  great  ardor  to  his  former  enlightened  opin- 
ions in  favor  of  free-trade.  He  remained  some  years  in 
Parliament ;  and  though  far  too  shrewd  to  venture  out  of 
his  depth  as  an  orator,  distinguished  himself  so  much  by 
his  exposure  of  "  humbug  "  on  an  important  committee, 
that  he  acquired  a  very  high  reputation  as  a  man  of  busi- 
ness, and  gradually  became  so  in  request  amongst  all  mem- 
bers who  moved  for  "  Select  Committees,"  that  he  rose 
into  consequence  ;  and  Mrs.  Avenel,  courted  for  his  sake, 
more  than  her  own,  obtained  the  wish  of  her  heart,  and 
was  received  as  acknowledged  habitue'e  into  the  circles  of 
fashion.  Amidst  these  circles,  however,  Dick  found  that 
his  home  entirely  vanished  ;  and  when  he  came  home  from 
the  House  of  Commons,  tired  to  death,  at  two  in  the  morn- 
ing, disgusted  at  always  hearing  that  Mrs.  Avenel  was  not 
yet  returned  from  some  fine  lady's  ball,  he  formed  a  sudden 
resolution  of  cutting  Parliament,  Fashion,  and  London  al- 
together ;  withdrew  his  capital,  now  very  large,  from  his 
business ;  bought  the  remaining  estates  of  Squire  Thorn- 
hill  ;  and  his  chief  object  of  ambition  is  in  endeavoring  to 
coax  or  bully  out  of  their  holdings  all  the  small  freeholders 
round,  who  had  subdivided  amongst  them,  into  poles  and 
furlongs,  the  fated  inheritance  of  Randal  Leslie.  An  excel- 
lent justice  of  the  peace,  though  more  severe  than  your 
old  family  proprietors  generally  are ; — a  spirited  landlord, 
as  to  encouraging  and  making,  at  a  proper  percentage,  all 
permanent  improvements  on  the  soil,  but  formidable  to  meet 
if  the  rent  be  not  paid  to  the  day,  or  the  least  breach  of 
covenant  be  heedlessly  incurred  on  a  farm  that  he  could  let 
for  more  money  ; — employing  a  great  many  hands  in  pro- 
ductive labor,  but  exacting  rigorously  from  all  the  utmost 
degree  of  work  at  the  smallest  rate  of  wages  which  compe- 
tition and  the  poor-rate  permit ; — the  young  and  robust  in 
his  neighborhood  never  stinted  in  work,  and  the  aged  and 
infirm,  as  lumber  worn  out,  stowed  away  in  the  workhouse  ; 
— Richard  Avenel  holds  himself  an  example  to  the  old  race 
of  landlords  ;  and,  taken  together,  is  no  very  bad  specimen 
of  the  rural  civilizers  whom  the  application  of  spirit  and 
capital  raise  up  in  the  new. 

From  the  wrecks  of  Egerton's  fortune,  Harley,  with  the 


1 140  MY  NOVEL;    OR, 

aid  of  his  father's  experience  in  business,  could  not  succeed 
in  saving,  for  the  statesman's  sole  child  and  heir,  more  than 
a  few  thousand  pounds  ;  and  but  for  the  bonds  and  bills 
which,  when  meditating  revenge,  he  had  bought  from  Levy, 
and  afterward  thrown  into  the  fire — paying  dear  for  that 
detestable  whistle — even  this  surplus  would  not  have  been 
forthcoming. 

Harley  privately  paid  out  of  his  own  fortune  the  ^£5,000 
Egerton  had  bequeathed  to  Leslie  ;  perhaps  not  sorry,  now 
that  the  stern  duty  of  exposing  the  false  wiles  of  the 
schemer  was  fulfilled,  to  afford  some  compensation  even  to 
the  victim  who  had  so  richly  deserved  his  fate  ;  and  pleased, 
though  mournfully,  to  comply  with  the  solemn  request  of 
the  friend  whose  offence  was  forgotten  in  the  remorseful 
memory  of  his  own  projects  of  revenge. 

Leonard's  birth  and  identity  were  easily  proved,  and  no 
one  appeared  to  dispute  them.  The  balance  due  to  him  as 
his  father's  heir,  together  with  the  sum  Avenel  ultimately 
paid  to  him  for  the  patent  of  his  invention,  and  the  dowry 
which  Harley  insisted  upon  bestowing  on  Helen,  amounted 
to  that  happy  competence  which  escapes  alike  the  anxieties 
of  poverty  and  (what  to  one  of  contemplative  tastes  and 
retired  habits  are  often  more  irksome  to  bear)  the  show  and 
responsibilities  of  wealth.  His  father's  death  made  a  deep 
impression  upon  Leonard's  mind  ;  but  the  discovery  that  he 
owed  his  birth  to  a  statesman  of  so  great  a  repute,  and  occupy- 
ing a  position  in  society  so  conspicuous,  contributed  not  to 
confirm,  but  to  still,  the  ambition  which  had  fora  short  time 
diverted  him  from  his  more  serene  aspirations.  He  had  no 
longer  to  win  a  rank  which  might  equal  Helen's.  He  had 
no  longer  a  parent,  whose  affections  might  be  best  won 
through  pride.  The  memories  of  his  earlier  peasant-life, 
and  his  love  for  retirement — in  which  habit  confirmed  the 
constitutional  tendency — made  him  shrink  from  what  a 
more  wordly  nature  would  have  considered  the  enviable 
advantages  of  a  name  that  secured  the  entrance  into  the 
loftiest  sphere  of  our  social  world.  He  wanted  not  that 
name  to  assist  his  own  path  to  a  rank  far  more  durable  than 
that  which  kings  can  confer.  And  still  he  retained  in  the 
works  he  had  published,  and  still  he  proposed  to  bestow  on 
the  works  more  ambitious  that  he  had,  in  leisure  and  com- 
petence, the  facilities  to  design  with  care,  and  complete 
with  patience,  the  name  he  had  himself  invented,  and 
linked  with  the  memory  of  the  low-born  mother.  There- 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  1141 

fore,  though  there  was  some  wonder,  in  drawing-rooms  and 
clubs,  at  the  news  of  Egerton's  first  unacknowledged  mar- 
riage, and  some  curiosity  expressed  as  to  what  the  son  of 
that  marriage  might  do — and  great  men  were  prepared  to 
welcome,  and  fine  ladies  to  invite  and  bring  out,  the  heir 
to  the  statesman's  grave  repute — yet  wonder  and  curiosity 
soon  died  away  ;  the  repute  soon  passed  out  of  date,  and 
its  heir  was  soon  forgotten.  Politicians  who  fall  shoit  of 
the  highest  renown  are  like  actors  ;  no  applause  is  so  vivid 
while  they  are  on  the  stage — no  oblivion  so  complete  when 
the  curtain  falls  on  the  last  farewell. 

Leonard  saw  a  fair  tomb  rise  above  Nora's  grave,  and 
on  the  tomb  was  engraved  the  word  WIFE,  which  vindicated 
her  beloved  memory.  He  felt  the  warm  embrace  of  Nora's 
mother,  no  longer  ashamed  to  own  her  grandchild  ;  and 
even  old  John  was  made  sensible  that  a  secret  weight  of 
sorrow  was  taken  from  his  wife's  stern  silent  heart.  Lean- 
ing on  Leonard's  arm,  the  old  man  gazed  wistfully  on 
Nora's  tomb,  and  muttering — "  Egerton  !  Egerton  !  '  Leo- 
nora, the  first  wife  of  the  Right  Honorable  Audley  Eger- 
ton ! '  Ha  !  I  voted  for  him.  She  married  the  right  color. 
Is  that  the  date  ?  Is  it  so  long  since  she  died  ?  Well,  well ! 
I  miss  her  sadly.  But  wife  says  we  shall  both  now  see  her 
soon  ;  and  wife  once  thought  we  should  never  see  her 
again — never ;  but  I  always  knew  better.  Thank  you,  sir. 
I  am  a  poor  creature,  but  these  tears  don't  pain  me — quite 
otherwise.  I  don't  know  why,  but  I'm  very  happy. 
Where's  my  old  woman  ?  She  does  not  mind  how  much  I 
talk  about  Nora  now.  Oh,  there  she  is !  Thank  you,  sir, 
humbly  !  but  I'd  rather  lean  on  my  old  woman — I'm  more 
used  to  it  ;  and — wife,  when  shall  we  go  to  Nora  ? " 

Leonard  had  brought  Mrs.  Fairfield  to  see  her  parents, 
and  Mrs.  Avenel  welcomed  her  with  unlooked-for  kindness. 
The  name  inscribed  upon  Nora's  tomb  softened  the  mother's 
heart  to  her  surviving  daughter.  As  poor  John  had  said — 
"She  could  now  talk  about  Nora;"  and  in  that  talk,  she 
and  the  child  she  had  so  long  neglected  discovered  how 
much  they  had  in  common.  So  when,  shortly  after  his  mar- 
riage with  Helen,  Leonard  went  abroad,  Jane  Fairfield  re- 
mained with  the  old  couple.  After  their  death,  which  was 
within  a  day  of  each  other,  she  refused,  perhaps  from  pride, 
to  take  'up  her  residence  with  Leonard,  but  she  settled 
near  the  home  which  he  subsequently  found  in  England. 
Leonard  remained  abroad  for  some  years.  A  quiet  observer 


1 142  MY  NOVEL;    OR, 

of  the  various  manners  and  intellectual  development  of  liv- 
ing races — a  rapt  and  musing  student  of  the  monuments 
that  revive  the  dead — his  experience  of  mankind  grew 
large  in  silence,  and  his  perceptions  of  the  Sublime  and 
Beautiful  brightened  into  tranquil  art  under  their  native 
skies. 

On  his  return  to  England  he  purchased  a  small  house 
amidst  the  most  beautiful  scenes  of  Devonshire,  and  there 
patiently  commenced  a  work  in  which  he  designed  to  be- 
queath to  his  country  his  noblest  thoughts  in  their  fairest 
forms.  Some  men  best  develop  their  ideas  by  constant  ex- 
ercise ;  their  thoughts  spring  from  their  brain  ready-armed 
and  seek,  like  the  fabled  goddess,  to  take  constant  part  in 
the  wars  of  men.  And  such  are,  perhaps,  on  the  whole,  the 
most  vigorous  and  lofty  writers ;  but  Leonard  did  not  be- 
long to  this  class.  Sweetness  and  serenity  were  the  main 
characteristics  of  his  genius  ;  and  these  were  deepened  by 
his  profound  sense  of  his  domestic  happiness.  To  wander 
alone  with  Helen  by  the  banks  of  the  murmurous  river — to 
gaze  with  her  on  the  deep  still  sea — to  feel  that  his  thoughts, 
even  when  most  silent,  were  comprehended  by  the  intuition 
of  love,  and  reflected  on  that  translucent  sympathy  so 
yearned  for  and  so  rarely  found  by  poets — these  were  the 
Sabbaths  of  his  soul,  necessary  to  fit  him  for  its  labors — for 
the  Writer  has  this  advantage  over  other  men,  that  his  re- 
pose is  not  indolence.  His  duties,  rightly  fulfilled,  are  dis- 
charged to  earth  and  men  in  other  capacities  than  those  of 
action.  If  he  is  not  seen  among  those  who  act,  he  is  all 
the  while  maturing  some  noiseless  influence,  which  will 
guide  or  illumine,  civilize  or  elevate,  the  restless  men  whose 
noblest  actions  are  but  the  obedient  agencies  of  the 
thoughts  of  writers.  Call  not,  then,  the  Poet  whom  we 
place  amidst  the  Varieties  of  Life,  the  sybarite  of  literary 
ease,  if  returning  on  Summer  eves,  Helen's  light  footstep 
by  his  musing  side,  he  greets  him  sequestered  home,  with 
its  trellised  flowers  smiling  out  from  amidst  the  lonely  cliffs 
in  which  it  is  embedded  ;  while  lovers  still,  though  wedded 
long,  they  turn  to  each  other,  with  such  deep  joy  in  their 
speaking  eyes,  grateful  that  the  world  with  its  various  dis- 
tractions and  noisy  conflicts,  lies  so  far  from  their  actual  ex- 
istence— only  united  to  them  by  the  happy  link  that  the 
writer  weaves  invisibly  with  the  hearts  that  he  moves  and 
the  souls  that  he  inspires.  No  !  Character  and  circum- 
stances alike  unfitted  Leonard  for  the  strife  of  the  thronged 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  1143 

Jiterary  democracy  ;  they  led  toward  the  development  of 
the  gentler  and  purer  portions  of  his  nature — to  the  gradual 
suppression  of  the  more  combative  and  turbulent.  The  in- 
fluence of  the  happy  light  under  which  his  genius  so  silently 
and  calmly  grew,  was  seen  in  the  exquisite  harmony  of  its 
colors,  rather  than  the  gorgeous  diversities  of  their  glow. 
His  contemplation,  intent  upon  objects  of  peaceful  beauty, 
and  undisturbed  by  rude  anxieties  and  vehement  passions, 
suggested  only  kindred  reproductions  to  the  creative  fac- 
ulty by  which  it  was  vivified  ;  so  that  the  whole  man  was 
not  only  a  poet,  but,  as  it  were,  a  poem — a  living  idyl,  call- 
ing into  pastoral  music  every  reed  that  sighed  and  trembled 
along  the  stream  of  life.  And  Helen  was  so  suited  to  a  na- 
ture of  this  kind,  she  so  guarded  the  ideal  existence  in  which 
it  breathes  !  All  the  little  cares  and  troubles  of  the  com- 
mon practical  life  she  appropriated  so  quietly  to  herself — 
the  stronger  of  the  two,  as  should  be  a  poet's  wife,  in  the 
necessary  household  virtues  of  prudence  and  forethought. 
Thus,  if  the  man's  genius  made  the  home  a  temple,  the 
woman's  wisdom  gave  to  the  temple  the  security  of  the 
fortress.  They  have  only  one  child — a  girl  ;  they  call  her 
Nora.  She  has  the  father's  soul-lit  eyes,  and  the  mother's 
warm  human  smile.  She  assists  Helen  in  the  morning's 
noiseless  domestic  duties  ;  she  sits  in  the  evening  at  Leo- 
nard's feet,  while  he  reads  or  writes.  In  each  light  grief  of 
childhood  she  steals  to  the  mother's  knee  ;  but  in  each 
young  impulse  of  delight,  or  each  brighter  flash  of  progres- 
sive reason,  she  springs  to  the  father's  breast.  Sweet  Helen, 
thou  hast  taught  her  this,  taking  to  thyself  the  shadows 
even  of  thine  infant's  life,  and  leaving  to  thy  partner's  eyes 
only  its  rosy  light  ! 

But  not  here  shall  this  picture  of  Helen  close.  Even 
the  Ideal  can  only  complete  its  purpose  by  connection  with 
the  Real.  Even  in  solitude  the  writer  must  depend  upon 
Mankind. 

Leonard,  at  last,  has  completed  the  work,  which  has 
been  the  joy  and  the  labor  of  so  many  years — the  work 
which  he  regards  as  the  flower  of  all  his  spiritual  being, 
and  to  which  he  has  committed  all  the  hopes  that  unite  the 
creature  of  to-day  with  the  generations  of  the  future.  The 
work  has  gone  through  the  press,  each  line  lingered  over 
with  the  elaborate  patience  of  the  artist,  loath  to  part  with 
the  thought  he  has  sculptured  into  form,  while  an  improv- 
ing touch  can  be  imparted  by  the  chisel.  He  has  accepted 


1 146  MY  NOVEL;    OR, 

laughed  at  ambition  in  the  whim  of  his  delightful  humors, 
and  the  expectations  formed  from  his  diplomatic  triumph 
died  away.  But  then  came  one  of  those  political  crises,  in 
which  men  ordinarily  indifferent  to  politics  rouse  themselves 
to  the  recollection,  that  the  experiment  of  legislation  is  not 
made  upon  dead  matter,  but  on  the  living  form  of  a  noble 
country.  And  in  both  Houses  of  Parliament  the  strength 
of  party  is  put  forth. 

It  is  a  lovely  day  in  spring,  and  Harley  is  seated  by  the 
window  of  his  old  room  at  Knightsbridge — now  glancing  to 
the  lively  green  of  the  budding  trees — now  idling  with 
Nero,  who,  though  in  canine  old  age,  enjoys  the  sun  like 
his  master — now  repeating  to  himself,  as  he  turns  over  the 
leaves  of  his  favorite  Horace,  some  of  those  lines  that  make 
the  shortness  of  life  the  excuse  for  seizing  its  pleasures  and 
eluding  its  fatigues,  which  form  the  staple  morality  of  the 
polished  epicurean — and  Violante  (into  what  glorious  beauty 
her  maiden  bloom  has  matured  !)  comes  softly  into  the 
room,  seats  herself  on  a  low  stool  beside  him,  leaning  her 
face  on  her  hands,  and  looking  up  at  him  through  her  dark, 
clear,  spiritual  eyes  ;  and  as  she  continues  to  speak,  gradu- 
ally a  change  comes  over  Harley's  aspect— gradually  the 
brow  grows  thoughtful,  and  the  lips  lose  their  playful 
smile.  There  is  no  hateful  assumption  of  the  would-be 
"  superior  woman  " — no  formal  remonstrance,  no  lecture, 
no  homily  which  grates  upon  masculine  pride,  but  the  high 
theme  and  the  eloquent  words  elevate  unconsciously  of 
themselves,  and  the  Horace  is  laid  aside — a  Parliamentary 
Blue  Book  has  beenv  by  some  marvel  or  other,  conjured 
there  in  its  stead — and  Violante  now  moves  away  as  softly 
as  she  entered.  Harley's  hand  detains  her. 

"  Not  so.  Share  the  task,  or  I  quit  it.  Here  is  an  ex- 
tract I  condemn  you  to  copy.  Do  you  think  I  would  go 
through  this  labor  if  you  were  not  to  halve  the  success  ? — 
halve  the  labor  as  well !  " 

And  Violante,  overjoyed,  kisses  away  the  implied  re- 
buke, and  sits  down  to  work,  so  demure  and  so  proud,  by 
his  side.  I  do  not  know  if  Harley  made  much  way  in  the 
Blue  Book  that  morning  ;  but  a  little  time  after  he  spoke 
in  the  Lords,  and  surpassed  all  that  the  most  sanguine  had 
hoped  from  his  talents.  The  sweetness  of  fame  and  the 
consciousness  of  utility  once  fully  tasted,  Harley's  consum- 
mation of  his  proper  destinies  was  secure.  A  year  later, 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  1147 

and  his  voice  was  one  of  the  influences  of  England.  His 
boyish  love  of  glory  revived  ;  no  longer  vague  and  dreamy, 
but  ennobled  into  patriotism,  and  strengthened  by  purpose. 
One  night,  after  a  signal  triumph,  he  returned  home  with 
his  father,  who  had  witnessed  it,  and  Violante — who,  all 
lovely,  all  brilliant  though  she  was,  never  went  forth  in  her 
lord's  absence,  to  lower,  among  fops  and  flatterers,  the  dig- 
nity of  the  name  she  so  aspired  to  raise — sprang  to  meet 
him.  Harley's  eldest  son — a  boy  yet  in  the  nursery — had 
been  kept  up  later  than  usual  ;  perhaps  Violante  had  an- 
ticipated her  husband's  triumph,  and  wished  her  son  to 
share  it.  The  old  Earl  beckoned  the  child  to  him,  and  lay- 
ing his  hand  on  the  infant's  curly  locks,  said  with  unusual 
seriousness — 

"  My  boy,  you  may  see  troubled  times  in  England  be- 
fore these  hairs  are  as  gray  as  mine  ;  and  your  stake  in  Eng- 
land's honor  and  peace  will  be  great.  Heed  this  hint  from 
an  old  man  who  had  no  talents  to  make  a  noise  in  the  world, 
but  who  yet  has  been  of  some  use  in  his  generation. 
Neither  sounding  titles,  nor  wide  lands,  nor  fine  abilities, 
will  give  you  real  joy,  unless  you  hold  yourself  responsible 
for  all  to  your  God  and  to  your  country  ;  and  when  you  are 
tempted  to  believe  that  the  gifts  you  may  inherit  from  both 
entail  no  duties,  or  that  duties  are  at  war  with  true  pleasure, 
remember  how  I  placed  you  in  your  father's  arms,  and  said, 
'  Let  him  be  as  proud  of  you  some  day,  as  I  at  this  hour  am 
of  him.' " 

The  boy  clung  to  his  father's  breast,  and  said  manfully, 
"I  will  try!"  Harley  bent  his  fair  smooth  brow  over  the 
young  earnest  face,  and  said  softly,  "Your  mother  speaks 
in  you  ! " 

Then  the  old  Countess,  who  had  remained  silent  and 
listening  on  her  elbow-chair,  rose  and  kissed  the  Earl's  hand 
reverently.  Perhaps  in  that  kiss  there  was  the  repentant 
consciousness  how  far  the  active  goodness  she  had  often 
secretly  undervalued  had  exceeded,  in  its  fruits,  her  own 
cold  unproductive  powers  of  will  and  mind.  Then  passing 
on  to  Harley,  her  brow  grew  elate,  and  the  pride  returned 
to  her  eye. 

"At  last,"  she  said,  laying  on  his  shoulder  that  light  firm 
hand,  from  which  he  no  longer  shrunk — "  at  last,  O  my 
noble  son,  you  have  fulfilled  all  the  promise  of  your  youth ! " 

"  If  so,"  answered  Harley,  "  it  is  because  I  have  found 


n48  MY  NOVEL. 

what  I  then  sought  in  vain."  He  drew  his  arm  around 
Violante,  and  added,  with  half  tender  half  solemn  smile — 
"  Blessed  is  the  woman  who  exalts  ! " 


So,  symbolled  forth  in  these  twin  and  fair  flowers  which 
Eve  saved  for  Earth  out  of  Paradise,  each  with  the  virtue 
to  heal  or  to  strengthen,  stored  under  the  leaves  that  give 
sweets  to  the  air  ; — here,  soothing  the  heart  when  the  world 
brings  the  trouble — here,  recruiting  the  soul  which  our  sloth 
or  our  senses  enervate,  leave  we  woman,  at  least,  in  the  place 
Heaven  assigns  to  her  amidst  the  multiform  "  Varieties  of 
Life." 

Farewell  to  thee,  gentle  Reader  •  and  go  forth  to  the 
world,  O  MY  NOVEL  ! 


THE  END. 


DATE  DUE 


GAYLORD 


A     000  881  283     6 


